Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

My father grew up in a poor village dozens of kilometers from the city, but unlike the poverty of the other villagers, he came from an aristocratic family involved in shady, almost criminal dealings. The people in our village followed a deeply patriarchal tradition, valuing men and treating women as mere servants, slaves, or machines for bearing sons.

My father was short but broad-shouldered and muscular, not frail, though slightly smaller than the other young men in the village. He married my mother when he was 23, and she was only 14 when she became pregnant with me.

My mother was just one of many women sold on the black market. She was beautiful, more striking than the others, so my father’s relatives bought her and traded her among themselves. My father paid a large sum of gold and precious stones to claim her. She was treated horribly. Unable to speak because her tongue had been cut out, she was small but showed incredible resilience when she discovered she was pregnant. For reasons unknown, she hid her pregnancy until the day she went into labor and gave birth to me in a filthy, dusty shed—not a clinic or hospital. Alone, she held me close to her chest, humming softly, ignoring her own pain from blood loss to keep me alive. It was only when my father found us that he tore me from her arms.

My father treated my mother slightly better after she successfully gave birth to a son. He named me Patroclus—the glory of the father—but gave me no surname. I knew his surname was Menoetius, but I never learned his first name. My mother never had a name either, at least not one I knew. I would toddle after her, calling out “Mum” in a small, whiny voice.

I never went to school, not even for a day. Our village was too poor to have a school like the ones I’d heard about in the city. Besides, as the son of a slave, even being a boy didn’t spare me from contempt.

My father had high expectations for me. He ordered the older boys in the village to teach me swordsmanship and rigorous physical training, but I quickly grew exhausted and would sneak away to rest under a tree. At first, when he caught me, he only scolded me and made me kneel through the night, the cold northern wind punishing me.

Things got worse when I turned seven. I was small and frail from malnutrition, not as sturdy as other boys my age. My father began cursing my mother for failing to care for his son properly. His voice, thick and raspy, boomed when he yelled at us. I couldn’t deny that I hated his voice, the way he chose his words, and the way he emphasized them like a bellowing bull.

One day, I skipped training with the older boys and hid by a pond, sinking deep into the water. When I emerged, my clothes were soaked, clinging to my skin. Shivering, I hugged my arms and headed home, grateful no one saw me like that—otherwise, they’d tell my father, and he’d yell at my mother again.

When I got home, the first person I saw wasn’t my mother but Menoetius—my father. His face was flushed red, and on the table was a strange object I’d never seen before. He stood, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me to sit with him.

“Drink this,” he said, calling it 'drink'. It was a liquid in a slim container, poured into a plastic cup. He gripped my chin tightly, forcing it open despite my struggles. My lips touched the liquid, and its sharp, bitter taste made me clamp my mouth shut and squeeze my eyes closed. I slapped the cup away, and the cloudy liquid spilled onto my father’s shirt.

For a moment, his eyes burned like those of a monster, a demon sent from Tartarus to punish me. But then his gaze softened, and he gently stroked my chin as if I were a precious object.

“Don’t spill it next time. It’s expensive,” he said with a smile, but beneath it was a threat I understood better than anyone: I’ll kill your mother if you do that again. It was the most terrifying thing I could imagine.

As I slid off his lap, my wet clothes still clung to me. I wore nothing underneath, so the fabric stuck to my bare, fragile skin. Suddenly, my father stood, knelt down, and gripped my shoulders tightly. Before I could comprehend what was happening, he threw me to the floor. My head slammed against the rotting wooden boards. He grabbed my legs, spread them, and yanked off my tattered shorts. His breathing grew heavy, his hands squeezing my thighs. I, a weak child, felt an unbearable coldness below, exposed in a way I couldn’t understand.

I thrashed and tried to scream, but he grabbed a small whip and struck me between my legs. I cried out, tears streaming uncontrollably. The lashes were like before, but this time the pain was unbearable. That part of my body burned, and I couldn’t take it. My nails scratched the floor until they broke and bled, but he didn’t stop.

Father, it hurts so much.

I wanted to say it, but in my dazed agony, I could only scream and sob loudly. My cries were so horrific they must have chilled anyone outside, but no one came to help. I knew I’d disobeyed my father. I knew I deserved punishment with the whip, but this pain was too much. My mind spun as I felt him stop whipping me. Instead, he stood, went to the kitchen, and picked up a small knife my mother used for cutting meat.

Panic surged through me. I dragged my limp, aching body across the floor, my legs unable to close from the burning pain. With the last of my strength, my breathing too weak to call for my mother or anyone else, my voice was hoarse, more like a whimper. As I neared the door, my father stomped on my fingers and lifted me with his left hand. In his right, he held the knife. He forced me to kneel on the table, his large, hairy hand prying my mouth open and pulling my tongue out.

Blood—so much blood. The metallic taste I hated filled my mouth. My tongue was stretched painfully by his fingers, so long it felt like a snake’s. The sharp, well-honed blade touched my tongue.

In those few seconds, I could no longer taste anything. Emptiness and pain consumed me. I whimpered, grabbing at his arm to make him stop. He slapped me and spat in my face, treating me like garbage.

I curled up on the table, my vision blurred by tears and dizziness. My body coiled like a fetus, with no strength left to call for my father or mother. All I wanted was to bathe and change, but I couldn’t understand why he punished me like this.

The burning between my legs was unbearable, and my mouth felt strange.

°°°°°°°°°°°

Light was the first thing to wake me. As my eyes fluttered open, a familiar humming enveloped my body and the world around me. A familiar warmth made me sniffle, holding back tears I didn’t understand.

My mother was holding me, her eyes closed as she sang a lullaby. Her voice was gentle, sweet, and softer than ever. Her eyes were covered by a black cloth, and she wore tattered clothes. Her lips never smiled, not even for me. I stared at her, trying to ask why she didn’t stop my father from beating me, but my throat only produced animal-like whimpers, like a dying creature.

She stopped humming. Her trembling fingers opened my mouth, and her heart pounded so loudly I could hear it without pressing my ear to her chest. She stroked my cheek, a gesture she used to comfort me after my father’s beatings. I leaned into her hand, my chest heaving, trying to speak but producing only meaningless sounds. Then I realized—my tongue was gone, completely gone after my father’s punishment.

My eyes blurred with tears, my breathing ragged. I clung to her neck, burying my face in her chest, my body shaking uncontrollably. I could no longer speak, not even the sweet “Mum” I used to call out. My own father had stolen that from me.

I hated him. I wanted to ask why he took my tongue. Did he hate my mother that much? If he hated her, why did he beat me and take my tongue? My mother could no longer hear my voice.

That night, I held her but couldn’t sleep. I just wanted to cry—cry until I was exhausted, cry until I could scream and have my voice back.

Chapter Text

My mother hummed a melody, her hand gently stroking my soft, curly black hair. Her face tilted slightly as I sensed her gazing outward. The sounds of objects being dragged and the curses that filled the air every minute made me shrink into her embrace. My ears longed only for her voice, though she could no longer speak.

My mouth parted slightly, then quickly closed again. I had unconsciously repeated this action countless times over the past week. I kept forgetting that all I could manage were whimpers and inarticulate sounds whenever I tried to speak. My nose exhaled sharply, my hand clutching the sleeve of my mother’s dress. I was desperately trying to hold on to her, to keep her close in these moments when I felt so frail and small compared to the world out there that my father had spoken of.

I didn’t have the courage to face anything. I was too afraid, too different—or rather, too strange.

My father stood at the door, staring at me. It was clear he expected me to know my place, to stand up and walk toward him.

But I clung to my mother. She was stroking my back, and I trembled. I didn’t want to leave her. There would be no warmth, no gentle embrace to comfort me when my father’s anger flared.

“Kid, it’s time to go!” my father barked, clearing his throat. I looked up at him, then back at my mother. I leaned forward, kissing her forehead softly, and slowly pulled myself away from her. Stumbling, I walked toward my father. He handed me a basket far too large for my small frame. Inside were his clothes—mostly his, with only a few tattered, worn scraps of fabric that served as my own flimsy shirt and pants.

I followed him, stepping out of the home I had lived in for seven years, leaving behind the arms of the person I loved most, about to face a world of unfamiliar things. Tears began to fall as we walked halfway down the path. My chest heaved with uneven breaths. The road was lined with sand and pebbles, overshadowed by ancient trees. My father, walking ahead, was talking to himself—or so I thought. He held a strange object I had never seen before, and though I believed he was speaking alone, I heard another man’s voice, deep like his.

We reached a forest. Crossing a path of fallen leaves and dry branches would lead to a city filled with things called cars and towering buildings. Fear and curiosity tangled inside me.

Light flooded my eyes. The noise of bustling activity and the laughter of people in neat, vibrant clothing widened my gaze. I watched how they moved, their colorful outfits so different from my village, where adults and children alike wore the same plain clothes.

My pale, sallow face and olive skin stood out starkly against their rosy, vibrant complexions. I couldn’t help but envy them. But before I could take in the sights, my father grabbed my shoulder and pulled me into a vehicle with him. I wasn’t sure what to call it—I only knew it was a “car,” a swift and clever means of transport.

My father was speaking to the driver, his tone softer now, lacking the sharp emphasis he used before. I caught fragments of their conversation—something about a new house—but the rest was too vague for me to follow. I stopped trying to listen, curling my legs up and hugging my knees, trying to comfort myself with the thought that everything would be okay.

It would be okay, wouldn’t it? If I obeyed my father and learned to live like a normal person?

°°°°°°°°°°°

“Is it asleep?”

“Yeah, been out for a while. Ryan, you should use your northern accent. If you keep talking like that, the kid might overhear everything,” Menoetius said, lighting a cigarette and opening the car window to let the smoke drift out, keeping the air inside clear.

“You sure you’re staying here with that frail kid of yours? Look at it—cute, sure, but scrawny and filthy enough to make you sick!”

“It’s fine. Bringing it along isn’t just about having it help out like a servant. You know there’s that famous brothel around here? Even the cops and the government don’t mess with that place. When it turns eighteen, we can send it there. It’ll make us a fortune for some fun.” Ryan chuckled, nodding in agreement, fiddling with the radio to play some music to liven things up.

“I heard it’s got female parts?” Ryan asked, a question that would surely embarrass Menoetius. But since Ryan was a close friend and long-time business partner, Menoetius only shrugged.

“Yeah, pretty much just a small vagina, no penis anywhere. No wonder I always wondered why it never pissed in front of me.”

“Tch, looks like a pretty little pink thing. But the other day, I had a bit too much to drink and ended up making it bleed pretty bad.” Ryan’s jaw dropped, his eyes rolling at Menoetius’s confession.

“Leaving a scar down there won’t fetch as much money as you’re hoping, my friend.”

“No worries. I know how to handle the kid. If it’s still limping or complaining about pain between its legs, a trip to the hospital will fix it.”

“That’s risky.”

°°°°°°°°°°°

I woke up when a hand grabbed my wrist and dragged me somewhere while I was still groggy, whimpering in my throat. I found myself being led into a house—grand, luxurious, and beautiful. My eyes widened instantly, sparkling at the sight of modern objects I had only heard of but never seen or touched. Now, they were almost within my reach, everything around me vast and magnificent.

My father led me to a small, cramped room. It wasn’t grand like the space before but narrow, tiny, and only suitable for a child like me.

“This is your room. From now on, this is where you sleep, got it, kid?” I nodded. The small room had no mat or cloth for me to lie on. I walked around, thinking I’d ask my father for a mat or a thin blanket to make a bed.

I turned back, approaching him and tugging at his shirt. He immediately scowled when my hand touched him, shoving me away and yelling before storming out of the room. I could only watch his back as he left for the other room, leaving me alone in here. Loneliness washed over me again. I closed the door, sat in a corner, and played with my small hands, imagining they were my mother’s, playing with me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her. What was she doing now? Washing clothes, cleaning the house, cooking, or holding me and humming nameless lullabies to lull me to sleep. Without her here, the buzzing in my ears sounded like voices from the dead trying to pull me into their world.

Days passed. My father gave me a few cheap outfits and something called a mobile phone. He told me to keep myself clean and to tell him if anything hurt or felt uncomfortable. I was overjoyed, but I could no longer smile in front of him.

The new clothes were thin and simple, not like my father’s, but better than the rags I’d worn before. I used my old clothes as bedding in a corner of the room, where I slept. The phone felt heavy in my hands, and I had to be careful not to drop it, or my father would have another reason to punish me.

I began exploring the phone, watching videos of quirky, lovable characters saying things I couldn’t fully understand. I thought I’d found a bit of joy and comfort in it since my father wouldn’t play with me.

But when I saw the smiles of happy people, I felt only envy, no longer able to smile myself. The way they laughed, played, and hugged each other made my eyes sting with tears. I quickly turned off the phone and set it aside, vowing not to use it again.

Slowly, I stood and opened the door, peeking outside. I moved quietly, admiring the spacious hallway with white walls adorned with paintings. In the living room, where a thing called a TV and a sofa sat in the center, my father was sprawled out, his shirt on the floor, wearing only his underwear. Seeing he was still awake, I ran to him.

“What is it, kid? Don’t touch me!” he shouted, slapping my hand away. I stood there, clutching the hem of my shirt, my lips pressed together briefly before parting.

I wanted to say I wanted to play with him, but I couldn’t. I knew he’d mock my meaningless whimpers.

°°°°°°°°°°°

Two years passed, and my body hadn’t changed much. My limbs had grown slightly longer, and between my legs was a strange scar I loathed touching.

My father began giving me chores like the ones my mother used to do. I washed clothes, cleaned the house, and tidied up the mess left after his wild drinking parties with his buddies. I wandered the house like an invisible ghost.

While mopping the floor, I heard a child’s voice echo from the front door, their footsteps bounding through the living room, jumping on the sofa endlessly. I wasn’t surprised that my father had brought another child into the house. It could be a friend’s kid or perhaps his child with another woman, not my mother.

I continued scrubbing the floor, but my father walked in and called me.

“Kid, stop this boring chore and go play with Clysonymus!” He snatched the mop from my hands. Before his anger could erupt, I nodded and went to the living room to meet this Clysonymus.

He was bigger and chubbier than me, his freckled cheeks and tiny eyes half-hidden by his plump face. I watched wearily as he bounced on the sofa, flipping through TV channels for anything that caught his interest.

His father, Ryan, and my father had gone out to the garden, likely for another idle chat between two lazy drunks.

Clysonymus finally noticed me, blinking his tiny eyes and letting out a mocking giggle.

“Aren’t you Patroclus? My dad said you’re practically a girl!” His voice dripped with scorn as he grabbed my wrist, despite my struggling and shaking my head.

“Come on, you filthy little thing, let me get a good look at your face!” I gasped, thrashing to break free, accidentally dropping the wooden die my mother had given me before I left.

“Huh? A die? What century do you think this is to play with something like that?” Clysonymus picked it up and shook it. A child raised in wealth like him couldn’t understand what that small object meant to me. Before he could toss it into the blazing fireplace, I snatched it back, clutching it tightly in my hand.

“You little whore!” he shouted. I didn’t know what the word meant, but I knew it was an insult.

Before he could do anything else, I shoved him hard. The sofa was surrounded by thick, soft rugs my father kept as foot mats, so the fall should’ve only caused brief pain.

Or so I told myself, clumsily trying to reassure myself.

A loud crack echoed. My breathing grew heavier. A terrifying silence followed as the white tiled floor turned red, bits of Clysonymus’s brain spilling out, his face pale and lifeless.

He was dead.

Clysonymus was dead.

I had killed him over a die.

I didn’t want to hear or see his body anymore. I ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and slumped to the filthy floor. A sour, burning sensation rose in my throat, and I vomited bitter yellow bile, my throat aching, tears streaming down. I leaned my head against the wall, the image of Clysonymus’s wide, lifeless eyes haunting me like a curse I couldn’t escape.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious. Maybe until my father broke down the bathroom door, his eyes glaring at me like I was a monster. He grabbed my neck, lifted me, dragged me to my small room, and threw me to the floor like a dog. I whimpered, curling up in pain, sitting up shakily, not daring to meet his gaze.

I knew his eyes were bloodshot with rage. I knew it was time for my punishment.

But he didn’t grab a whip or his belt. Behind him, his friend stepped in—Ryan, I remembered.

Ryan, the father of Clysonymus, the boy I had killed hours ago.

He had brown, slightly curly hair and cunning blue eyes that radiated malice. I couldn’t find a single redeemable quality in him.

My father nodded to Ryan and left, a smirk curling his lips as he slowly closed the door. Now it was just me and Ryan. My heart pounded as I backed into a corner, clutching my tattered clothes, bowing my head to hide my tear-reddened eyes.

“Little Patrick, don’t be scared,” Ryan said, as if I were a stray dog. He approached, kneeling in front of me and gently squeezing my chin.

“Patrick, let Uncle see your face. It’s quite lovely, isn’t it?” My name wasn’t Patrick, and Ryan knew that, but he deliberately misnamed me to throw me off. I avoided him, biting my lip, refusing to breathe the same air as his alcohol-soaked breath.

But I looked at him, knowing it would provoke him. His grip tightened on my shoulders, and in a panic, I struck his left eye, making him yelp in pain.

His once-gentle expression turned furious. He kicked my head, stunning me. My body froze in shock and fear as he tore at my clothes, piece by piece, like I had witnessed the slow death of his son.

His hands roamed to my legs and thighs, the cold making me tremble uncontrollably. My toes curled as his hairy hands forced my legs apart.

My mind spun. I couldn’t resist; my body went limp, like a snake was constricting me. That snake touched my bare, filthy, sweat-soaked skin. With the last shred of consciousness, I heard his heavy breathing and my own weak, inarticulate whimpers. A liquid ran down my thigh, accompanied by searing pain. My black curls stuck to my forehead, my limp body collapsing to the floor. The sound of the door opening behind me felt like a fleeting escape from this earthly hell.

I twitched my feet and wrists, crawling on all fours because the pain in my lower body made standing impossible. I feared I’d collapse and hit my head on the wall. I clutched my torn clothes, wiping away the sweat and strange liquid between my legs, a place I rarely paid attention to.

This new place, this new name.

It was never a gift for me.

Chapter Text

The Nereid Corporation, the wealthiest and most prominent conglomerate, has passed down its riches through generations. Most of its predecessors were influential figures, known for their greed and cunning, which allowed them to maintain and elevate the corporation’s status.

Sixteen years ago, Thetis, the chairwoman of the Nereid Corporation, unexpectedly became pregnant with a man believed to be Peleus Pelides from the Phthia Corporation. Fearing media speculation that Peleus intended to tarnish Nereid’s image, they hastily organized a grand wedding within a few months of Thetis’s pregnancy. The event invited aristocrats and the elite to celebrate both the marriage and the collaboration between the two corporations.

Thetis gave birth to a healthy boy with golden hair like his father’s and emerald-green eyes, weighing 3.1 kg. After giving birth, Thetis devoted herself to breastfeeding the boy incessantly but left a year later to manage her corporation, entrusting the child to Peleus.

Peleus named his son Achilles, inspired by his studies of ancient history and the way Achilles looked at him or played with his friends.

When Achilles was five, he surprised and bewildered his father. During a school sports event, he ran as swiftly as a cheetah, so fast that he got lost in another neighborhood and cried loudly until Peleus and his teacher found him.

By the time Achilles entered high school, he was no longer the chubby, short-legged boy who toddled after his favorite teacher. He had become a teenager admired and pursued by everyone. A basketball player, he was scouted to compete against other schools in different neighborhoods. People saw him as invincible; he once sent a classmate to the hospital with a punch and avoided expulsion by paying off the principal.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°

The basketball in Achilles’ hand spun lightly. He dribbled it with his left hand, the ball bouncing on the floor without ever straying from its path.

“Bri, can you grab me that water bottle nearby?” Achilles asked softly, lowering his tone, but he couldn’t avoid Briseis rolling her eyes. Muttering, she tossed him the bottle.

“Perfect, another bullseye!” Achilles exclaimed smugly, sitting on the bench. His hand, wet from the bottle, wiped his cheeks and forehead as he let out a satisfied sigh.

“Achilleus,” a slightly shorter classmate sitting beside him nudged his arm, “you really order her around like she’s your maid. I swear, little Briseis will make sure you’re the last of your line if you keep that up.”

“Got it, Auto, but how many times do I have to say it? It’s Achilles, not Achilleus or anything else.” Automedon nodded, chuckling silently as he snatched the water bottle from Achilles and hid it in his jacket.

“Oh, come on—” Achilles’ fair, flushed face reddened further, partly from the sweat and tension of the game. But before he could lose his temper and swing at Automedon, the school’s loudspeaker crackled.

The break is over. All students, please return to your classrooms.

The announcement triggered groans and curses from the students. Achilles stood, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and headed to class with his two close friends.

“Hey, I heard our class is getting a new guy today! I’m so excited—do you think he’s from my hometown?” Briseis clasped her hands, smiling and imagining a boy with olive skin and dark hair like hers.

“Dream on. Hardly anyone knows that backwater place you’re from, silly,” Automedon teased, smirking as Briseis playfully smacked his shoulder.

Achilles sighed, watching the two bicker like a lovey-dovey couple. Since his breakup with Deidamia, his mood had plummeted. It wasn’t that he missed his ex, but he felt a deep loneliness and emptiness. Despite his many friends and loving family, he longed to be held like a child and have his emotions filled.

Their homeroom teacher entered, followed by a short boy with olive skin and wavy black hair, just as Briseis had imagined. His eyes were hidden by long, untrimmed bangs. For a moment, Achilles’ heart skipped a beat, but the feeling vanished when he noticed the boy staring at the floor or walls, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

It felt like an insult to the class. Achilles chalked it up to nerves—standing in front of a crowd could be overwhelming. He understood that feeling well. But what happened next made him dislike the new student.

The boy wrote only “Patroclus” on the board—no last name, just Patroclus. Achilles raised an eyebrow, certain his friends and classmates were whispering about the new student’s silence, as if he were some arrogant rich kid too superior to speak.

The teacher shook his head and pointed Patroclus to a seat near the back, close to Automedon and Briseis. Patroclus wore the school’s standard uniform, not personalized like others’ outfits. Achilles found it odd that he kept his head down, scribbling aimlessly, only occasionally glancing at the teacher despite no one else paying attention to the lesson.

Briseis, seated closest to Patroclus, stole glances at his face before turning to chat with other girls. Like Achilles, she seemed curious about the strange, arguably rude, new student.

At lunchtime, Achilles met up with Odysseus from the next class, along with Automedon and Briseis. The group had been tight since the start of the year. This time, Odysseus came alone, without Penelope, who usually tagged along for his sappy displays of affection.

“Trouble in paradise?” Briseis asked, always the cheerleader for the happy couple, disappointed to see them apart.

“Not quite. Penelope’s helping her parents move. It’s not great news, but for some reason, their new place is only a kilometer from mine.” Odysseus’ gloomy mood lifted, his warm smile returning as he thought of his girlfriend.

Love-struck idiots, Achilles thought, rolling his eyes and hissing like a snake. He bit into his steak, chewing like a lion and glaring at Odysseus.

“Our golden boy is such a sensitive soul, isn’t he? Still sore about the breakup?” Odysseus’ teasing laughter hit Achilles like a poisoned arrow, stirring embarrassing memories. Achilles flipped him off. “Shut it, Ody.”

“Alright, sorry, sensitive guy!” Odysseus raised his hands in surrender, leaning back and scanning the crowd, perhaps hoping to spot Penelope.

“I heard your class got a new kid,” Odysseus said.

“Yeah, didn’t expect you to know that, Ody,” Briseis replied, recalling the new student, Patroclus.

The clatter of cutlery filled the air, the cafeteria reeking of grease and buzzing with the noise of students like animals fighting over food.

Automedon rested his arm on an empty chair, noticing a small, hunched figure slurping a bowl of soup.

“There he is, the new kid,” Automedon pointed. Achilles leaned over for a better look, puzzled. The cafeteria offered delicious, high-end dishes—most new students, even shy ones, would at least grab a slice of buttered bread or some cream cheese, if not fruit.

“I didn’t even know our cafeteria served soup,” Achilles said.

“We’ve had pumpkin soup before, and you said it was delicious, Chilles,” Briseis retorted, making Achilles mumble awkwardly to brush it off.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°

This is my eighth year in this bustling, glamorous city. My father started sending me to school when I was thirteen. At first, he had no grand plans, but after his friends, especially Ryan, persuaded him, he reluctantly enrolled me despite my limited knowledge and inability to speak.

My first school was a dump—yellowed walls hidden in dark corners, only polished on the surface for appearances. The teachers and students were equally awful and irresponsible. I hated it. School felt like being at home with my father, just with more people and no stench of alcohol.

Once, a kid and his friends cornered me, forcing me to crawl around the schoolyard on all fours. I swallowed my humiliation and held back tears, even as they stepped on my fingers until they bruised and I could barely move them. They made me lick a dirty puddle, knowing I had no tongue.

I wrote about it and showed it to my father, hoping he’d care enough to do something. Instead, he laughed, tore up the paper, and said, “Even a dog can lick a puddle, and you can’t. You’re worse than a dog.” I didn’t cry, but from that moment, I stopped sharing anything about my life.

That’s in the past now. I’ve stepped into a new school, one that’s dazzling and exudes the aura of wealthy aristocrats, like something out of the movies my father used to watch. I tried not to gape in awe, my hands trembling as I entered. I followed the path to my classroom, where a man walked in and smiled kindly.

“You’re the new student in this class, right? I’m your homeroom teacher. Come on in.” I nodded and followed him. Moments earlier, I’d heard whispers, but when I stood at the front, the room fell silent. I ignored the teacher’s request to introduce myself, shaking my head and writing my name on the board. Unfriendly eyes bore into me, and I avoided them, staring at the floor or anywhere else.

The teacher sighed and assigned me a seat near a girl with skin like mine, her black hair tied high, her eyes flickering with curiosity as I sat. A blond boy two desks away watched my every move.

Please don’t look at me. Please don’t look at me.

Relief came at lunchtime. I lingered in the classroom until it nearly emptied, then left. I regretted not bringing my favorite hoodie. In the cafeteria, my lack of a tongue made chewing heavily seasoned or chewy food difficult. I sought out soup—only two kinds were available: pumpkin and vegetable, which few touched. I quietly took a bowl of vegetable soup; it would provide fiber and vitamins.

Lunch was as simple as my meals at home. At least at school, I had food and wouldn’t go hungry like before.

After my first day, I didn’t head straight home. Instead, I wandered streets filled with the aroma of food, reminiscing about when I could taste seasoned dishes. Now, eating felt pointless, a waste of money.

My eyes caught a glimpse of golden hair and a smile, making me pause for a few seconds. I hurried away, not wanting a classmate to see me wandering aimlessly, looking pathetic.

The door to my house was ajar—my father had gone out to buy alcohol without locking it. At this rate, thieves would soon raid the place and steal the money from his shady deals. The stench of liquor and fast food hit me, souring my throat. I suppressed the urge to gag. My empty schoolbag, holding just a few notebooks and pens, was tossed into a corner of my room. The living room table was littered with beer cans, cigarette butts, and a half-eaten bag of chips.

My father is a lazy, messy man. I tried not to picture his face—red from alcohol, a half-smoked cigarette dripping with foul saliva. Sometimes, there were lipstick marks on his collar or cheek. I don’t know how my mother would react to his years of cheating, nor do I know where she is now.

If she were here, she’d probably think the same as me.

I gave a small smile. While cleaning up my father’s mess, I liked to think of my mother or old memories, like a fairy tale.

Chapter Text

Honestly, my first days at school felt incredibly dull and lonely, but I was quietly grateful that no one seemed to notice me or treat me like prey.

Today, however, was different. Today was my first physical education class, and I bit my lip nervously. Ever since I was a kid, my stamina has been as weak as an insect’s—running for just a few seconds leaves me gasping for air. I tried pleading with the teacher, but he insisted that today, with another school visiting for a friendly competition and some sort of collaboration, every student had to run a lap around the school unless they had a broken leg.

They didn’t even care if a student had just come back from surgery; their only concern was whether your leg was literally broken, not even considering something like a sprained ankle.

In the boys’ changing room, I shrank into myself, peeling off my uniform and slipping into comfortable sports clothes that revealed my scrawny arms. I overheard a classmate talking excitedly to his friends about a kid named Achilleus.

“Guess who’s gonna win this time? Priamedes or our Achilleus?” he asked his friends with enthusiasm.

“Who’d root for the rival? Obviously, it’s gonna be Achilleus! Plus, that school from Skyros is coming today, so she will probably be there too!” I squinted, piecing together that the “she” he mentioned must be someone significant to Achilleus.

“Alright, boys! It’s time! Get out there and stop gossiping!” The PE teacher blew his whistle, his eyes scanning as the boys filed out. I trudged slowly behind, praying to every god I knew to help me survive this race.

But first, let’s talk about the rules of the race.

1. [You must not cross the boundary lines, push others while running, or block other runners’ paths.]

2. [You may warn others about dangerous obstacles like rocks, nails, branches, or banana peels, but you’re forbidden from throwing objects to make other runners fall behind.]

3. [Absolutely do not stop running, even if you see another runner fall. That’s their problem. Stopping means disrespecting the audience and the judges.]

These were the strict rules everyone had to follow, especially with another school present, so we had to stay sharp and keep our spirits high.

There were three rounds, and I was in the third. The first round featured runners from other classes: three competitors. The one in the middle, cheered on by the crowd, was Big Ajax, a giant of a guy. To his left was Little Ajax, possibly his brother or relative, much smaller in stature. On the right was a tall guy with wavy brown hair, slightly sun-bleached. The teacher counted down—one, two, three—and the whistle blew. They took off like cheetahs. Before I could even process it, Big Ajax and the tall guy were neck and neck.

Our school’s track is about 500–700 meters in circumference. They kept overtaking each other, sweat dripping, faces flushed not from wine but from the scorching sun beating down. Their calf muscles flexed with every swift, powerful step. The cheerleaders shouted their names, urging them toward the finish line.

The tall guy crossed first, and the crowd erupted, chanting his name: Antilochus, Antilochus. I’d never experienced anything like this before. Calling out the winner’s name felt like immortalizing their glory, etching it into the memories of everyone present.

Big Ajax came in second, Little Ajax last. Big Ajax grinned, slapped Antilochus on the shoulder, and loudly congratulated him. There was no jealousy or rivalry here, unlike the place I came from.

The second round began quickly. A short guy with startling reddish-brown hair and tanned, muscular skin stepped up—Hector Priamedes, the eldest son of the Priam family, probably a year older than me, with broad shoulders and the stride of a fierce tiger. Next to him was his brother, Paris Priamedes, with a slim waist cinched by a belt, moving with agility and a sly, confident smile. Beside him was Menelaus Atreides, the lucky guy who won the heart of Helen Spartiadis, the most beautiful girl in our school.

Rumor had it that Paris stole Helen from Menelaus, sparking Menelaus’s fury. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if Paris had let her go and apologized, but instead, Helen punched Paris repeatedly in the face, and a wooden chair nearly broke his nose if not for Hector’s intervention.

That’s all I gathered from teachers and classmates. I wondered why they were pitted against each other in this race, their glares like those of sworn enemies.

Hector took off the moment the whistle blew, Menelaus hot on his heels, while Paris lagged behind like a turtle, mouth gaping as he gasped for air. His cheeks puffed in and out, his handsome face almost comical—a joke in the eyes of the Priam family. Hector won, his legs trembling as he reached the finish line, hands gripping his knees to keep from collapsing.

Hector Priamedes took first, Menelaus Atreides second, and Paris Priamedes dead last, glaring at his brother while muttering what sounded like a curse.

But none of that mattered now.

It was time for the third and final round. My heart pounded. I stood in the middle, flanked by two taller guys: Achilleus Pelides and Agamemnon Atreides, Menelaus’s older brother. I felt out of place—darker-skinned, black-haired, and scrawny, like a bug next to lions and elephants. I took a deep breath, my pulse racing, ears trembling as I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.

Five seconds.

Four seconds.

Three seconds.

Two seconds.

One second.

Achilleus shot forward like he was flying, followed by Agamemnon, and then me, trailing behind. Achilleus ran barefoot, and I worried about his heels and toes. His pink heels grazed the ground, his long blonde hair tied in a ponytail, a headband inscribed with “Nereid’s Golden Boy” across his forehead. Sweat dripped down his face, his slender white legs swaying like sea breezes. He was swift, as if ready to tear the ground apart in seconds.

The crowd cheered for him, probably shouting his name, but my ears were filled with a chaotic buzz, a pounding that left me exhausted as I struggled to stretch my thighs and keep running.

I saw the finish line. Achilleus was inches away, but then I noticed a gray and black object near his feet—a rock that could trip him and cost him first place. Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and felt the soft clink of my mother’s wooden die, the last thing I had connected to her. I bit my lip, torn, but something pulled me back to reality. I flung the die toward Achilleus.

Please hit the rock, I prayed, my steps alternating between slow and fast.

The die struck the rock with a clack, rolling it aside. I sighed in relief, thinking everything was fine.

I crossed the finish line minutes after Agamemnon, delayed by throwing the die and worrying about Achilleus. The crowd groaned in disappointment. Achilleus was nowhere to be seen—of course, because he had tripped and faceplanted humiliatingly in front of everyone.

Wait.

He fell?

I couldn’t believe it. Everything had flipped without warning.

Achilleus’s face was red with shame and anger. The judges shook their heads. He stood, limping to the finish line.

He had lost all dignity in front of everyone. His eyes flicked to a red-haired girl in the crowd, her lashes fluttering in surprise and confusion before she whispered something to a friend. Achilleus, visibly hurt, shot me a hateful glance before storming off, not caring about the race results.

I had done something terrible. By throwing that die, I caused a stranger to lose his honor in front of the entire school.

As the crowd dispersed, some heading home, others lingering around the school, I scoured the track for my mother’s die but couldn’t find it. Tears welled up, and I wiped them with my sleeve, whimpering apologies to no one, as no one was there to hear or see me.

°°°°°°°°°°°°

Achilles slammed down onto a chair, his bleeding knee ignored. His nostrils flared, exhaling fury, as he jabbed the person next to him.

“You blonde bastard!” Agamemnon shot up, glaring at him.

“How’s it feel to be number one, you hippo dung?” Achilles tilted his head. Normally, his words carried a playful, mocking edge, but this time they were venomous. If Agamemnon said “great,” his yellowed teeth would soon be scattered across the school park.

“Nereid’s Golden Boy, it’s just one loss and, uh… a fall in front of the whole school, right?” Antilochus tried to pat Achilles’s shoulder but froze under his fiery glare, retracting his hand in silence.

Deidamia and a group of girls approached. Antilochus whistled at them. Deidamia’s hand brushed Achilleus’s cheek, where a scratch marked his skin, her seductive gaze locking onto his.

“Golden Boy, you okay? Today was rough…” Achilles closed his eyes, sighing as he leaned into her hand. Though they had broken up, an indescribable emotion lingered between them.

“Not okay at all. It’s really really bad!” Achilles grumbled like a child, pulling away from her hand and slamming the chair. “That dark-skinned kid drove me insane! He was running behind me, clearly saw the rock under my feet, and didn’t warn me!” He clawed at his hair, snapping his hair tie, his eyes burning with hatred.

“Chill, man! Tomorrow’s Sunday. Wanna hit up Midnight White to blow off some steam?” Odysseus smirked, flashing a VIP bar card.

“My mom’s home.” Achilles muttered, groaning at the mention of his mother.

“Ugh, for all the gods, pray Lady Nereid returns to the sea!” Odysseus grumbled, pocketing the card disappointedly.

“Sweetie,” Deidamia said, her voice like sugar-coated candy, “I’m not sure if this helps, but I saw that new kid throw a die at the rock under your feet…” Achilles’s eyes widened, his breath hitching in rage.

“And then I fell! Who does he think he is, pulling a dirty, disgusting trick like that?!” Achilles saw his ex-girlfriend’s helpless expression, grabbed her hand, and squeezed it lightly.

“Chilles, don’t let this slide. You’re Nereid’s son, the one and only Pelides, right?”

“Yeah… you’re right, Princess of Skyros.”

°°°°°°°°°°°°

My father stumbled into the house, his clothes disheveled, lipstick stains on his collar, hair a mess but his beard freshly shaved. He collapsed onto the sofa, singing and muttering crude, nonsensical phrases he loved.

“Kid, get over here!” he called. I glanced at him, propped the broom against the wall, and walked over.

“No ‘yes, sir’? Always hanging your head like your idiot mother?” He laughed, his mocking tone like a crow’s caw.

“Get a towel and wipe me down. I don’t feel like showering. Hurry up.” I nodded slowly, went to the bathroom, wet a small towel, and wrung it out. Back at the sofa, where he sprawled, I knelt, unbuttoning his shirt. I wiped his neck, shoulders, and hairy chest.

He chuckled with delight. I moved to his stomach, stopping short of his lower body. I rolled up his pants and wiped from his calves to his fungus-ridden toes.

“Wipe here too.” He grabbed my wrist, placing it on his crotch. I trembled, shaking my head. His grin widened, as if my fear fueled his sick pleasure—the man I called my father, pushing me toward something vile.

I stood, but he gripped my wrist tightly, bruising it. I shook my arm in panic, my eyes pleading, knowing it only fed his twisted joy.

After a struggle, he let go. Terrified, I didn’t look at his face, retreating to my room and leaving the only wet towel in the house behind.

Chapter Text

It’s been two weeks since the running competition, yet in the classroom, plenty of people are still buzzing about it like it’s some lavish feast. A few have even come to my desk, bombarding me with questions like: “How did it feel to outrun Nereid’s Golden Boy?” or “Did you use some kind of magic to make him trip?” There’s a whole slew of bizarre questions I can’t even wrap my head around, but all I can offer in response is a helpless shake of my head.

I’m fully aware that the blond-haired boy always watches me when I drop something, bend over, or focus on my work. His emerald-green eyes are like sharp blades, making me anxious, as if every secret and thought of mine is being pierced through. The way he moves is so light, almost ethereal, beautiful in his own unique way. But every time he looks at me, his shoulders slump, he rolls his eyes, and lets out a groan of disdain. I know those signs—Achilleus probably hates me because of that race. I don’t know how to explain myself. If I wrote it down, he’d surely dismiss it as pointless, so I avoid him. I hope I’ll never be paired with Achilleus in a group.

But, as fate would have it, the gods have other plans…

Our history teacher, Chiron, paired us up to work together on a project about ancient Greek society. At least this is something I’m genuinely excited about—I love lessons on ancient Greek history or mythology. They’re fascinating, magical, and filled with profound philosophies that let me lose myself in them, forgetting everything else. But now, there’s a problem. I’ve been paired with Achilleus. Great. Chiron thinks we’re a perfect match because of our contrasting skin tones and hair, not to mention our personalities.

I drag my chair to sit across from Achilleus, trying to act casual, my hand gripping my pencil tightly. I want to see if he’ll say anything, but he just crosses his arms. His golden hair shimmers like woven velvet, slightly messy and flattened, probably hasn’t washed it, I think. I tap lightly on the table, hoping he’ll notice and work with me, even though I can’t speak.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Let’s try again…

Tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

No effect. I briefly consider slamming my fist on the table in frustration, but that’s just a silly thought born out of impatience. I tear off a piece of note paper and scribble on it:

'Pelides, don’t you want to work on this together?’

‘I’ll do it myself, but you’ll have to present it.’

Achilleus leans back in his chair, letting out a groan that I can only interpret as, “Ughh, whatever, you silent, frizzy-haired nuisance.” I end up doing the work alone, carefully writing in neat handwriting so Achilleus won’t have to squint like an old man when he reads it in front of the class. He lightly kicks the table, causing my hand to slip and smudge the ink, turning my 'cook' into a blurry mess. I tell myself it’ll be fine as long as Achilleus notices and doesn’t misread anything.

I comfort and reassure myself.

I finish writing in just a few short seconds. Over the years, being unable to make a sound, paper and pen have been my companions, helping others understand my thoughts, though few truly listen. I underline the smudged word 'cook' in small, clear letters and hand it to Achilleus. Thankfully, he takes it, skims through it, and gives a half-hearted nod. Just then, Chiron taps the board, calling random pairs to present, and Achilleus and I are the first of thirty-five students to be chosen.

“Pelides and, uh… Patroclus!” I glance at Achilleus, feeling a wave of relief as he slouches slightly, stands up, and heads to the front. He grabs the chalk and scribbles messily on the board, sparking a wave of laughter and teasing from the class. Achilleus just rolls his eyes, clearly used to this, smirking in a way that makes the girls whisper about him. Chiron tells him to read my notes aloud so everyone can hear the ideas clearly instead of deciphering his sloppy handwriting.

And this is the first time I hear Achilleus’s voice.

“The ancient Greeks, from their early days when humanity was still developing, already knew how to use herbs for healing or creating natural fragrances. But most impressively, they used herbs in cock, skillfully and delicately combining them to create stews, grilled fish, or roasted meats, making people acknowledge the sophistication of their cuisine.”

I smile, feeling proud, anticipating applause and the teacher’s feedback, but my body freezes. Not just me—everyone in the room goes stiff, staring at Achilleus with the same question in their minds: “What the fuck did you just read, Pelides?” The class erupts in laughter, the noise so loud that students loitering in the halls or other teachers could probably hear it. Some are gasping for breath, clutching their stomachs, wiping tears from their eyes. I catch a glimpse of Achilleus’s face, flushed red with embarrassment.

I lower my head, pretending to doze off, praying no one notices or realizes I wrote it. I don’t usually rely on the gods, but right now, if there are powerful, mighty deities out there, please let me rewind time to write more carefully and mind my clumsy fingers.

“Pelides, did you write this?” Chiron tilts his head, holding the paper and examining my neat handwriting, though one word is smudged and blurred by ink.

“No, no, no! Definitely not my sloppy handwriting! It’s his, that frizzy-haired idiot—” Achilleus is cut off as Chiron gives him a stern look for using such a rude nickname for me.

Chiron turns to me, his eyes softening as he gently asks, “Patroclus, you wrote this, didn’t you? Next time, avoid using pens that smudge so easily or pressing your fingers on the ink, alright?” I give a small smile, a bit surprised by how quickly Chiron’s demeanor changes when speaking to me. Compared to Achilleus, Chiron is noticeably stricter with him, as if he’s known Achilleus for a long time and holds him to a higher standard. With me, he’s not stern at all. I guess Achilleus is a special student in his eyes.

“Pelides, back to your seat. I’ll deal with this later. And stop calling your friend such rude names, understood?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeahhh, compared to nouns, he doesn’t even deserve one…” Achilleus returns to his seat, crosses his arms, and mutters something under his breath. I try not to breathe the same air as him, it’s frustrating to face someone who hates you and who you’re starting to find detestable, let alone share the same space. I’ll refuse to look into his eyes or pay attention to him. What a weird guy.

I don’t judge everyone the same, but do all boys who grow up in wealth and privilege have that infuriating arrogance? Or is it just Achilleus?

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

She lets down her golden hair, thanks to Odysseus’s cruel strips of tape. They were just playfully competing, then went back to normal, only to come up with another stupid, crazy idea only fifteen-year-olds could dream up—using tape on their heads to clean off grease and dirt. What a brilliant plan. They even considered wrapping tape around themselves and ripping it off to remove all their body hair, like a snake sloughing its skin.

Briseis wonders how much meth Odysseus and Achilles smoked at home when their parents were away. Three tons? Four? Nah, if they had, they wouldn’t be here now, peeling tape off each other.

“Aughw!! Don’t you ever feel pain, Dior?!?!” Achilles groans, nearly toppling over as Odysseus yanks off a strip of tape. Achilles’s hair is a tangled mess, clumped together like a golden cotton ball, floating as if it’s a smaller version of Achilles whispering to the bigger one.

“Dude, I’m trying!” Odysseus tugs Achilles’s hair down again, this time pulling so hard that a few strands end up in his hand.

“Oh, Nereid’s golden locks are almost like Chow’s fur. The top of your head is a deep gold, then fades lighter. I wonder if it’d puff up all fluffy?” Briseis’s shoulders shake as she clears her throat, pretending to cough, avoiding Achilles’s fierce glare. She doesn’t want to join Odysseus’s teasing, but if we’re talking looks, Achilles does resemble that dog breed. She swears she doesn’t mean he’s a dog.

“I AM NOT A DOG, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.” Odysseus, busy brushing Achilles’s hair and muttering “Cholles, my sweet pup,” just just gets shoved aside. Achilles, using his fingers to untangle his messy strands, smoothing them like a comb.

“Chill, man, we’re just joking. You look more like a lion crossed with a dog.” The last word is swallowed back. Odysseus knows Achilles hates being compared to animals he deems ordinary and not not mighty.

Briseis bites into her apple, the crisp crunch ringing out as she savors the sweetness before recalling Chiron’s displeased teacher’s face an hour ago. “How’d your presentation go?”

“Pretty good, except that Argos guy kept spouting crude, vulgar nonsense that grated my ears,” Odysseus replies.

“And you?”

Achilles’s shoulders tense, and he rolls his eyes, as if his eyes are saying he’d rather not not talk about it. “That kid gets under my skin! You guys wouldn’t get it. I mean, he’s silent like a mute and still managed to humiliate me!” Whose’s face was it? Patrick? Paros? Achilles tries to recall the boy’s face, but it’s all blurry, drowned out by the laughter that won’t leave his mind and his mother’s disappointed look. If only he’d known the new kid’s name better, something common, like boring peanut butter, maybe. The more he thinks, the angrier he gets. Achilles feels like his honor was stolen by that frizzy-haired fool.

Odysseus, as if reading Achilles’s mind, pats his shoulder lightly. “Come on, buddy, peanut butter doesn’t always trigger allergies. It’s all sweet and creamy. Why not pair it with some figs?” Briseis giggles, nodding at Odysseus’s knack for saying things that catch people off guard with their cleverness, but saying this to Achilles is like pouring oil on a fire.

“Pelides is allergic to peanuts, remember? At his last birthday, he was hospitalized for two days before waking up…” Achilles whispers, noticing Achilles’s face darken and grimace at the mention of peanuts. To describe it, if Achilles and peanuts met, the peanuts would kill him before he could run on his Achilles’ heel.

“I’m heading out. My Penelope’s at at the cafeteria.” Briseis rolls her eyes as Odysseus vanishes seconds after sitting down, thinking he must be a descendant of Eurus. Alright, she’s off too. Achilles is in a bad terrible mood, and no one can soothe him. Briseis slips on her shoes, silent, wishing someone out there could tame Achilles’s fiery rage and kiss it away, though she’s unsure if such a person even exists.

Achilles cracks Achilles’ knuckles, trying to calm himself, but his nails dig deeper, tearing his skin. It’s pointless and makes him look unhinged. Maybe he should head to the library to read or at least pretend to read so no one disturbs him.

The library is nearly deserted. Achilles strides in in with filthy gym shoes, only realizing they’re dirty when the librarian clears his throat. He hasn’t cleaned them in two weeks, two weeks, and they reek. Who cares? They’re just shoes, not a megaphone, so it’s fine. He knows the librarian’s holding a grudge and might kick him out next time, but screw him. Achilles wants to forget that frizzy-haired fool.

A quiet corner, usually ignored, is taken, so he settles in a nearby chair.

He runs his fingers over the books, thrilled to find 'Once Upon a Time, There Was a Tongue That Ran Away.’ It’s arguably the most captivating book, written from the perspective of a mute mute person without a tongue, learning to communicate through sign language and writing notes for others to understand. Sometimes it’s their eyes, sometimes their actions, but the protagonist, despite being scorned and belittled, rises like a vibrant sprout, finding someone who truly loves them, waiting seven years for their beloved to return from war, then reuniting and having a child together. Achilles snorts, having read it for the fifth time this year, still tearing up at the part where the lovers part for what feels like centuries.

He flips through the pages, slumping to read clearly, shifting positions every ten seconds. At page 120, Achilles plans to grab another book to borrow when he spots a familiar dark, curly lock of hair, bent over, scribbling in a small notebook. The person’s eyes are stunning, anyone glancing would think they’d used honey-tinted lenses if natural. Their fingers, twisted, grip the book, nails neatly trimmed, with faint hairs on the back of their hand, like a subtle accent to their beauty.

Hold on.

Achilles just called someone beautiful, startling himself with his own thoughts. The book is huge, medical texts on human anatomy, surgical tools, drugs for diseases, and medical instruments. This person is passionate about medicine, the field Achilles swears only the craziest monsters would choose.

The book is set down, and Achilles’s heart skips a beat, momentarily forgetting how to breathe or think.

The boy’s full lips look like pale pink butterfly wings, perhaps a bit dry or slightly chapped, but beautiful, complementing his honeyed eyes. Freckles on his cheeks and temples appear as his hair sways with the breeze from the window, his lips curling slightly as he turns a page, engrossed, twirling a pen between his fingers. His jawline is soft yet firm, neither overly masculine nor feminine, a harmonious blend creating a striking, unique feature. Flowers would dance at his sight, bees would forget nectar to circle his sweet eyes, snakes would lose their venom, disarmed by his invisible charm.

Achilles is becoming a poet, a writer, staring at Patroclus. Patroclus, Pa-tro-clus. He’s memorized his name, his mouth agape, hidden by the book.

Patroclus?

Patroclus, the frizzy-haired fool who humiliated him twice in front of everyone? What the hell? Achilles tugs his hair, turning to face the empty chairs. Those fleeting feelings? Gone, maybe forever. Achilles hates it, no denying it. He dislikes Patroclus’s silence, how Patroclus stripped him of his honor.

Achilles dislikes Achilles for hating and disliking Patroclus.

But glancing at Patroclus, Achilles feels his heart race, stronger than ever. Compared to last year’s basketball game, it’s nothing. His knuckles crack, and he stands, grabbing two books without notifying the librarian.

Chapter Text

What does a child need?

Freedom, acceptance, happiness.

Fame, talent surpassing the divine. Those are the qualities a child of a Nereid should possess, rather than the mundane, foolish demands of countless other children out there, unreasonably clamoring for trivial things.

The pain, the humiliation that man, who was supposed to be compassionate, inflicted upon her. His sweaty, hot hands, the endless tears streaming down her face fueled by a hatred she could not voice, his rapid, overly aggressive breathing despite his small stature, her nails scratching fiercely across his chest, leaving scars that only filled her with disgust whenever she caught a glimpse of them.

She would not let her son inherit that man’s temperament or actions. Her son would stand shoulder to shoulder with the gods, surpassing even the government of this country, a pride that would resonate across the earth, the glory of Thetis, the Nereid.

It was disheartening when, a few weeks ago, Thetis watched a live-recorded clip from Achilles’ school running competition. Her face contorted, almost in anger, as she saw her beloved son trip over a tiny pebble. Thetis wasn’t furious because Achilles fell and came in last; she was enraged because of that boy, that boy with the messy black hair like a sponge, whose bronze skin was the only thing that left a slight impression on her. He didn’t shout to warn her son about the obstacle. Instead, he threw something to the ground, causing the pebble to roll aside, and Achilles’ fingers grazed it, leading to his heavy fall.

Who did that boy think he was? A shameless stranger, so reprehensible that Thetis couldn’t find a single redeeming quality in him. The way he meddled caused her Achilles to lose his honor in front of the entire school and the family of Lord Lycomedes. Thetis slammed her laptop shut, her nails scraping the table so hard they peeled off the wood. She stormed down to the living room, where her hypocritical husband was enjoying his day off, watching football with their son, who sat beside him, cheering for his favorite team.

Look at that face, his confident smirk, the furrowed brow of the boy, his expression radiating a unique pride, rivaling even the gods above. Thetis ran her fingers along her son’s shoulder, making him flinch and nearly drop the Pepsi bottle in his hand.

“Whoa… hi, Mum! Do you need help with something?” Thetis shook her head, her nails grazing the fabric of Achilles’ shirt, her eyes glinting with a dark, controlling intensity. Achilles was used to his mother’s strange behavior, as if she feared he might vanish. He turned back to cheer for his favorite team, unsure if he’d forgotten something important. Everything seemed normal, as usual.

A pair of scratched wooden dice sat on the bookshelf, their dark brown finish outdated and marred by marks as if struck by something hard. Thetis shook them, the faint clattering barely audible, the scratches like wounds from a violent impact. She wasn’t a detective, but by analyzing and recalling that clip, she knew who those dice belonged to. One day, she would return them to their owner. She wanted to see that face, the unease rising within her making her bite her lip until it bled.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Two months have passed since I started at this school, and I feel like almost everyone in the class is isolating me. No one dares or wants to talk to me. If they’re assigned to my group, they either work alone or, worse, yell and switch seats to avoid being near me. I looked up online why people might ostracize a classmate, and the results mentioned things like body odor, having done something despicable, or even disgusting affairs that make others avoid you, along with countless other reasons beyond my imagination. At the very least, I’m now being shunned by strangers who’ve never spoken to me. I hate how they flinch away when I pass by, as if terrified I might accidentally brush against a single strand of their hair.

But it’s better than the afternoons when everyone else goes home, and I’m left with a pair of emerald-green eyes watching me, like a curious tiger eyeing strange prey. I know only one person in our class has those eyes: Achilleus Pelides, son of the Nereid. Since last Monday, he’s been following me like a stalker, stopping only when I turn into the dark alley leading to my house. He reminds me of the “Stalker” from Penpal. I’m not sure if he’s obsessed with me in some sick way or if he’s targeting me as his latest prey.

I’m starting to form an extremely negative impression of Achilleus, to the point where I’d say I hate his personality. He struts around while other students look at him with drooling admiration, swarming him like plankton in the sea. They chant his name vaguely, but most call him Great of the Myrmidons. I know that nickname, it comes from a mythological figure known for arrogance and strength rivaling the gods. People say Achilleus deserves it, revering and idolizing him. I suppose it’s because of his family’s wealth and fame, which even spreads to other schools, a charming guy with a hundred girlfriends, I scoff to myself.

My locker is practically empty, containing only a book, a few favorite pens, and a drawing of my mother taped inside. That’s my most precious possession, second only to those wooden dice. I can still picture her face: her large, doe-like eyes with gently curled lashes, eyelids that never drooped even slightly. People say doe eyes shine with innocence, charm, and a sparkle like stars in the sky. But in her eyes, I saw no light—only a deep, inky darkness, vacant like a living corpse, no longer capable of pain, or perhaps she’d endured so much pain she could no longer feel it.

Her hair wasn’t short like I remembered. It reached her shoulders, but the strands were jagged, some parts cut or torn. I know who did that to her. Eight years have passed, and the solitary image of my mother is etched into my mind. I wonder how she’s doing now. Has she found new happiness, or is she no longer in this world?

I take slow breaths through my nose, nearly crying as I dwell on thoughts of my mother. There are still people around, I remind myself, my eyes red like rose petals.

But a small warmth behind me startles me, and I turn around. A girl, as tall as me, with radiant bronze skin under the light, her brown hair elegantly curled. Her eyes look at me with concern, like I’m a wounded animal.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re about to cry…” I quickly rub my eyes, waving my hand to signal that dust got in them. But more importantly, who is this girl? I rack my brain, trying to recall if I know her. Then it hits me—she sits near me in class, a strong and decisive girl named Briseis Hippodameia, as the teacher called her. She has small freckles on her prominent nose, and her sharp, playful, confident eyes make her instantly likable, someone you’d want to befriend at first sight.

I nod, clumsily using the sign language I’ve been learning for a few days, though I only know basic signs. She pauses, seemingly understanding my situation, and starts signing back. I’m flustered, a mute like me, barely learning sign language like a toddler learning to walk, and yet this girl seems experienced, her fingers moving with dizzying agility. I shake my head, hurriedly tearing out a piece of paper and scribbling:

'I’m new to sign language. Can we communicate with gestures or this paper?'

Her face flushes, and she scratches the back of her neck. I wish I’d phrased it more delicately.

“S-so that’s how it is? Ughhh, I was so rude…” I hear her mumble. “Hey, stranger, can we get to know each other? Lunch is coming up, and I’ll be at the table in the right corner. I’ll wait for you!” A strange girl just invited me to eat lunch with her. Did I hear that right? It’s my first time, and I can’t help but feel flustered and skeptical about her kindness. She seems nice, but I can’t fully trust her yet.

This time, I don’t stay in the classroom. I get up like the other students and head to the cafeteria, bringing my notebook and pen. At the far-right table, Hippodameia is sipping a Coca-Cola, eyes glued to her phone, a fork spearing her steak. I sit across from her, tapping the table lightly to get her attention. She immediately puts down her phone, flashes a friendly smile, and slides a tray full of steak, lettuce, and peas toward me. Her generosity leaves me unsure how to respond. I nod in thanks, but my fingers can barely lift the fork or spoon.

The silence between us would make any third party feel awkward and pointless.

Finally, Hippodameia speaks first. “Can I know your name?” I’m relieved she asked, scribbling messily on the paper:

'My name is Patroclus. Just Patroclus'

Her eyes widen with surprise and a hint of pity. I’m used to it—most people who are kind to me react this way, so it’s not surprising.

“Is that so? I’m Briseis Hippodameia. You can call me Briseis, Hippodameia is a mouthful.” She says her name slowly, shaping the words with her lips, then claps lightly with quiet enthusiasm.

“Do you have an X or Insta account?” Briseis asks, showing me her X profile with a few gestures.

“Or we can exchange phone numbers!” I tear off a corner of the paper and write my number. Briseis takes it, tucking it into her pants pocket, and gives a graceful thumbs-up.

Only now does she notice my tray, where only a bit of lettuce and peas are gone. She stares at the untouched steak.

“You’re not eating the steak? It’s the first time in two months this school’s served it,” she says, poking her empty tray with her fork, her voice almost dejected. “It’s so stingy how they only invest in expanding the sports facilities and classrooms. God, this damn school drives me crazy.”

She’s right, the school’s wealth is evident in its classrooms and sports facilities, but the food quality is worse than the bathrooms lacking toilet paper.

“So, Pat, can I call you Pat?” I nod. Pat is simple and unremarkable, so it’s fine.

“I, um, have some favorite books! Can we exchange books and talk about our thoughts on them? I’ve noticed you read intently during every class.” I think I like this girl, as a friend with shared interests and passions. She starts talking about fantasy, horror, and even dark romance books, her voice low and engrossed as she describes the characters.

“And you know what? Charalampos won the hearts of all four maidens, and they got married! Goddess, it’s insane, he’s such a crazed playboy," I tilt my head, smiling softly as Briseis narrates with infectious enthusiasm. Her voice, though occasionally stumbling or mispronouncing words, carries the bold, local charm that I can’t help but admire, drawing me deeper into her stories about her favorite characters.

But her cheeks flush pink, her voice stammers, and she trips over her words more than before. I think she’s nervous, or maybe she’s talking and thinking too fast.

'Are you okay?'

I slide the paper toward her. Briseis freezes, then nods, her face now as red as a tomato. I wonder if she’s embarrassed because I was listening so intently and smiling.

“No, I’m fine! Totally fine, Pat.” She lowers her head, her stories growing stranger.

Then she stops.

“Your smile is beautiful, honestly.” My body heats up with embarrassment, as if I’d drunk scalding water.

God, no one’s ever complimented my smile or said I look nice.

Do the students at this school really love flirting and teasing this much?

I stand up, my mouth letting out an involuntary mumble, ready to leave. Briseis’ voice lingers in my mind from behind.

“Tomorrow afternoon, let’s meet at the library at 4:25 p.m, okay, sweetie?”

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

The stack of books is so tall it hides Briseis’ face. I wonder how many she’s read before I arrived. Her fingers gently turn each page, careful not to crease or scratch them. The only sound is the rain outside in this quiet space. My body relaxes, it’s been a while since I’ve been near someone without feeling tense. I’ve stopped borrowing library books, realizing most are fake or missing pages, printed sloppily.

My biology book is larger than an adult’s hand, filled with illustrations of animal anatomy. It’s fascinating, exploring these details fuels my burning passion, coursing through every cell. I imagine myself in a hospital, my years of self-taught knowledge in my mind, my gloved hands holding a syringe, the smell of antiseptic celebrating my achievements.

“You look like a future nurse, Pat,” Briseis says, half-joking, half-serious, looking up. “I have some medical books at home. If you don’t mind, I can lend you a few.” Medical books, now over $100 on the market since last month, are beyond my budget. My father’s strict allowance of $30 every two months ensures I only spend enough to survive. Briseis seems genuinely kind, offering to lend me her things so freely. I feel rude for ever doubting her.

My eyes crinkle as I smile lightly at Briseis, and she responds with a playful air kiss.

But our smiles fade when my gaze catches a head of golden hair clomping in on his shoes, his eyes scanning the books but clearly glancing at us like a child glaring at people he dislikes.

“What’s that guy doing here? He rarely comes in…” Briseis whispers, sounding like she just won the lottery.

'I’ve seen Pelides here since last week, but only when I’m here'

'He always sits in a fixed spot, like he’s watching my every move'

Briseis groans, her face showing clear disdain and disgust for Achilleus. I smile lightly as her lips twist and pout.

“You know what? That Achilles Pelides once said he’d never step into the library alone because it’s not even a fraction as good as his father’s!” Briseis mimics how Achilles bragged to his friends like a god.

Achilles Pelides, like a god.

Achilles? Not Achilleus?

If I weren’t mute, I’d ask Briseis, but her watch alarm rings like a fire bell.

"Damn it, I’m late for my meetup with Auto…” She stands, accidentally knocking over her chair. “Sorry, Pat, I have to go meet that brat.” Her phone rings frantically in the quiet space, her face flushes, and she rushes off as if a second’s delay would ruin everything.

I watch Briseis’ back disappear, dazed. A soft, mocking laugh rings out.

Achilleus, no, Achilles, that’s right, sits in a corner of the library. At first glance, everything seems normal, but from his spot, he can watch me without being noticed.

I could come up with a thousand nicknames for that guy, but given the situation, “Achilles, the blond stalker” fits perfectly.

Chapter Text

Today is a Sunday like any other. The weather is scorching, as if the sun is determined to burn my skin, making me feel lazy. The house is filled with the smell of wine, McDonald’s food, and, oh God, a foul stench that makes my face flush.

My father brought home a few women, some with their children, and some even gave me money.

It’s disgusting. My nose wrinkles as I recall their lewd gazes. They looked vulgar, intoxicated, and spoke as if they were unhinged.

I don’t want to assume the worst, but my mind can’t stop spiraling toward the darkest possibilities. Every three weeks, a strange delivery guy rings the doorbell, staring at me with a warning look. The packages are large, and I thought they must contain some high-tech equipment.

That was until I shook one lightly and heard a rustling sound, like salt or sugar inside. No one orders salt, sugar, or MSG online. The only thing that comes to mind is the white powder I’ve seen on TV.

This is bad. It’s almost the third week again, and I’m bracing myself to face that creepy delivery guy once more.

My phone chimes with notifications. I reluctantly pick up my scratched-up phone and unlock it.

You have 5 new messages from Bringmy_rizz.

[Bringmy_rizz]  

_ Hey, sweetie!!! 

_ Are u free?? This sweet Disney princess just found something super exciting for you 

_Yup! It’s the book fair at 8 p.m tonight, Stadiou Street at Klafthmonos Square.  

_ Pat, Pat, Patttt, come with me, plsss?? 🥹

_ Begging with Cleopatra’s big, doe eyes

Bringmy_rizz? What the heck is “rizz”?

At least the profile and picture tell me it’s Briseis. I don’t know how she found my social media, but I’m surprised and thrilled that she invited me to the book fair on Stadiou Street. She’s generous, radiating positive energy that uplifts someone quiet like me, and it’s even more amazing that she invited me to a book fair.

I wouldn’t hesitate to say yes. With Briseis’s personality, it’s hard to refuse her. But I have a slight problem.

Any moment now, my father could come home. Especially at night, he returns with friends, lovers, or alone with bloodshot eyes, wreaking havoc in the living room or kitchen, then calling me to clean up the shattered glass from broken wine bottles.

It’s a relentless cycle with no end. I have to be there, or he’ll take a knife to my bedroom door. It’s entirely to his and his friends’ benefit.

Men whose origins or names I don’t know.

I’m terrified that if I’m not there to open the door or clean up his disgusting mess, the house and my room will be ransacked, my belongings will disappear, and the money I’ve earned will end up in his hands.

I bite my nails. I have two choices that will shape my future. One: go to the book fair with Briseis and enjoy a rare night of freedom. Two: decline and stay home to wait for my father.

I haven’t gone out at night in years, but maybe this is an exception.

This time, I’ll break this wretched routine and escape it.

Soon.

I’ve cleaned most of the house. I’ve hidden the kitchen knives under my bed and made sure the main and spare keys are in my pocket. I also ensured I’d have something to eat while browsing books with Briseis. Some buttery Koulourakia wrapped in parchment paper, and I won’t forget my bottle of grape juice.

I’m hoping Briseis is waiting outside my house, but, oh no, she doesn’t know where I live, and she hasn’t said where we’ll meet.

This is my second time walking this path at night. A few steps more, and I’ll reach Stadiou Street.

His eyes follow you.  

Hatred like a foolish teenager.  

He blames you. Oh, please, my fragile soul is torn apart again.

The song’s lyrics send shivers down my spine, accompanied by haunting, quiet, yet fiery music. Am I being paranoid? I’ve felt like someone’s watching me since I left the house.

I see a crowd, large and small stalls, and beautifully arranged book sections. I expected pushing or fighting over books, but everyone is polite and harmonious. I walk through sections: politics, religion, romance, and fantasy. I’ve mentally picked out a few books, but that’s not my main concern.

My Koulourakia is getting soft, and the night wind is cold and biting. Briseis hasn’t arrived yet. I bite my lip, fearing I’ve fallen for a cruel prank.

I take a piece of Koulourakia and chew. The sweetness is faint, especially for me. Without a tongue, all food is meaningless. I can only smell with my nose, and chewing feels like eating paper scraps. Bland. Only hard, salty foods give me a slight taste, which is why I’m as thin as a skeleton. I force food down for protein.

A cold breath brushes my ear, a whisper, and a finger pokes my waist, making me jump. I turn to see who it is.

It’s Briseis.

I’m relieved she didn’t ditch me, but her timing is terrible. I swallowed a piece of Koulourakia without chewing and choke, pounding my chest. Briseis looks guilty, her face pale and sweaty, as if she’d been chased by a wild dog.

“Surprise!” Briseis says, hands on her hips, untangling a strand of messy hair. She’s holding a knitted bag.

I tilt my head, unsure what she means.

She grins, her eyes squinting, and hands me the bag. “They say if you bring a knitted bag, you get a 15% discount on books!”

I stare at her, amazed. She’s a miracle worker. I smile and gesture for her to follow me.

We stop at the medical book section. Briseis mutters something, her gaze shifting from my excited face to the largest book in the center.

It’s a highly recommended medical book, but too expensive for most. I’ve wanted it for so long but haven’t dared to spend my savings, let alone ask him for money.

“Pat, you like this book?” she asks, surprised, struggling to hold it. I help her; the book weighs nearly three kilograms.

The hardcover is wooden, and I run my fingers over it. It smells like olives, likely made from olive wood from some hill. The carved text is exquisite, neat, and refined. I could stare at it forever.

Briseis taps the cover, delighted by the clacking sound.

I secretly hope she’ll buy it for me.

But we’ve only just met and don’t even know each other’s homes.

I smile awkwardly, about to put it back, when Briseis grabs my elbow. I turn and see her holding a thick stack of cash. My heart leaps at the staggering amount.

Gods. How does Briseis have so much money? The book, originally exorbitant, is now discounted to 1,400 euros.

The cash she’s holding is four times its current price.

She puts the book in the bag. To prevent it from tearing, I hold it carefully to avoid any mishaps.

We wander the book sections for over an hour. I’m too excited to notice something unsettling following me. Or maybe it’s just my imagination from the stress at home.

Briseis holds a book while munching Koulourakia, her face beaming. Crumbs stick to her lips, one cheek puffed out.

“Did you make these?” I nod. She chews slowly, eyes closed, savoring it. In minutes, four Koulourakia vanish, leaving crumbs on her lips and fingers.

I nudge her shoulder. She grins, her purple-tinted lips curving, but her smile fades as her eyes glance behind me.

I wonder what she saw. Her face tenses, brows furrowing in discomfort.

When she notices me looking, she acts embarrassed, explaining the cold air made her feel unwell. It’s getting late, and the night is darker. The moon isn’t as bright as before.

We leave, each carrying our books. I only bought one, so it’s lighter than hers. I wave goodbye and head toward my house.

To reach my neighborhood, I take a narrow, dark alley where rooftops block the moonlight. It’s a favorite spot for stray cats but my least favorite place, filled with trash and sometimes dead animals. Without cleanup, it’d be a bone yard.

Crunch

My foot freezes at the sound of something snapping, like animal bones. I think I imagined it or a rat caused it, so I brush it off.

No one’s following me. I convince myself I’m paranoid, but I can’t. I hear faint breathing and rustling fabric from a dark corner. Sweat drips down my back. The night is cold, but I’m burning, my heart racing.

Someone’s tailing me.

They’ve probably been following me since I left home. They might’ve watched Briseis and me for an hour, and I was too carefree, thinking she was overreacting.

Her pale face haunts me. Something terrified her.

Something horrific?

Or rather, someone?

What kind of sicko would scare a fifteen-year-old girl like this? Why follow me?

A creepy stalker. A deranged killer. My mind conjures countless twisted possibilities. My heart pounds as I speed up, my sweaty hands slippery.

Finally, I see my dark house. I sprint to the gate, slam it shut, lock it, and rush inside.

I collapse on the floor. My head throbs, replaying the moment. I take off my shoes, go to my room to calm down, and check my phone.

I thought Briseis would message me, but she’s offline. I’m worried; her terrified eyes held a hint of disdain.

I’ll ask her about it later.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

He knew tailing someone wasn’t a good idea. But curiosity gnawed at him when he saw a familiar face next to that curly-haired idiot.

Is she hanging out with a guy? Achilles thought, smirking. He wore a dark brown fleece jacket and a gray cap, looking older than a high schooler, so no one would suspect he was a kid who liked following people (only when really curious).

For the entire time, the two wandered like idiots. Achilles followed slowly, holding random books and flipping pages without reading. He saw the curly-haired idiot, Patroclus? He tested the name. Pa-tro-clus, 'the glory of the father'. Achilles couldn’t deny it sounded funny and cheap.

They barely spoke. Or rather, only Briseis talked. Patroclus responded with looks, slight nods, or odd hand gestures Achilles didn’t understand.

Those gestures seemed familiar, used by people with disabilities. Patroclus looked fine, just shy and quiet. Achilles saw nothing unusual.

A secret code? Achilles wondered, his curiosity growing. He got closer, but some kids ran past, blocking his path. Damn those brats.

But curiosity wasn’t quite right.

He felt jealous, irritated, and restless for no reason.

Briseis suddenly turned and saw him, her blonde hair falling despite being tied in a neat bun. Achilles narrowed his eyes with disdain. Her face paled, she said something to Patroclus, and they split up. Briseis went into a crowded area, while Patroclus took a desolate, dark path with no streetlights.

The book fair’s music haunted Achilles as he followed Patroclus closer.

Entwined like two distant dreams.

Tying a fragile thread of love. 

Ah-ah, we could be kids who hate each other or delusional fools.

Like an unquenchable flame of passion.

The alley was filthy, full of trash, gum, and rotting animal carcasses. He wrinkled his nose, breathing lightly through his mouth to avoid the stench. How could Patroclus walk this cursed path daily without vomiting?

This place was cursed, like the world forgot it. Achilles knew it was perfect for drug dealers. His heart pounded as he got closer, the first time he’d been this near.

But damn this alley. His shoe crunched a small animal’s skeleton.

The sound was loud enough for Patroclus to hear and stop. Achilles couldn’t see his face but heard his rapid breathing and quickening steps. Patroclus didn’t look back; Achilles had scared him. He couldn’t just leave now and followed swiftly, avoiding debris.

Adrenaline surged. He saw faint streetlight glow and Patroclus’s terrified face as he entered his gate. His eyes showed pure horror. In a flash, Patroclus locked the gate and ran inside.

Achilles’s phone buzzed. As expected, it was Lycomedes’s daughter, begging.

He leaned against the wall by the curly-haired idiot’s house, typing frantically to end the crazy conversation quickly.

“Fine, what if she pretends she’s pregnant again? I need to talk to Mom about this…” Achilles powered off his phone. It was 11 p.m, and his towering mother would have a million questions.

Chapter Text

This is the third time Deidameia has lied to herself about being pregnant. Countless missed calls and anonymous messages have been sent.

Achilles is fed up with her antics. Their relationship remains undefined, built only on promises of satisfying each other's physical desires. They’ve certainly explored the most intimate parts of one another, but no amount of passionate moans could bridge the gap to love.

If a week passes without contact, she acts as if she’ll die. She waits for Fridays after ballet practice to bombard him with texts and calls, rambling on until the main topic surfaces: her claim that she might be carrying Achilles’ child.

Thankfully, this hasn’t leaked to the public. If word got out at school or on forums, it would end up in his record, and his world would implode. He needs to warn that girl from Skyros High.

She sent another photo, along with over fourteen messages from Deidameia.

[Princess_ofSkyros]

(Sent a photo)

_ What should I say?

_ Should I call you a dog who’s after the principal Lycomedes’ daughter?

_ Or say you’re a creep who stalks anyone you like or hate?

_ Twu lines, two lines

_ TWO LINES, WHY DO YOU NEVER TAKE RESPONSIBILITY?

_ You never think about the consequences of your actions!

_ Irresponsible, vile, pathetic, dimwitted, only thinking with your lower half!

_ You’re really not answering my messages, huh?

_ Aren’t you afraid I might have set up a camera? If I got that footage, everyone would believe you tried to seduce me.

_ Dumbass, has your mom already buried you alive for these messages?

_ Damn, I guess not. She’s probably dragging you to get neutered

_ Oh, Achilles, destroyer of Trojan students, I bet the girls there would be thrilled to hear you’ve been neutered

_ Especially that Briseis girl? Hmph, don’t think I don’t know you two dated. If people found out you were a terrible, heartless boyfriend, let’s see which girl would still dare to love you

The last message made Achilles’ face pale. He thought that chapter was closed two years ago, forgotten by everyone. If anyone remembered, they’d keep quiet and let it pass.

But Achilles was careless. He forgot about the witness at that chaotic teenage party. No one missed the incident, the endless gossip about his ex-girlfriend. There was even a brawl that sent one of Priamedes’ sons to the hospital.

Hailed as a future star investigator destined for Europol, Achilles’ exceptional talents and intellect made rich kids tremble in comparison. That’s why he always acted discreetly and obediently, at least knowing how to clean up his messes. Sometimes, the echoes lingered, but they were too dull to attract attention.

To stop the Skyros girl from spreading rumors, Achilles had to warn her. If she persisted, he’d need to outmaneuver her.

[Me]

_ Alright, princess of Skyros

_ You should double-check those photos you blatantly pulled from Pinterest or Google. Do you really think you’re clever grabbing random two-line pregnancy test images from the internet?

_ And STOP joining forums just to cry about your imaginary abusive husband

_ We’re not married, at least not yet. So quit causing a scene before I sue you for slander and illegal threats

• You have blocked Princess_ofSkyros •

Achilles ensured all communication with Principal Lycomedes’ daughter was cut off. She wouldn’t dare use her father’s phone or ask him to register a new SIM.

For now, things seemed calmer. But Achilles had something important to do: befriend someone who didn’t seem particularly friendly.

A kid caught Achilles’ attention, someone crucial. He shared traits with Briseis from Anatolia, perhaps even hailing from there.

Alone, isolated, and silent to the point of being unlikeable.

He’d probably look up with the same arrogance as Priamedes’ siblings or cousins.

His account was nearly empty, nothing notable except photos of medical knowledge snapped from books. No captions or music, but at least Achilles knew the account wasn’t abandoned since he followed one person.

That person’s name felt oddly familiar.

No matter. Once this Lokrian accepted his friend request, the game would begin again.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Last night was a nightmare. I slept in fear, haunted by dread and disgust. I even dreamed of that stalker stabbing a knife through my stomach, whispering accusations as if I were a criminal.

He had emerald eyes like a predatory beast, shrouded in darkness with only those glowing eyes piercing through. As the knife tore through my abdomen, I swear he tried shoving something into the open wound.

As I felt myself slipping away, my father’s knocking woke me. I sat dazed on my bed, my brain struggling to process his words.

Oh, he needed breakfast. Probably spent all his money again and wanted me to cook.

He was sitting at the table, tapping rhythmically, eyeing the kitchen to hurry me along.

His breakfast was always crispy Loukanika fried in olive oil with shredded Kasseri. I’d told him countless times, even in writing, that this meal was raising his cholesterol, but he refused to listen, threatening to hide my instant porridge, rice, or money if I hinted at his obesity again.

Maybe I overdid it. My father wasn’t some obese man with a massive gut, intimidating people with his size. Still, his so-called “authority” terrified me and some of his friends.

Lost in thought, I finished his breakfast. Without looking, I knew he was practically drooling. I set the plate before him and turned away. Lingering meant getting roped into pointless errands and missing class.

Today’s teacher didn’t bother calling anyone to the board for checks. She was so lazy and irresponsible that she ignored the chaos led by Atreides’ crew, who were wrecking the desks. I moved my desk to the back to avoid those infamous thugs. Briseis followed, clearly disgusted by Atreides.

“I’d rather skip class than sit through this hellish hour,” Briseis grumbled, slumping onto her desk.

I poked her shoulder, noticing her tangled, unbrushed curls. She didn’t glance at me, just shifted her head to dodge my finger. I kept at it, bored, wondering how long it’d been since she brushed her hair. Her curls looked like tiny whirlwinds nesting on her head.

Annoyed by my prodding, Briseis sat up and pouted. “Stop messing with my hair, thinking it’ll impress some girl.”

Seriously? I wasn’t even flirting. I hoped she wasn’t delusional from reading too many teen romance novels. She felt like the imaginary sister I’d always wanted, not some silly romantic interest.

Despite my irritation, my cheeks burned. I grabbed a pencil and scribbled on paper.

'The word "impress" isn’t just for me but for anyone who sees that whirlwind nesting in your hair. Let me untangle it for you, Bee. It’ll be neat, I promise'

She grumbled but sat up straight, letting me carefully untangle her curls. My fingers trembled slightly, unaccustomed to being so close to someone. I worked gently, ensuring no strands broke or pulled too hard.

Her hair was no longer a knotted mess. It looked neat and distinct, and Briseis hummed, feeling the lightness. She checked her reflection, brushing through with a black comb, giggling as she pulled out hair ties with tiny fig charms.

I understood her hint. I stretched the ties and braided her hair into tight, ancient-style curls on both sides, a skill I’d practiced at home with a wig. Briseis was the first to see my handiwork.

She gently touched the neat braids, her natural curls making the style pop. She glowed like a flower amidst the buzzing flies of our chaotic classroom.

“It's so sick! I don’t look like a teen anymore but a noblewoman at a grand ball,” she said, snapping photos of her face and hair. Despite my protests, she dragged me into a picture.

The school bell rang, and students shoved through the tiny door. I grabbed my bag, seeing Briseis waiting outside. We planned to review history for an upcoming test.

But what the hell?

My history notebook was gone. It was the only one I brought today, larger and heavier than my usual one. I rummaged through my bag, certain I hadn’t forgotten it at home. I’d grabbed it in my rush to avoid being late.

Did I forget to zip my bag, and it fell out while running?

No way.

I’d have noticed its weight rubbing against my back. If it had fallen, I’d have known, even in a hurry.

Some jerk stole my notebook. It held all my carefully written notes for the test, plus some silly jokes in the back.

I hesitated, unsure whether to tell Briseis.

It couldn’t have vanished without reason. Someone took it.

Briseis noticed my dazed look and tapped my arm. “What’s wrong, Pat? You look lost.” I pointed to my empty bag, glancing at the notebook she held.

I crossed my arms, hoping she’d understand without me writing it down.

She tilted her head, confused, then gasped. “Oh, you forgot your notebook? Got it!” She led me outside, eagerly showing me her messy notes. “The first pages are hard to read, but you’ll get used to it. Studying from someone else’s notes is tough, but it’s better than nothing.”

Her early pages were a disaster, smudged ink making them a battlefield. Doodles reflected her moods, and some Turkish poems caught my eye.

She gave an awkward smile. I didn’t want to stress her, so I skimmed quietly.

I stopped. The material was harder than I expected, and my head ached. I handed the notebook back.

“Done already?” I shook my head. I couldn’t read a single word, not because her writing was bad, but I knew I’d learn better from my own notes.

I scribbled, “I’m going to find my notebook. I don’t believe I forgot it at home. Someone must have stolen it.”

“Stolen? Hmm, could be those troublemakers messing with you,” Briseis said, waving goodbye. Before I left, she shouted, making my heart leap, “Go kick those thieving jerks’ butts, Pat!”

I searched the classroom, checking bags and corners. Most bags were empty, and many kids didn’t bring theirs. I looked under my chair and every hidden nook, praying no one walked in while I used my phone’s flashlight.

Not even a speck of trash. I was at a dead end. The thief either carried it or hid it outside the classroom.

If I was unlucky, it was shredded or buried in trash.

I left to check blind spots and dark corners. A chill ran down my neck, but no one was there when I turned. I didn’t want to scare myself, but I wondered if last night’s stalker was a student here, maybe even in my class.

I dismissed the thought. How could a teen have such creepy, twisted habits?

No luck. Even the narrow hiding spots revealed nothing. Digging through trash wasn’t an option; people would think I was crazy. I faced a dead end, hoping I’d truly left it at home rather than it being stolen.

A hand tapped my shoulder. I spun around, heart sinking at the sight of emerald eyes. I stepped back instinctively, feeling like prey before a brutal hunter.

But it was just Achilles. He towered over me, holding a notebook.

My notebook?

Was he returning it out of guilt?

“Your notebook. Found it in the men’s bathroom.” He lowered it, showing my name neatly written in the center.

Patroclus (Lokrian).

It was mine. I eagerly took it, letting out small, excited noises.

“Ay oo… ah…” Achilles frowned, tilting his head in confusion. My face burned with embarrassment for making those senseless sounds. Why do I keep doing this?

“Probably the Argives pulling pranks again,” he said, pointing to a wet, foul-smelling corner of the notebook. I grimaced, recognizing the stench of toilet water. I didn’t know much about the Argives, but whoever did this was cunning and disgusting.

I don’t know why, but I followed Achilles. His sharp features and rosy lips were captivating, despite how much I disliked his earlier rudeness. Maybe I misjudged him. He seemed kind. Some good people come off as rough but are honest and caring deep down.

“You know, curly-haired dummy? They targeted you the moment you joined the class. Their plan was sloppy, dunk your notebook in the toilet and leave it on the teacher’s desk to get you disciplined and your parents called.” He gave a faint laugh, more a warning than mockery. I’d nearly gotten in serious trouble, but Achilles, like a god, saved me.

I nodded in thanks. He looked down, his eyes sparkling. “You’ve got olive skin, like honey. It’s beautiful.”

Ba-dump, ba-dump.

My heart raced at the sudden compliment, free of teasing or hidden motives. It felt like the most sincere thing I’d ever heard.

Achilles chuckled, his clear laugh overwhelming me. Sunlight caressed his face and pale neck. I wanted to escape this situation, but my feet followed him to an open field, entranced by someone I didn’t even like.

Patroclus, get a grip...

“You’re too quiet. Can’t you speak?” I shook my head, pointing to my lips and shaking my head again. My gestures and lip movements were useless; Achilles looked at me like I was having a seizure.

I tapped my now-dry but still smelly notebook.

Time to leave. Briseis was waiting, and I couldn’t keep her hanging.

Before I could go, Achilles grabbed my elbow tightly, like a rope. This golden-haired guy seemed kind but had the strength of a violent brawler. He cleared his throat, mumbling an apology when he saw my grimace.

“Can we be friends? You know, buddies. What’s your Instagram?” I pointed to 'Lokrian' written neatly on my notebook. I’d added that surname myself, but it’d be cool if it were really mine.

“Lokrian? Sounds like you’re from the central region. I’ll add you tonight. Gotta run to my next class. Bye!” He didn’t seem rushed for class, more excited for no reason.

My smile faded, shoulders relaxing with relief. Being near Nereid’s son always unnerved me. Even if sunlight made him look divine, I wasn’t at ease. His beauty was undeniable, the kind that drew worship from girls and guys alike. Yet his gaze felt like a predator eyeing its favorite prey, his calm compliments practiced a hundred times.

I hoped Achilles forgot my Insta. I owed him for this, but just this once. Never again.

When I returned, Briseis was slumped over the table, snoring softly. I felt guilty for ditching her while she waited and fell asleep.

I nudged her. She groggily looked up, smiling goofily.

“It’s winter already, Pat…” She rubbed her eyes, leaning back, muttering complaints about me leaving her for what felt like a year.

I placed my notebook on the table. Briseis perked up, clapping for my small victory.

“Someone in class found it and gave it back. We’re friends now.”

She raised her brows, whistling. “A hero, huh? Good to know there are still decent people…”

I didn’t fully get her words and wanted to ask, but my phone buzzed.

My face wrinkled at the familiar yet strange name. Menoetius. My father. I sometimes forgot he had a proper name, not fitting his kind.

As expected, loud music and shouting men filled the background, nearly deafening me. I caught my name in the noise, along with giggles, hisses, and moans.

“Get home quick. I need you for something,” his gruff voice growled, like a stone stuck in his throat. Laughter and strange sounds surrounded him.

My hands shook with anger, but I knew better than to get involved with them. He only wanted me home for their shady, depraved reasons. His friends were no better than drugged-up creeps, maybe they were high on weed. Or maybe I was overthinking.

I hung up.

Why skip class to go home? Nothing good waited there except the stench of liquor.

I’d stall with Briseis until the next class. We had time to stroll and relax before the stressful tests.

I started writing about my new friend to change the topic, as studying felt like torture.

But before I could, Briseis left. I tried to ask why, but she was already gone. I sighed, alone again with nothing to do but study or read.

I wished someone would stay by my side, not leaving me lonely.

Chapter Text

Right after that, I noticed a strange account sending me a friend request. Excited, I scrolled through their profile.

@AchillesTheGolden

[Hello? If this is your first time on my profile, check out my pinned post before adding me. I’m not free to send friend requests to just anyone

 

oh, and especially you Trojans, if you’re one of them, get lost before I punch a hole through you

 

#TrojanHater; #AHeroWhoWillDefeatHectur; #WombwombAgamemnull]

A quirky bio with some spelling mistakes. It felt like Achilles wrote it in a rush, as if he had something more important to do. I hit the accept button, quietly wondering how Achilles could use such silly words. He was the one who sent me the friend request first, and it felt like his online persona was completely different from who he might be in real life.

My finger scrolled down, and a smile crept onto my face as I saw a photo of Achilles tilting his head toward the camera, wearing sunglasses and smirking confidently while holding a glass of juice. It was the same image he used as his profile picture. He must have heavily edited the colors and lighting because my eyes were drawn to the most beautiful, perfect tones I’d ever seen.

The number of likes on that photo was staggering, and the comment section was an endless stream of unfamiliar usernames praising him, hyping him up like he was a movie star.

Or maybe they were just sucking up to him.

After all, Achilles was the son of a Nereid.

He only followed one person.

Still, this guy seemed like a social media celebrity, with countless strangers flooding his posts, asking the most ridiculous questions.

I was about to turn off my phone to run some errands when it pinged with a notification from the messaging app.

[AchillesTheGolden]

_ Hey? So, we just met, but could you meet me at the nearby park in a bit?

_ Cool, be there early, alright? For the sake of being classmates

The message ended.

No explanation about why I should go to the park. I hesitated, wanting to reply that I had homework to do. But then I imagined Achilles pacing back and forth at this “nearby” park, looking annoyed and cursing me out.

No, I didn’t want him calling me stuck-up. Plus, I’d feel guilty leaving him standing there, thinking I was just temporarily busy when really I was just getting a head start on homework to slack off later in class.

But which park?

There wasn’t even a park near my place.

Please don’t tell me it’s near his house or the school. I hoped it was near the school. If I knew where Achilles lived, I’d be some kind of oracle. I just hoped this blond guy was smart enough to realize I didn’t know his address.

Before I knew it, the afternoon had arrived. I lazily rolled around on my bed, tears streaming from a three-hour nap that still didn’t feel satisfying enough.

If we were meeting outside of school, I’d have to pick a nice, presentable outfit. My wardrobe was full of old clothes from two or three years ago, with only three new outfits I’d bought a few months back that were flashy and perfect.

Oh well. I was too reluctant to wear my new clothes, so I grabbed a thin dress shirt and threw on a long coat to hide the wrinkles at the hem.

As I walked, my eyes scanned the houses, feeling like an idiot for thinking this blond guy lived anywhere near my area. Hah, the most prominent thing around here was an old, rundown apartment building. Finding a truly fancy house would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

No way my wild imagination would come true. I even wondered if the creep who’d been following me before lived here. I bet even the creepiest pervert wouldn’t dare stay in a filthy apartment like that.

I’d walked nearly a kilometer and almost got lost with all the turns and confusing signs. Finally, after weaving through an alley, I spotted a park filled with kids and elderly people chatting.

At the center was a tall, lanky figure sprawled across a bench, one leg crossed over the other. His golden hair spilled onto the ground, carefree, as if he didn’t worry about it getting dirty.

Blond Achilles looked like a giant cat lounging, waiting for its food to be served.

I tried to make some noise, letting out a low hum and lightly stomping my foot.

Achilles had a book covering his face. He lifted it, raised his head, and looked at me. “You’re here. Waiting for you felt like you were standing me up.” His voice was sleepy, and he yawned, sitting up and standing to pat my shoulder lightly.

I didn’t bring a notebook or pencil, so I figured I’d use hand gestures to communicate.

I pointed at Achilles, then made a circular motion with my hand, and pointed at myself while tilting my head.

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?” I sighed inwardly. It was tough when my sign language was so clumsy. Not many people our age bothered learning it, and unfortunately, I couldn’t express myself any other way except through gestures and actions.

I tried again, this time locking eyes with his sea-blue gaze, like the waves of the Aegean. His pink lips curled into a mocking smirk, but I ignored it, feeling more and more drawn into his eyes.

Finally, he let out a sarcastic “Oh.”

“You can’t speak, huh? I get it now. You should’ve texted me about this earlier.” I felt relieved that Achilles finally understood, though his slightly annoying attitude made me want to grimace. This was only our second real meeting, and I didn’t want him to have a bad impression of me.

Wait, why did he ask me to come here?

“You’re wondering why I asked you to meet, right?” I nodded. It felt like Achilles could read my mind.

“Why don’t we become friends? Our homeroom teacher already decided we’ll sit together, and he even said we’ll be paired up for classes,” Achilles said, pulling out a hair tie and fumbling to tie his hair, which reached his waist, as if it was his first time doing it. “Anyway, Mr. Chiron chewed me out for ignoring you, curly-haired dummy.”

My name is Patroclus, and this blond guy kept calling me “curly-haired dummy".

My brows furrowed. Achilles grinned carelessly, somehow managing to tangle a chunk of his hair into a messy knot, which he yanked out without hesitation.

Huh? Growing his hair that long and not knowing how to tie it? He was practically a homeless-looking guy. I deliberately snatched the hair tie before the tall guy in front of me could grab it back.

I puffed out my chest, gently took a strand of Achilles’ long hair, and tugged the hair tie lightly.

Achilles seemed to understand and bent down. He had the advantage of being taller. If I’d been more diligent about eating well and exercising, I might’ve been almost as tall as him.

My fingers carefully gathered Achilles’ hair, making sure not a single strand was left out, focusing intensely to avoid being dazzled by its golden shine.

I braided his hair, styling it to look neat and natural. I gave a thumbs-up, admiring my work. If it weren’t for his masculine face and the dark circles under his eyes, people might mistake him for a grown woman from a distance.

“Whoa, you’re pretty skilled,” Achilles said briefly, stroking his braid. His long lashes fluttered as he blinked, admiring it.

I had to admit, he looked completely relaxed now. His lips curved into a warm, bright smile, and he ran his fingers through his golden hair with fascination, like a child enchanted by a shiny trinket.

I felt like I was looking at a ray of sunshine rather than a person.

I thought I could be both terrified of and captivated by that light, even blindly obsessed with it.

We headed to a nearby fast-food restaurant. I tried to refuse, wanting Achilles to understand that I couldn’t taste food, chewing and swallowing felt pointless. Plus, fast food was greasy, and it just made my nose red like I was allergic. I could smell the oil overwhelming my senses, and oh god, I could even smell body odor lingering in the air.

“Well, for me, this place is like a childhood memory,” Achilles said nostalgically, resting his chin on his hand. “You’re probably not used to the smell… but, uh, you’ve got a disability, right? So you can’t smell anything anyway.”

My anger flared like a wildfire. Being insulted made my mind scream, and I wanted to grab the nearby vase and smash it until his head was bleeding.

I inhaled and exhaled, my fingers brushing the smooth, poorly painted vase.

I always lost control when someone mentioned my disability. I’d always tried to stay calm when anyone implied or outright said I was disabled. It felt like they were mocking me for being weak, like they could exploit my inability to speak and trample my dignity, just like that kid did.

A soft “ting” sounded as the waiter brought out the food.

I didn’t expect Achilles to order so much. His eyes lit up with excitement as he saw the pile of food. He coughed a few times, then split half the portion for me, thoughtfully handing me a fork and knife.

My anger cooled. My portion was noticeably smaller than his. He clearly planned to devour the rest if I wasn’t here.

I picked up a piece of chicken burger coated in oil and sprinkled with sesame seeds.

“Go on, eat it. It’s olive oil, so it’s healthy! They just put a bit too much cheese,” Achilles said, munching on chicken nuggets. He shoved a handful of crispy, greasy fries into his mouth, drowning them in ketchup.

How could this blond guy scarf down an entire portion in two minutes?

I slowly bit into the burger, trying to take a big bite to get the chicken inside.

Hmph. Nothing impressive.

The bread was tough and hard to chew, like eating foam.

It forced me to use both sides of my jaw, chewing hard and fast to avoid choking and spitting it out.

What a terrible day, agreeing to follow this guy just to “bond.”

I struggled to swallow the dry, crumbly bits. Eating just one bite felt like walking through a fiery sea of thorns piercing my feet.

I put the burger down and chugged the glass of water next to me.

Achilles, with mustard and whipped cream on his lips, glanced at me with a hint of disappointment in his eyes.

“Tch, curly-haired dummy. Wasting food isn’t a good trait,” Achilles chuckled, grabbing my burger, opening his mouth wide, and devouring it in one bite.

Suddenly, he started coughing violently, slamming his glass down and pounding his chest. I panicked, realizing he was choking.

He couldn’t speak, probably couldn’t breathe, and stopped coughing, his chest heaving heavily. Worse, his face was turning purple.

Oh my, this idiot picked the emptiest restaurant and managed to choke.

I stood behind Achilles, wrapping my arms around his waist. I took a deep breath. I’d read about the Heimlich maneuver and practiced it at home a few times, but this was my first time doing it on a real person. My hands shook, but I calmed myself, watching sweat drip down his temples.

I made a fist with one hand, placing it just below his upper abdomen. My other hand gripped the fist, pulling inward and upward in a J-shape. I repeated the motion, firm and forceful.

I heard something hit the ground, followed by heavy breathing and a low chuckle.

I sighed in relief as the hamburger flew out, and Achilles’ face regained color. His eyes were frantic, but his mouth grinned like a maniac, muttering, “I’m alive, I’m alive! Man, it's so sick!!”

“Ah…” I made a deliberate sound to get his attention, reminding him who just saved his life. Achilles nodded in thanks, his long nails digging lightly into my arm, causing a slight sting.

My heart raced from saving Achilles from death’s grip. Not the nervous, scared, or excited kind of racing from doing something new.

It was the feeling of being moved.

A strange sense of relief and happiness.

Not bad at all.

Achilles slung his arm around me as we left the restaurant. He rambled on about how it felt to choke and how I saved him.

I think we forgot to pay. But that’s not as bad as the mess Achilles left on the floor.

From then on, Achilles and I grew closer, though communication was still an issue. I tried convincing him to learn sign language, simple gestures we’d use daily, but he insisted he didn’t need to, preferring when I wrote things down.

This blond guy wasn’t actually hateful. Overall, he was kind, his emotions like radiant beams. I had no real reason to dislike him.

“Hey, not gonna share my ice cream?” I shook my head. He’d licked it so much it was dripping with his saliva.

He knew I struggled with food like that but still teased me. He was pretending to be clueless just to mess with me.

Suddenly, Achilles leaned in, and the cold ice cream brushed my cheek. I pushed him away, but his hand grabbed my wrist, gripping so hard I thought I’d bruise.

I flinched when some ice cream dripped onto my new book. Panicked, I wiped it with my sleeve. This book was expensive and precious, practically my life. I hadn’t even opened it, afraid of dirtying the first pages.

“Oops, sorry, sorry. You really love this book, huh?” Achilles gently picked it up, his lips forming an “o” as he felt the wooden cover with its meticulously carved words.

I smiled, writing on a piece of paper to tell him about the book.

‘I went to a book fair with Bee two days ago. We got a lot of books, but this one’s my fav

Though, honestly, Bee bought it for me TT.’

“Someone was dumb enough to spend money on this book just to give it to you? Seriously?” Achilles flipped through the pages, creasing and dirtying them with his ink-stained hands.

I grabbed his wrist. Achilles looked at me wide-eyed, easily pulling away and holding the book high.

Curse my height. I always had to look up to talk to him, and now I felt like my neck would snap from craning. It was like facing a giant, he was using his height to mess with me.

“Who’s ‘Bee’? What a dumb nickname!” He dropped my book, but my reflexes kicked in, and I caught it. If it got damaged, no amount of money could replace it. This blond guy only knew how to scare me.

‘Bee’s my best friend. Her name’s Briseis, the girl who sits near the back of our class.’

“Briseis?” Achilles’ face darkened, his smile fading. He sat down, glancing outside as if worried someone might overhear.

He didn’t seem happy when I mentioned Briseis, almost like it stirred an unpleasant memory.

“Don’t get involved with her,” Achilles said slowly, grabbing my pencil and doodling messily on my notebook. “She’s bad luck. She’ll spread false rumors about you, got it? I was her victim for a while.”

The air grew silent, almost awkward.

“She’s your best friend now, huh? She spent a fortune on that book for you, right? Hah, it’s a trap to control you. Listen to me before things go downhill.” His whisper in my ear carried a bitter, venomous tone, like a snake’s poison.

I didn’t want to believe this. I’d never believe it.

Briseis was my closest and kindest friend. I didn’t want to end our precious friendship over someone I just met. But the way Achilles spoke, it didn’t feel like he was lying or hiding anything.

What the hell was going on?

“Believe what you want, or just pretend I’m high,” Achilles said, taking my hand, rolling my fingers gently, and stroking them. For some reason, I liked how his touch felt on my skin. He lightly squeezed the back of my hand up to my wrist, then poked my cheek.

“It’s Wednesday, right? Are you free on Friday? If you are, come to my place. It’s my birthday, and I’m generously inviting my new curly-haired dummy friend to my family’s lavish party.” He slipped a fancy invitation into my hand, as extravagant as a wedding invite.

I didn’t think the invitation needed a hand-drawn picture of Achilles’ face.

It looked ridiculous and ruined the card’s elegance.

I wished I could shout “God damn” and unleash a string of profanities at this guy. He meant well, but sometimes his mouth begged for a punch to knock his teeth out.

This blond guy always kept me on edge.

And he made me wary of my own best friend.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

I didn’t think I should listen to Achilles. I was certain he wasn’t lying, not even a bit.

Some friends start out great but change over time. Like a double-edged sword, use it wrong, and the other edge will stab you dead.

What if Briseis was that double-edged sword? What if she’d worn many masks?

I found Briseis humming, her eyes glued to her history book. I plopped down beside her, startling her so much she stepped back twice. She quickly recognized me and let out a cheerful laugh.

“You’ll tear my skin on the grass if you sneak up like that again.” Briseis leaned against a tree, chattering about upcoming lessons.

I wasn’t in the mood for her nonsense. Not now, my brain was stretched thin.

I felt like a lab rat, set to go through thrilling, one-of-a-kind experiments, but with horrifying consequences.

I had to ask Briseis. I’d use sign language; I was too cowardly to write it down.

I pointed at her, brought both hands to my chest, and lightly tugged my shirt, creasing the neatly ironed fabric. My brows furrowed, lips pursed, staring into her eyes, trying not to look sad. My heart pounded with nerves and worry.

Briseis was silent for a few minutes, her lips trembling, her face contorting.

“Pat, what are you thinking? That I’m using you?” She exhaled sharply through her nose, her hands shaking, nails scratching the book’s cover.

I tilted my head. I couldn’t trust anyone. I knew they’d be shocked or hurt if I suspected them of bad intentions.

But honestly?

I was terrified of being a puppet in someone else’s play.

I needed the truth more than staying silent and half-doubting forever. I’d rather lose a friend, even if they hated or despised me, than be manipulated by simple words or cunning actions.

“Did you think this up, or did someone tell you?” Briseis gripped my elbow tightly. I tried to gently pry her small fingers off, but she held on, making me wince in pain, nearly tearing up.

“Ah-e…” She let go, and I took a deep breath, my heavy hand picking up a pen to write in my small notebook.

‘Achilles.’

“What?” Her face twisted in disgust. I wondered if they knew each other, they seemed completely unrelated. But her reaction, with stiff shoulders and slightly contracted pupils, made me uneasy about Achilles’ earlier words.

“Fuck it, don’t tell me you talked to him? You’re crazy, you idiot!” Briseis shook my shoulders, her breathing frantic. I patted her back, stroking along her spine, humming a low buzz to calm her.

Did my friend have a problem with Achilles? She was panicking at the mention of his name.

I could tell she was terrified. I feared something awful might have happened to my rosy-cheeked Bee at this school while I was still at my old one.

I gestured for her to calm down, rubbing circles on her back and letting her lean on my shoulder.

“Sorry… I got a bit carried away. It’s been a while since I heard that name,” Briseis sighed, pulling away with slightly flushed cheeks. “I don’t want to explain much. But whatever you do, stay away from him, okay?”

Why should I avoid Achilles? That would be rude, even if I didn’t fully like him. Ignoring someone I just met wasn’t a good idea. I trusted Briseis’ words, but avoiding Achilles as she expected wasn’t something I could do.

Her tone felt more like a command than a request.

I wouldn’t follow any commands. Right or wrong, I knew how to handle my own problems.

I glared at her, gently pushing her away and handing her a small note.

‘See you later. I’ve got stuff to do. Oh, and I’m skipping extra classes.’

She’d probably be disappointed if she knew my thoughts. Oh well, Achilles hadn’t done anything to me yet, right?

Still, I was curious about what happened between Briseis and Achilles. Her reaction suggested they’d clashed before, clearly an unpleasant memory to make her so frantic.

I wouldn’t listen to Achilles either. Rosy-cheeked Bee didn’t seem like the type to start malicious rumors.

Chapter Text

After that day, Briseis and I barely spoke. She would sneak glances at me, her eyes filled with worry, almost fear. I didn’t really want to start a conversation with her either; it felt like we’d had a silent argument. Because of this, I decided not to mention the birthday invitation Achilles had given me.

Still, if she truly hated Achilles that much, I had no reason to tell her. I was only afraid she’d go ballistic and destroy the invitation.

My heart raced with excitement as I secretly held the card in my hand. I hadn’t even opened it yet.

I carefully opened the invitation, making sure not to tear it.

Inside was a yellow note, written in neat, elegant handwriting.

Greetings, you’re invited to the 15th birthday party of Achilles Pelides, the perfect, honorable son of Peleus and the beautiful, intelligent Thetis.

This Friday, oh yes, a glorious day free from homework, school, or teachers. So, I want you at my house by 7 p.m. (8 p.m. at the latest, okay?). We won’t care what the adults think. At my birthday party, we’ll do whatever we want: eat, drink, party wildly with alcohol or weed.

I guarantee there’ll be plenty of food! My garden is big enough for long tables filled with tons of food and drinks.

Feel the dopamine rush as you step into my house, dressed in your best, holding this invitation with my hand-drawn design. My close friends will let you in once they confirm you have the card with my drawing on it.

Alright, see you there. (Oh, and don’t forget a gift. Food’s expensive, you know.)

 

To P, my new friend. We’ll chat and plan my birthday together. Bring a gift that day, and I promise I’ll give you one in return.

(My address is on the back of the card.)

 

                          Sincerely, Achilles.

The invitation ended with a heart and two stars that looked oddly like the meaningless letters 'AA'.

The tone of the words dripped with the typical arrogance and pride of a popular school kid. He even mentioned a wild party, and I wasn’t sure what he meant by “weed.” It sounded like slang for something else.

It felt familiar. I remembered seeing the word “weed” before, hinting at something different.

Ugh, I couldn’t figure it out.

Whatever. After reading the invitation, it was time for me to stay back and clean the classroom. The room was a mess, littered with trash, food scraps, and even an instant noodle container someone had left under a desk, half-eaten. The spicy chili smell hit my nose as soon as I picked it up to throw it away.

Curse those kids at the back. I prayed they’d get digestive issues after scarfing down food like talking pigs and leaving their trash in their own filth.

I went to grab the broom and dustpan, usually kept in the classroom corner for students on cleaning duty, but, by coincidence or not, they were missing.

Don’t tell me I was being pranked again? I hadn’t done anything to them.

The classroom door swung open, startling me. There he was, Achilles, grinning and holding a broom and dustpan.

“Hey, rare to see someone eager to clean up this mess,” Achilles said, tossing the broom toward me. I quickly caught it before it hit me. “Teacher make you do this, or what?” I shook my head, starting to sweep up the crumpled paper balls under the desks.

“Volunteering?” I nodded immediately, glancing at Achilles as he hopped onto the teacher’s desk. He grabbed some markers, doodled on the desk, then wiped it clean like nothing happened.

“You’re still here this late. What a diligent student, huh?” I finished sweeping the trash and looked up to see Achilles lying flat on the teacher’s desk, stretching out lazily, groaning oddly from drowsiness, unbothered by the chance someone might walk by and notice.

But more noticeably, his shoe prints.

His shoes left muddy marks on the floor, reeking of dirt and grass, mixed with a foul smell I didn’t want to think about.

I tossed the broom into the corner. After cleaning up all the trash, I was left with the dirty footprints of that blond idiot.

I wasn’t in the mood to be diligent anymore. I just wanted to wander outside.

Achilles noticed, chuckling as he deliberately rubbed his shoes on the teacher’s chair. I swear to God, was this guy insane? He was clearly trying to get me in trouble!

I put my hand on his shoulder. As he turned to look at me, I flicked his forehead with my finger, a warning for his childish, stupid antics.

I tugged his sleeve, pointed at the door, then looked back at him.

Achilles stared at me, clueless.

Was he slow or just pretending to mess with me?

“What the hell are you trying to say? Write it down, please, curly-haired dummy” he said. I glared at him, grabbing a marker and scribbling quickly on the teacher’s desk. I was too annoyed to pull out my notebook; this was out of frustration, not mischief like Achilles.

“Let’s get out of here. Let’s go outside.”

I pulled Achilles out, making sure to wipe the marker off the desk so no one would see my handwriting. I knew the classroom was dirtier now than before, thanks to Achilles, but screw it. I wasn’t in the mood to clean up someone else’s mess.

Achilles coughed dramatically. I noticed I was gripping his hand tightly, our fingers interlocked, feeling the warmth of each other’s bodies. We stood close, but luckily my short height kept my face far from his.

I wanted to let go. The heat rushing through me from touching Achilles made the evening feel unnaturally warm. But Achilles didn’t let go; he gripped tighter, wearing a loose black jacket, one sleeve slipping off his shoulder, staring at me.

What was he up to now?

“Put your hand in the sleeve. Didn’t you see I took it off for you?” Achilles tapped my head with his free hand. I frowned, found the sleeve, and slipped my hand in.

Now we looked like two weirdos in this empty school. Achilles held my hand, occasionally squeezing it gently. Our bodies pressed closer, and I could hear my heart pounding and his soft breathing.

“Wanna go home?” Achilles asked as he led me out of the school.

Home?

No way.

I didn’t want to go back to that house.

All I knew was that he was throwing one of his wild parties. From what I’d seen before, those parties were filled with men and women lost in a frenzy, high on something.

It was horrific. Coming home after school wasn’t to the familiar sight of my mute mother or our old, worn house with things scavenged from the wild forests. Instead, it was the stench of alcohol, a foul smell, and relentless moaning in a beautiful but cold house.

They even tried to drag me into it. That man, Ryan, years ago, God, he’d suggested I join him in their “fun” while my father was busy talking to some women. He promised me a lot of money if I spent a night with him.

Wasn’t I just seven back then?

Disgusting. The thought fueled the rage I’d buried for years.

I didn’t want to go home. Not now.

“Ow! What the hell? Why’d you pinch me?” Achilles yelped, letting go of my hand to rub his palm.

I realized I’d accidentally squeezed his hand too hard in my anger, pinching his palm. I let out a small laugh, my chest trembling with a soft sound only Achilles, standing so close, could hear.

“Oh my God…” Achilles stammered, his face turning tomato-red at my giggle. He glared at me, but I wasn’t scared or annoyed. He looked like a puffed-up yellow pufferfish, his pride stung.

“Don’t get violent again,” I smirked, playfully stepping on his shoe. But Achilles dodged as if he’d predicted it, nearly causing me to crash into a lamppost. He watched me rub my head, where I’d almost gotten a concussion.

“Hold my hand,” he said, his golden hair hiding his handsome face, swaying in the breeze, making my heart race harder. His lips trembled, trying not to smile. “You deaf or what? Give me your hand.” He grabbed my hand, interlocking our fingers, his thumb gently brushing the back of my hand, pausing at a callus on my finger.

I looked up at him. My heart pounded with the image of him, the closeness between us, undefined by anything else.

We’d only just met, but it felt like we’d been close for months.

“You’re so skinny, yet your hands are so callused? Been doing hard labor or something?” I pursed my lips, thinking of the years I’d spent scrubbing floors, washing dishes, and doing every chore single-handedly.

I didn’t know how I’d endured it without complaining.

I looked up at the night sky, covered in darkness, with only tiny twinkling stars and a crescent moon as light. I wished it were a full moon. The crescent seemed ready to kill me if I made a grave mistake. A full moon, though, would love me in its own way, no matter how ugly or disgusting I felt.

I bit my lip, holding back tears.

Achilles noticed my trembling shoulders. He pulled me closer, whistling softly to keep the silence from being overtaken by sadness.

“The moon making you cry? Want me to yell at it for you?” Achilles opened his mouth wide, pretending to shout. I smiled, wiping away tears, amused by his squinted eyes, feigning anger. His expression was so real it could’ve landed him in Hollywood.

“Ah!” I pointed at the moon. Achilles’s eyes widened, and he grinned, ruffling my hair like I was a toddler learning to speak.

All I could manage was “Ah.” If I could, I’d have screamed at the moon to let it all out.

It was getting late. We’d been messing around like delinquents, and I’d be in trouble if I got home too late. I was still haunted by the fear of being followed.

I tapped Achilles’s shoulder to get his attention. I slipped out of his jacket and grip, stepping back.

“What are you doing now?” he asked.

I hid in a shadowed corner, moving silently, then crouched behind a bench. I stood under a streetlight, pointing to the spots I’d just been, running in place with a fake panicked expression, breathing heavily.

I looked up, expecting Achilles wouldn’t get it and I’d have to repeat myself.

Surprisingly, his face was tense. I tilted my head, meeting his eyes. He looked annoyed, clicking his tongue and glancing away, avoiding my gaze.

I shook his shoulder, stomping to make noise.

He grabbed my arm, his grip so tight it hurt, almost lifting me off the ground. I had to stand on my toes to avoid being fully hoisted.

“I get it this time,” Achilles said, loosening his grip. I stumbled, grabbing his jacket to steady myself. “You’re being followed, right?”

I was shocked Achilles had caught on so quickly. I felt both relieved and anxious that someone finally understood the creepy situation I’d been dealing with.

“Scared of being tailed again? Wanna go home?” I nodded frantically. Achilles rubbed his chin, then took off his black jacket and draped it over my shoulders.

“Wear it. It’s got ‘Pelides’ written big on the back. No creep will dare get too close,” he said. I held the jacket, marveling at the glowing “Pelides” text in the dark, impressed by its bold design and size.

I clutched the jacket to my chest, my hands no longer cold. Achilles’s warmth lingered in the fabric.

“Alright, I gotta head home. It’s late! My birthday’s tomorrow night, so come early, okay, kiddo?” He ran off, tripping over his words in his rush.

Wasn’t he heading toward that old apartment complex? Weird, since that was my route too. We’d been so caught up stargazing we hadn’t noticed where we were.

Hmph, that yellow pufferfish. Always rushing off. Earlier, when he realized I was talking about being followed, his face went pale, and his eyes darted around nervously.

And now he just left me with his jacket? I hugged it tightly, annoyed, as the wind blew, reminding me I hadn’t showered since the afternoon, and I probably smelled awful.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

I stood in front of the mirror, my heart pounding. I’d woken up early to iron my shirt and wait for the delivery of the blazer I’d ordered two days ago. My hands trembled as I held the package, imagining walking into the Pelides’ house, facing dozens of familiar and unfamiliar faces staring at me, a nightmare.

I paced my room, avoiding the living room where my father was. For some reason, he’d decided to stay home today, making it nearly impossible for me to leave for the party at 7 p.m.

I didn’t want to ignore Achilles’s personal invitation, but with the situation escalating, I had no choice but to go.

Looking in the mirror, I rolled up my shirt sleeves, trying to hide my scrawny frame with a jacket. Staring at my short, skinny body, I wished I could start over from the beginning. I’d eaten so little over the past eight years; “scrawny” and “short” were words made for me. It had taken so much effort to grow even a little, yet I was still shorter than my peers.

I was terrified people at the party would mock my appearance.

Wait, I had platform shoes! I dug out a pair of black shoes with 5cm lifts from my closet. They fit perfectly, making me noticeably taller.

My sadness faded a bit. From 5’5” to 5’7” with a single step. If I really had this height, I’d only be seen as skinny, not short, a tall, lanky kid in others’ eyes.

My phone rang. I glanced at an unknown number. Feeling uneasy, I didn’t pick up. My contacts only had Briseis’s number, so I considered blocking the stranger.

I peeked from the stairs, seeing my father glued to the TV. I returned to my room, glancing at my window.

Gods, no way I was jumping out. This was the second floor, with sharp fences below. I knew the danger, my old cat had been thrown down there by my father, hitting the spikes and dying instantly.

I might not die, but getting injured and bleeding would make things worse.

I paced, thinking of ways to sneak out without him noticing. If I got caught, he’d lock me in my room, and the punishment? I didn’t even want to know.

Sighing, I put on my usual hoodie and crept downstairs, planning to bolt before he noticed.

“Stop,” he said. My shoulders stiffened as I turned to see his scruffy, wrinkled face. “Where are you sneaking off to this late? Don’t think I’m blind! Get back to your room!” I shook my head, giving him a pleading look, rubbing my stomach to signal hunger.

It was a bit stupid, but I hoped he’d buy that I was starving and needed to hit the convenience store.

He eyed me suspiciously, lit a cigarette, and waved me off.

A small victory. I should’ve been relieved he didn’t yell like before, but something felt off. I wasn’t happy about it.

I ditched my hoodie, stuffing it into our mailbox. It barely fit, sticking out unattractively.

I held the invitation, rereading the address in my head.

It was freezing, and this damn neighborhood had barely any streetlights. The few that worked years ago now flickered, unrepaired for months.

It took me 30 minutes to find the Pelides’ house.

The area was livelier than I expected, with people staying up late, lights flashing, music blaring, and even a girl’s excited scream.

I lurked nearby like a thief, too shy to walk up and show my invitation like everyone else. They arrived in pairs or groups, some older teens talking loudly like grown men.

They chatted with a tall, muscular guy at the door and another my height but less scrawny. The shorter one counted invitations casually, sipping juice.

Speaking of juice, my throat was parched. I didn’t know how long I’d stand there, waiting for a chance to slip in unnoticed, but I overheard some intriguing and worrying conversations.

“Guess if she’s coming this year?”

“Who? Skyrianos?”

“No, the ‘honeybee with Trojan blood.’ Don’t tell me you forgot? That’s still the hot topic.”

“Yeah… probably not. If I were her, I wouldn’t show up to a party thrown by that monster and his crew.”

“Right? I heard the Myrmidon leader’s got a new target. Supposedly another Trojan relative.”

“Nghh, bad luck.”

The conversation was drowned out by music. The teens clinked glasses, drinking dark red liquid. Their faces flushed, eyes glazed over.

It seemed like all they had was alcohol. Were these teens so reckless they didn’t fear their parents’ punishment? I shuddered at the thought of this party. Some girls even started undressing, claiming it was a “special gift” for Achilles’s birthday.

I'm leaving.

Disgusting, depraved, revolting.

I had to get out of this pointless birthday party.

I turned, my heart stopping as Achilles’s face loomed close. He wore a refined gray-blue suit, like a pale ocean, his hair tied neatly with a pufferfish-shaped clip.

“Come with me,” Achilles said, grabbing my hand and leading me into the blinding lights. “They’re all high on weed. Stick with me, and nothing bad will happen, babe.” I blushed. Achilles called me “babe” in a sappy yet gentle way, like we were lovers.

I followed him, unnoticed by the drunk and high crowd as we slipped through like shadows.

I wrinkled my nose, annoyed at the alcohol stench on Achilles.

God, this drunk guy was dragging me through this huge house? I dug my nails into his palm, irritated by his goofy laugh.

He pulled me into an empty hallway, finally letting go. I rubbed my sore wrist, glaring at him. Was he filming a movie or something? Did he think this was meaningful when it only made me like him less?

“They’re too loud out there. I don’t want our private time ruined by them,” he said. My insides churned, my breath quickening as dark thoughts took over.

My heart screamed, half in fear, half in excitement. I bit my lip, the minty scent of his hair making my body react instinctively.

Achilles lightly touched my lips, his fingers grazing my lower lip, then my chin and neck. His touch was gentle, pleasant, not predatory. It felt like how lovers show affection.

“Your face is so pale. A few more minutes out there, and you’d either puke from the smell or faint.” I nudged his shoulder. He rolled his eyes as our noses nearly touched.

I pulled away, feeling both relieved and weighed down, a stone in my chest.

Achilles’s eyes showed disappointment and frustration. I must’ve pushed him too hard. I gave an awkward smile, flashing my teeth to apologize.

“No food or drinks here. Wanna enjoy some, cutie?” I decided not to be mad at Achilles. He was drunk, probably forgetting I struggled with eating. Smelling the food was polite enough.

This blond idiot was ridiculous, dragging me here just to suggest going back to the party to eat.

Achilles rambled about his birthday, listing the dishes his mom had ordered for his friends. I wondered if she knew he was drinking underage or inviting so many people. Maybe their parents knew his mom, so they could party so freely.

“My birthdays always welcome new people, haha. Patroclus, what if I introduced you to everyone?”

I groaned, confused by his words. He walked faster, his giant strides echoing in the vast hallway. The music pounded in my ears, my heart racing from the noise.

“Patroclus, hurry up!” I flinched at how he said my name. It was the first time he’d called me Patroclus instead of “curly-haired dummy.” But why did it feel sarcastic?

He dragged me to a table loaded with wine glasses, decorated with roses and a gold-striped tablecloth. Achilles handed me a glass of wine, looking at me expectantly.

I hesitated, knowing he wanted me to drink. I’d never had alcohol before, and his eagerness made me uneasy. I feared getting drunk, vomiting, and not finding my way home. That’d be real trouble.

Glancing at Achilles, his excited smile made me waver.

It’s fine. Just one sip won’t hurt. I slowly drank the dark red liquid, swallowing it down. The sharp, burning taste warmed my stomach, making me dizzy. The warmth clouded my mind, strange and intoxicating.

I don’t remember much after that, only Achilles cheering. His hand rested on my waist, briefly sliding lower but stopping as he spoke to someone.

He introduced me to his friend, who seemed kind and friendly, obsessed with talking about Achilles. He rambled about Achilles’s great deeds, too much for me to process.

What was his name? Atty? No, Antil… Antilochus!

He was handsome, similar to Achilles but less dazzling. Achilles was radiant; Antilochus was just above average.

I breathed through my mouth, my nose stuffy and uncomfortable.

I watched Antilochus shove a piece of ribs in his mouth, his face as red as the others’. His eyes were glued to Achilles, who was dancing with a girl, swaying to the music.

“The party host is too caught up with the ladies, forgetting to serve drinks and food to the guys,” Antilochus said, downing his wine and hiccuping. He stared at my face. “You look like a roe deer… Has he called you that? Roe Deer?” I shook my head. Achilles only used that silly nickname about my hair, not “Roe Deer.”

“Weird. He said you’re his Innocent Roe Deer, didn’t he? Hmm, just wait. He’ll call you that soon!” Antilochus slapped my shoulder hard. I rubbed it, wincing but smiling to avoid awkwardness. Suddenly, he pushed me, sending me crashing into the people in front.

I struggled to get up, the flashing lights blinding me. I barely avoided getting stepped on by high heels. As I stood, I met sharp eyes like daggers. Achilles’s neatly tied hair was now loose, slightly wet at the ends.

He kissed the hand of the girl he was with, making her blush. The guys whistled, some teasing, but everyone admired him.

He looked at me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me to the center where his friends’ gifts were piled. I panicked as his left hand gripped my waist tightly. He stood tall, facing his friends, who gathered to watch us. Whispers spread, talking about me, but I was too drunk, trembling and hot, to hear clearly.

Something bad was coming.

“Look who’s with me!” Achilles suddenly kissed my cheek. I froze, humiliated, unable to move. We weren’t even anything to each other. What was this blond jerk doing?

“Hey, Innocent Roe Deer!” a tall guy called, the muscular one from the entrance. He winked at Achilles, who giggled mischievously.

“Ajax, perfect timing!” Achilles grinned, scanning the crowd, pausing at a group of teens talking about me, their eyes fixed on me.

“Let me introduce Patroclus, my Innocent Roe Deer!” Achilles pulled me closer, his arms tight around my waist. I clawed at his hands, my heart racing, sensing something terrible. The guy in front of me was now infuriatingly hateable. The more I struggled, the tighter he held.

Achilles kissed my neck lightly. I stomped hard on his foot. He yelped but held me even closer, our bodies pressed together. I felt something warm below but didn’t dare think about it.

He yanked off my jacket, cruelly stepping on it, smirking like it was a harmless prank.

Bitch, who do you think you fucking are?

I swallowed my rage, ready to break free, when Achilles touched my lips. Not his hand, a juicy piece of grilled lamb, dripping grease onto my lips.

“Come on, prime lamb, Patroclus! Eat it! Open your mouth, say ‘Ah’!” He pressed the meat against my cheek, smearing sauce all over my lips.

God, why was it so spicy? The mustard’s sharp smell stung my nose, making my eyes water. I tried wiping them, but the spice overwhelmed me, tears streaming down.

I looked like I was crying. Some tried to take photos, but Achilles’s body blocked me.

“What? Not eating this delicious meat?” Achilles bit into it, chewing messily, then spat onto my shoes. The crowd roared with laughter, calling me all sorts of weird names.

He grabbed my chin, forcing my mouth open. I planned to bite his finger off if he tried anything, but he anticipated it, gripping my jaw tightly.

He forced my mouth open.

In front of classmates, schoolmates, and older guys.

No, no way…

My mouth had no tongue, just a flat, empty space. Saliva dripped down my chin, unstoppable. Everything I’d buried was being exposed without my consent. A pained, choked, angry sound escaped my throat.

Why had I chosen to come here? Why had I trusted this bastard?

He froze, staring at the scar inside my mouth in disbelief.

I’d been humiliated.

And the one who did it was someone I’d almost thought I had feelings for.

Just a filthy jerk.

My body burned, ears ringing uncontrollably. I don’t know where I found the strength, but I broke free and punched Achilles square in the eye.

Panting, chest heaving, my small, scrawny body pinned him down, pummeling his sweaty, perfect face. My nails scratched his forehead, drawing blood. I hit so hard one of his eyes bruised, his lip split.

I pounded his chest, hearing a crack of bone. I froze, seeing Achilles groan in pain, hands shielding his ruined face, hair torn from my yanking. He looked like a terrified animal, whimpering incoherently from the shock I’d caused.

I stared at my bruised knuckles, my palms red with his blood.

Not my blood.

What had I done? I’d beaten Achilles Pelides?

He was still breathing.

His chest rose and fell. His friends rushed to help him, some calling for his mom.

I didn’t want trouble.

I didn’t want to be labeled a killer and dragged into some room.

I didn’t want to be locked in any room.

I bolted. Some tried to block me at the door, grabbing for my wrists, but I kicked them hard between the legs and ran into the night.

I wished I hadn’t been so naive.

I’d become a thorn in their eyes.

A dangerous thorn that needed to be plucked from their beautiful garden.

I stopped in an alley, checking behind me to ensure no one followed. My stomach growled, my vision blurred.

I touched my face, realizing it was wet with tears and sweat.

Chapter Text

Achilles could hardly believe it. He touched his forehead, wincing as he felt a trickle of blood. A few friends helped him up as the party descended into chaos, all because of one person who ruined the mood for everyone. The lavish banquet tables were left abandoned, marked only by dirty footprints and pools of vomit.

"Ugh..." Achilles groaned, covering his bruised eyes. His body and arms ached, and he couldn't even stand without his cousin's help. His strength was drained, his head spinning, unable to think about the birthday party that had been cut short.

He had been humiliated, beaten by that mute, pathetic boy. Some people even recorded it, snapping photos and videos. Achilles saw it all, but the force and strength of Patroclus left him unable to lash out at the curious onlookers. A scrawny, small kid had pinned him down, pummeling him with wordless fists as he lay helpless on the floor.

He was certain he could have fought back easily. But what was this? Seeing Patroclus's tears fall made his heart clench painfully, as if someone were slicing into it. He had opened his mouth to offer comfort, reaching to wipe the tears from that boy's cheeks. But before he could lift his hand, a punch to the face forced him to spit saliva. One, two, three, four, five punches. He wasn't sure if there was a sixth, but by the third, his senses were fading. And God, because Patroclus was smaller and shorter, instead of slamming Achilles against a wall, he pinned him to the ground.

Patroclus had pressed his foot between Achilles' legs, dangerously close, wearing platform shoes that made Achilles scream before the punches even landed. It was awful, and the pain still lingered, leaving Achilles pale as a corpse. He prayed that only his handsome face was injured. He didn't want anything worse happening down there, he swore to God.

"You okay?" his cousin Ajax, who had been supporting him, asked. Achilles stared at the tables littered with spilled food, wine, and missing bottles.

Those damn potheads. He cursed them, hoping they'd lose their minds if they ever touched harder drugs.

He didn’t dare call his mother to clean up this mess. She would do it without complaint, of course, she loved him more than his father did. But she wouldn't like smelling alcohol on her son, nor would she appreciate finding dried marijuana under the tables. Worse, his battered face couldn’t be brushed off as nothing. She’d lose it seeing blood on his forehead. If she found out who did this, God help him, Achilles lost count of how many times he'd invoked the Lord.

She couldn’t do anything to Patroclus directly, but she’d make sure to humiliate him. Her obsessive love for Achilles sometimes spiraled out of control, indulging his every whim. Sometimes, she acted even when he didn’t ask. As a high-ranking officer, with his father running the family corporation, she’d investigate on her own. Achilles thought that was cool, but her secretive, lone-wolf investigations, hidden even from her team, unsettled him. Even he, privy to her cases, knew nothing of her current pursuits.

He hoped this year and next would bring no more trouble. That was his desperate prayer.

"I’m fine... ugh, let’s clean this up, cousin. They trashed the place like kids who can’t hold their crap." Achilles angrily kicked a chair aside, then picked it up and shoved it against the wall. Ajax, the burly one, started clearing the heavy tables, tossing greasy, wine-soaked tablecloths. Shattered glass from a broken bottle forced them to tread carefully.

"Shit, I’m exhausted!" Achilles slumped onto the grass, eyeing the cold, untouched plates of food, including an ignored salad. Just moving chairs and bagging leftovers made his head throb, likely from the gash on his forehead and his aching eyes.

"Take a break, kid. Too much booze and getting punched by a mute kid will wear you out," Ajax said. Achilles shot him a glare, flipping him off, only to wince as his wrist ached like it was sprained.

"Sounds like you’re insulting both me and that kid!" Achilles grumbled, lying flat on the ground.

"Nah, just the mute kid," Ajax lied. It was clear he was mocking both, but at least he leaned harder on Patroclus. Good enough.

"But, are you and that kid... you know, a thing?" Oh, they’d stumbled into dangerous territory now, dripping with sarcasm.

"No way! Definitely not. I’m not into guys like him, cousin. How could I like someone without a tongue to kiss, always flailing their hands with weird gestures? Anyone who falls for that is a total nutcase, Ajax." They both burst out laughing, pitying whatever poor soul might fall for a tongueless boy.

"Was it like that ‘Pink-Cheeked Bee’ thing? Brutal, man."

"No, no, I swear. This time, Atreides was too drunk to notice the special guest... and it’s a guy, so he wouldn’t care anyway." Achilles pulled out his phone, scrolling through his gallery until he stopped at a dark nighttime photo, looking more like a horror movie still. It showed a shadowy figure running, nearly tripping, clutching something.

"Photoshop or AI?" Ajax glanced at it, the image too murky to tell if it was edited, generated, or stolen from some horror flick teaser.

"Doesn’t matter." Achilles shrugged, hesitating to delete it, sensing something off about the photo.

"I was gonna lure him to a hotel... you know, adult stuff? But I didn’t want to be called a rapist, and I’m not ready for that anyway. That’s why he was the guest, cousin, and why I’ve got these bruises." Achilles pointed to his eyes and cheeks, his expression a mix of pain and anger. "At least he wasn’t assaulted, and he’s not spreading lies about me, so this’ll blow over. Hardly anyone knows he’s disabled. He’s not popular, just decent at a few subjects." Achilles wasn’t sure if he was talking to Ajax or himself, twirling a lock of his curly hair.

"But he’s disabled. Don’t you get that people are super protective of folks like him now?" Ajax nearly shouted, incredulous that his handsome, talented cousin could be so reckless with his words.

"You’re gonna get in trouble, kid. Come up with some excuse to shift the focus onto that mute kid." Ajax was right, but what rumor could Achilles spread to pin the blame on Patroclus? It was harder than the Briseis and Agamemnon mess.

"Oh, what if he’s gay? I’ve seen guys coming and going from his house every few days. Sometimes women, too—young, old, pretty, ugly, you name it." Achilles perked up, eyes gleaming as he paced excitedly. "I know where he lives! Like I said, tons of people go in and out, and they leave staggering. One girl went in all dolled up, skimpy clothes, heavy makeup, but came out dressed modestly, makeup smeared. Man, why didn’t I think of this? I could camp out nearby, snap some photos, maybe edit them a bit to stir up suspicion, right?"

"You know where he lives?" Ajax asked.

"Yeah. I’ve been crashing elsewhere for two weeks. Didn’t you notice?"

"Who’s got time to track a milk-mouthed kid like you? But that’s a solid plan. Drug gangs these days even use minors."

"Even a short, mute kid!" Achilles sang, gleeful at the thought of the internet freaking out over a disabled teen tied to a drug ring in his own home.

It’d be epic, Achilles thought, picturing himself as a vigilante exposing that not all disabled people are helpless or innocent. Under that lamb’s skin could lurk a dark, depraved wolf.

"Where’s Teucer? Didn’t he promise to stay and help clean?" His other cousin, who swore he’d stick around no matter how much weed or booze he had, was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t even given Achilles a gift.

"Playing Romeo and Juliet with Eune. Forget that 4.0 archer." Why were his cousins so weird? Achilles smirked, proud that, despite being the youngest, he was the brightest and most handsome of the trio.

Enough self-praise. He was about to head inside to crash on the sofa, figuring he could rest before returning to his rundown apartment.

But then, footsteps echoed from the stairs, soft, almost silent, but unmistakable to Achilles.

"Achilles?" His mother’s gentle voice called from behind. He knew it was her but still jumped, tumbling off the sofa. The lingering alcohol made the fall throb in his head.

"Mom, don’t sneak up on me like that!" he grumbled, scooting to the edge of the sofa as Thetis sat in the center. He really didn’t want her here, craving some alone time in the house he hadn’t visited in ages.

He needed his cousin’s help, no question. Glancing outside, he saw no one, just neatly stacked tables and chairs on a trampled lawn.

It felt like a horror movie, with Achilles as the idiot protagonist.

He tried to dodge her, but her claw-like nails gripped his shoulder, squeezing so hard he was sure it’d bruise soon.

"Where have you been for two weeks? Don’t lie and say you were at your uncle’s. He’s been on a business trip for a month." Thetis couldn’t fathom her son’s actions. The boy kept vanishing, forcing her to monitor him after long shifts at headquarters. She’d sworn to her subordinates, even her wretched husband, that she couldn’t stop watching over her son.

For over a week, she’d been living at headquarters, sleeping and eating there, writing endless reports for her superiors. She’d reviewed countless documents, her eyes nearly giving out. This case was no joke, Athens was plagued by missing teens, mostly girls aged 12 to 17, and a few boys from prominent families with ties to the government or retired officers.

It was a tangled mess.

Worse, some missing teens were now victims, found dead, brutally beaten, and assaulted. The cases echoed old horrors: rape, dismemberment, and traces of semen, blood, and waste. Thetis had lost sleep over the gruesome crime scene photos and videos, showing acts reminiscent of infamous serial killers.

Savages, she cursed during her brief breaks. Even her dreams were haunted by crime scenes and screams, hundreds, maybe thousands.

She’d nicknamed the case Opuntians's Lord , after the bodies found near Opus, where locals called themselves Opuntians. Her team prioritized questioning them, but no one knew the victims. The trail was going cold.

There was talk of a man nearing 40, living in a grand house, elusive and shadowy. They called him “The Titan” for his large, imposing frame, not obese, but intimidating. Thetis was curious about his home but found only a nonexistent address leading to a foul place reeking of animal carcasses and waste. Her team stopped short at a dark, narrow passage filled with filth.

She wanted to scold her subordinates but couldn’t, they were all exhausted, sleeping four hours at most. At least she was home now, though “rest” meant catching up on sleep and health while reviewing suspects and their haunts.

No day off, ever.

She hadn’t even known where her son was until Peleus called.

That foolish Golden boy. He didn’t realize the danger lurking near his usual spots.

He’d just turned 15 today, his birthday. The same age as many of the missing victims. Her son was reckless, thinking his inherited height and some boxing skills made him invincible.

Learning to box from his beloved foster father didn’t make him a crime lord.

"You know it’s dangerous out there, right, Golden? Don’t tell me you’re playing homeless." She got an annoyed frown in return as Achilles brushed her hand off and pouted.

"Mom, I’m grown. I’m not the dumb seven-year-old you think I am." Achilles snapped, wanting to stay calm but hating how she looked at him like he was on death’s door. It was creepy, especially since she handled gruesome cases as a high-ranking officer.

She probably imagined him chopped up, stuffed in a suitcase, or dumped in some desolate place. Worse, she treated him like a Golden Retriever. What kind of mother compared her son to a dog?

"I’m fine. Don’t come back from your headquarters and start imagining crazy stuff. I’ve got muscles." A little, but better than nothing. He smirked as her beautiful face twisted in worry.

"Two weeks, Achilles! That’s enough time for—"

"Mom, stop! I’m completely FINE!" Achilles shouted, silencing the house. The crickets and wind outside fell quiet, as if swallowed by some force.

"Can you stop talking about that horrifying stuff? I’ve had enough! I don’t need your warnings in every language!" Achilles panted, the alcohol’s haze gone. He stood steady, pointing at her face for the first time.

He wouldn’t regret this. He was done being treated like a kid. He was sick of her insisting the world was full of monsters who’d do anything for their own gain.

Like Jeffery Dahmer or The Night Stalker? This was Europe, Greece. Achilles scoffed. The real monsters were ordinary strangers he’d never met.

And no way was there some Satanic cult or ancient extremist rituals.

"Scared of a serial killer? A cult? Human trafficking? Ha! Keep believing that, Mom. Maybe one day someone you know will be tied to it, and you’ll be thrilled!" Achilles stomped, turning away from her. He was sober enough not to drag his family or father into this. He’d heard whispers of the missing teens but guessed his mother was jumping to conclusions without solid proof.

She was brilliant to others, flawless in her work. But to him, she was a control freak, obsessed with keeping him in a safe bubble.

He wanted to go back to his dingy apartment, to peace.

Anxiety hit him, his heart racing, head pounding like it was struck by a hammer.

Outside, rain began to fall, from light drizzle to heavy drops. A storm from elsewhere had reached them.

Achilles hesitated, reaching for the door, but Thetis pulled him back inside.

"Mom!" He started to protest, but her pleading, desperate face, lined with worry, stopped him. Her forehead and sharp cheekbones seemed etched with countless wrinkles.

His shoulders relaxed, a sigh escaping his chest.

"Go to bed. I’ll clean this up, sweetheart." There was no deceit in her words.

She’d never lied to him, though her truths were hard to believe.

She kissed his cheek before leaving. Achilles fled to his room like a rabbit burrowing, curling up under the blankets in a tight corner. He let out soft sobs, breathing heavily, biting his inner cheek until it ached.

He thought he was good at bottling his emotions.

Now, alone, he couldn’t keep up the angry facade.

This was supposed to be a happy day after humiliating that mute kid.

Instead, he felt worse than ever, like something bad was coming. Maybe his mother’s fears were rubbing off on him.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Going home humiliated was the worst feeling. After that wretched party, that golden-haired jerk pushed me past my breaking point. My emotions erupted, tears streaming as my fists pounded Achilles’ face, chest, anywhere I could reach.

I didn’t know what consequences awaited me the next day. But I felt no joy in beating down an arrogant, egotistical guy like him.

He hadn’t done anything too awful to my body... had he?

No.

He’d insulted me in front of our classmates and strangers from other schools at his birthday party. They made me the center of attention, especially when I pinned Achilles down, drove my knee into his thighs, and punched until my hands ached.

I’d heard them mention Pink-Cheeked Bee. If I’d been drunk, I wouldn’t have known who that was. But I did. There was only one person we called “Bee.” I called her that too.

She seemed to be another of Achilles’ victims. I recalled Antilochus’ mocking laugh when he mentioned “Bee,” even crueler than when he called me “Innocent Roe Deer.”

Should I meet her? Maybe I should.

I wasn’t a perfect friend like she was, but I could do something. I wanted to know what happened.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

[Lorkian]

_ Pink-Cheeked Bee, hi. It’s been a while since we texted. We haven’t had lunch or gone to the library together in days. If you’re free, can we meet at our favorite table tomorrow at noon? I need to talk to you. Don’t worry if you’re busy, it’s okay to skip.

It had been a while since she’d seen her gentle, doe-eyed friend. She’d almost forgotten him after noticing his recent sharpness.

Because of that vile jerk? Briseis gave a weak smile. How pathetic, she couldn’t even speak kindly to her best friend, causing misunderstandings. She’d been too cowardly to face Patroclus.

She’d imagined Patroclus writing in his notebook, praising that butcher like a savior. Horrifying, she couldn’t tear her eyes out. She’d never seen Patroclus with Achilles, but the thought alone made her want to stab him.

She’d seen the clip.

It was posted minutes before his message.

She wasn’t surprised she wasn’t invited to Thetis’ son’s birthday. Last year, she was the special guest; now, she was just a faded shadow, mentioned only when this event rolled around.

Better that way.

She didn’t want to see anyone from that party.

She wondered what happened this time. The clip’s outcome was both awful and oddly satisfying.

Her best friend had pummeled that butcher’s face without mercy, so fast and hard Achilles couldn’t fight back. He trembled, whimpering in pain.

The audio was clear and loud.

The whispers, cheers, and shouts were familiar in such scenes.

But she only noticed Patroclus’ sobs. It was the first time she’d heard him cry. Despite his fierce, decisive actions, his face was etched with sorrow, chest heaving, mouth gasping. Tears soaked his eyelids, keeping his eyes half-closed.

She saw herself in Patroclus. The difference was he fought back, tears streaming, while she had curled up in a corner, her dress torn, acting and speaking like a madwoman.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t want to think about last year.

Lucky for her dear friend, he was the first to punch Pelides’ face.

Unlucky, too, for crying over that bastard.

She didn’t want Patroclus seeing the cruel comments on reposted clips. She hoped he’d never know they existed. It’d be a terrible day if he read what they said about his inability to speak.

She blocked those posters and reported their accounts and videos. At least her homepage wouldn’t suggest them.

She hoped the clips would fade into obscurity.

Tomorrow, she’d see Patroclus. She reminded herself to check on his hands and knees.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

I wasn’t sure if she’d meet me. I sat at the cafeteria table, reading frantically like a weirdo. Glancing around, I saw the students thinning out, with no sign of Briseis.

I figured waiting was better. I couldn’t leave after being the one to ask her here.

A noise startled me, and I dropped my book. Briseis was across from me, smiling awkwardly, wearing glasses. She looked different, though her style hadn’t changed.

"Pat, long time no see, huh?" Briseis said, almost whispering.

I pulled out my notebook and pencil, writing carefully to make my point clear without rambling. I wrote until the pencil lead nearly broke.

I stopped and slid the notebook to her.

Briseis read, her face growing uneasy, muttering something. She seemed to hold her breath. When she set the notebook down, she looked angry, furious. I knew why.

"He invited you out... and gave you his jacket?" I nodded, showing her a black jacket with “Pelides” written on it from my bag.

She glared at it. Of course. She hated Achilles, so the name wasn’t spared.

"Throw it out, Pat. Get rid of it quick." I nodded, planning to toss it after school. I didn’t want it bringing bad luck or memories.

"You really trusted an invitation from him? I get it. He always acts charming, sometimes mysterious, so no one knows if his intentions are good or bad," Briseis said, chewing salad, rolling her eyes. "No one in this school gets him. Even his best friend avoids him sometimes because of his impulsive nature. If he’s suddenly sweet, friendly, or flirty with a stranger, like you, it’s an obvious trap."

"Everyone sees it. Only the naive, trusting, or those dazzled by his looks fall for it." Briseis ran her hands through her hair, glancing at her bruised knuckles. Her eyes glistened with tears, like a sister grieving for a beloved sibling.

I wasn’t sure if I fit her description. She wasn’t talking about me, her tone was self-mocking.

But I wasn’t naive enough to fall for love or beauty like that.

It was just... his warmth felt like the sun after a harsh winter.

Like spring had arrived.

But spring was just a stage. The warmth, actions, and words were all fake.

I thought I’d found a safe place.

It was a tiger’s den.

I fought that tiger, but I didn’t feel pain from its wounds.

Yet I couldn’t smile. My lips trembled, as if I’d grimace and cry.

"Pat? You okay?" Briseis tilted her head, reaching for my sleeve. I pulled back before she could touch me, knowing it was rude. I didn’t want anyone touching me right now. She looked guilty and sad, but it wasn’t her fault.

We were both innocent, dragged into a messy story.

I took a deep breath, rubbing my chest.

I touched my lips, opened my hand, rotated my wrist toward Briseis, and pointed at her mouth.

She pursed her lips, let out an “oh,” and said, "You want to know what really happened with me and Pelides?" She hesitated, pinching her skin. I saw her tension and started to tell her she didn’t have to, but she spoke first.

"Okay..." Her voice dropped, shoulders hunching as she leaned over the table, whispering so only I could hear.

My heart jumped as her story grew darker.

They exploited her kindness.

She trembled, her voice rushed, words repeating, stumbling over themselves.

Then Briseis wailed.

They’d burned her long hair. They stole a keepsake from her late brother.

She wasn’t recognized as Achilles Pelides’ girlfriend.

She was a nobody when people said Achilles was betrothed to Lycomedes’ daughter from Skyros. They weren’t 18 yet, but everyone saw them as a passionate couple.

Briseis was beautiful, loved for her looks, not her kindness or enthusiasm. Some mocked her beauty mercilessly.

She didn’t cry, she was too strong for that. But she was too weak to stand up for herself.

Then, things got worse.

Pelides’ 14th birthday party began. She was the special guest, walking with the host.

But she was drugged without realizing.

She mentioned Atreides, the notorious, powerful Achaean, talking to her. I didn’t recall details but had a bad feeling about him from others’ stories.

Briseis said she couldn’t think straight, her head splitting, unable to process anything. When she woke, her shirt and bra were gone, leaving only her skirt and underwear to cling to some dignity.

Atreides lay beside her, shirtless, with scratches on his face, passed out. She couldn’t remember what happened. As she tried to dress, the door burst open. A tall girl with dark hair, light makeup, and sharp eyeliner, holding a baseball bat, screamed at her. Strangers entered, whispering, some recording, saying cruel things.

Finally, Achilles appeared. No surprise there.

He accused Briseis of cheating, mocked her relentlessly, and spoke as if he’d strangle her if she said the wrong thing.

 

Her story ended as she stammered, voice panicked. I should’ve stopped her at the drugging part, I could guess the rest. But she spoke so fast, as if torn between wanting to tell and not wanting to relive it.

I pointed at her, opened my hand, touched my chest with my thumb, and pushed outward. I stared, searching for anything off in her face or gestures. She smiled, clapped her chest lightly, and hugged her arms. Her lips curled dangerously, eyes wary.

Good, it ended well.

That was my naive thought. But despite her claim of being fine, her confident facade didn’t fool me.

She hadn’t said everything. She didn’t want to.

Such memories were hard to share calmly. Briseis was strong for telling it without tears, forcing a silly smile to hold them back.

We walked, skipping an important class so she could breathe fresh air instead of pretending to study. It wasn’t the first time, but I had a good reason now. I didn’t want her crying secretly or getting called on by a teacher.

"I’m fine, really fine, Perry," Briseis said, her mood lifting. "I saw a doctor... they said I’m clean, you know what I mean. I had checkups every two months, but I stopped since I’m okay now." I was relieved she was better, free of serious issues. Still, she had a bad reputation—few talked to her except me and a couple of girls. Guys only flirted or mocked her looks, rarely treating her as a friend.

I blinked, seeing her hold out her hand. I mirrored her, high-fiving her. She cheered, nudged my side, and winked approvingly.

God, she could forget her pain so easily. She was steering the conversation away from bad memories.

I didn’t bring it up, joining her in chatting about random things.

Her eyes were red, but no tears fell. She grinned goofily, talking about recent disappearances.

Disappearances? Did I hear that right?

"It’s not big news yet... people think they just ran away. They’re our age, so the police and everyone are half-hearted about it." Such cases weren’t new. Some missing people were found sleeping in homeless areas or Rhodope’s forests.

Fleeing across borders, maybe, for personal reasons. Those cases faded until now, when Briseis brought it up. It didn’t feel like a coincidence.

I wasn’t at ease.

Briseis sighed, scrolling through mocking posts about the missing teens.

"They don’t care. It’s awful, they’re blaming the victims instead of showing sympathy."

"Perry, what do you think?"

‘Same as you, but don’t call me Perry.’

"Patrick, then? Patrick Star?" Once again, I was a bikini-clad starfish.

I almost flipped her off but stopped. It was better to let her tease me now, small stuff like that just needed a gentle reminder.

"But seriously, I’m curious where they are. Usually, they’re found in a few days, but it’s been six with no trace. Even checking other neighborhoods or regions turned up nothing." Briseis tilted her head, pointing at an empty room.

"Like that creepy room, forgotten things stay forgotten. Someone cleans it once in a while." The room was pointlessly abandoned, and Briseis used it as a metaphor for the ignored missing people. She was right some cases, like these, start as big news but fade when rumors and conspiracies take over.

This case might vanish like last year’s. Some might mention it, but the chances were slim.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

A rundown, gloomy motel at the border, unnoticed, with a vast basement below. Their “company” promised easy jobs, decent pay, and endless food and drink.

But what company operated in a barren lot, surrounded by scarred, blood-stained men wielding batons or guns? No building, just an abandoned house and a forgotten hotel miles away, taken over by brutal demons.

They’d hacked up young girls and teens, feeding them to wild animals in the forest, calling it punishment—a pathetic excuse for their cruelty.

She’d been punished by them, to the point where living felt worse than death.

Yet she survived. Seven years, she’d survived.

Her strength was fading, her insides rotting over time. Her will had become mechanical, sustained by memories of her beloved son.

She didn’t care about his appearance. He was still her son.

Her doe-eyed, innocent boy, defiled by her husband, a conspirator with these demons. She remembered his friend stealing her son’s purity, her poor child.

After they ruined her, why target her son too?

She’d expose these devils. They thought her a foolish, mute, obedient woman.

That was their biggest mistake.

She knew what to do and what not to.

She swore to sacrifice her life to reveal their atrocities.

Her longing to see her son again would never let her back down.

Chapter Text

She counts each breath slowly, so slowly it feels like holding her breath. Fleeing from monsters in human form.

Those poor girls. Oh, how she pities them. All of them, young girls, some still carrying schoolbooks. And now, just a few hours ago, another poor young girl was taken. Dragged into that desolate place in the dead of night.

She’s certain this girl was only sixteen or seventeen. So young, so fiery, still believing this might just be a role, a scene directed by some filmmaker casting her as a victim in a horror movie. But how could she think it’s an audition when those men took advantage of her, drunk and wandering alone?

She’s the only one who truly knows what’s happening. The only one allowed to move freely, led by those men as a way to punish and humiliate her bit by bit. Do they think she’s useless because her tongue was cut out or her toes were severed? To those monsters, those things make her a living doll.

Do they think they can control her like a puppet for their sexual gratification, their animalistic desires? Those vile men, no matter how many ways they hide from the public or bribe greedy cops, their heinous crimes will eventually come to light.

One day, this double-edged sword will pierce their venomous tongues.

How ironic that the man who abducted her was the one who promised to love her for a lifetime. Oh, he swore he’d give her a voice to call her son’s name.

But her tongue was completely cut out.

How could a playboy, a philanderer like him, ever keep such promises? All the affection from the start was nothing but empty words, lies, illusions. It was never real to begin with.

Her entire youth vanished raising his child.

She foolishly believed that if she bore him a son, he would truly love her. That he would set her free.

But it wasn’t a son. The child looked so much like her, with a sweet, innocent, gentle face like a fawn.

But it wasn’t a son.

It was too much like her, and she feared it would be abandoned.

She didn’t want that child to die. She would let it live, let it live as a boy.

Her husband barely paid attention to infants. He was too consumed by alcohol or cocaine, too foolish to notice, and that’s why the child was safe.

She wanted it to live a life like anyone else. To be itself, free from prejudice or judgment. But she couldn’t let her little one live freely in a place filled with danger, poverty, and discrimination.

Her child, her little angel, had already suffered so much.

The beautiful name Cleopatra was gone. It would fade entirely into the recesses of her memory, unknown to anyone.

Only Patroclus. That name alone gave her child a chance to survive.

And when that man took the boy away, he became like her.

Where was his tongue? If not in his mouth, then where? Why did that man steal his sweet, gentle voice? And he found out. That foolish man, who cared nothing for his child, discovered his private parts.

He punished the boy. Left a scar there, one the boy didn’t seem to notice or understand, but she did. She was haunted by it, the image of a scar on tender flesh, bleeding, his thighs bruised.

Not long after, that shameless man stole her son away.

Left her in an old, rickety house, shielded only by bamboo and logs in the forest.

How laughable. As if it were all a fleeting dream.

She believed, truly believed, it was all just a dream. She clung to that blind faith for weeks, refusing food and water, living in darkness without stepping outside, letting people whisper that she’d gone mad, killed herself, and was rotting away inside. Oh, she was a foolish, crippled, small woman, but wasn’t she human? She wasn’t mad, nor was she as deranged as people assumed.

She thought her life was over, truly over, when the storms came to this impoverished, desolate village.

She thought that when the floods swept her broken body away, her little Patroclus would be enjoying the beauty of glamorous Athens, as he once spoke of. She only hoped he’d forget her.

She was just waiting for death. A death that might be painful, might be lonely, but would carry no humiliation.

But those were just her blind, foolish hopes.

They took her, those monsters. Her tears fell, but her body was limp, powerless in their brutal, cruel grasp. She couldn’t scream, never had the chance to scream in her life. She was silent, obedient, and they called her “The Skylark.” She couldn’t cry out her pain or sing any song, only hum softly, so faintly that only she or the grass could hear.

They said a bird should be caged, that her wings were useless, so they took scissors and cut them away. When she opened the iron cage, she wanted to find a life outside, to feel the embrace of the breeze—not the gusts that carried the stench of rotting flesh and flies.

Freedom was a new life, a new hope to save her from this earthly hell. Not a life of spreading her legs for strange men from around the world, not a tool to lure young, underage girls.

That wasn’t her. She didn’t want to become that.

She escaped, flapping her broken wings to flee that filthy iron cage. She only wanted to find her freedom, to forget the monsters in that blood-soaked place.

But there were no other choices; the world outside was just as cruel. They whispered in her ear, luring her with vague, baseless promises.

Because she was young then, new to them, and still desirable, no man would dare touch her while her body’s value was still sought after.

She was mute, wasn’t she? She had no tongue to speak or scream in defiance.

So she did whatever it took to terrify them into letting her go. She used her own flesh and blood to make them release her. At any cost.

But heaven had no eyes.

She could never forget that moment. How could she?

Her innocent child, her baby—why did they have to suffer such a cruel fate?

That man showed her pictures, or what he called 'clips'.She saw everything clearly—the sounds, the scenery, the faces of the people inside, all familiar.

Her little boy had been brutally raped. His small legs bled, naked, curled up in an empty room with only tattered clothes, dragging himself, leaving streaks of blood.

Always blood, bright red blood splattered everywhere. His sobs were clear, loud, piercing. Yet no one came to comfort her Patroclus.

Where was his father? Where was that bastard? Worse, he allowed one of his accomplices to rape her son. Yes, his own flesh and blood, the child carrying the blood of Menoetius Opuntian.

She was horrified. Why were they so cruel? Were they even human anymore? Where was his humanity? Didn’t he feel the slightest guilt or shame for letting a man do such vile things to his own son?

He was still his son, no matter how different he was. He was undeniably his child, carrying his blood. The child who once called him father, how could he be so cruel to do this to his own?

He should have killed him from the start, while he was still in her womb. Killed him quickly, buried his tiny body.

Instead, he condemned him to a living hell. Forced him to live in pain. Made him spread his legs to entertain a man, treating his own son as a tool for profit, a commodity, not a human being of flesh and blood.

Hah, Menoetius called it mercy when he met her gaze.

Mercy?

Pity?

Lies!

A despicable man using his own child for money!

Lower than an animal. The human part of him was gone, only appearing in front of the public. Oh, raising funds for homeless and orphaned children? A single father doing good deeds for his disabled child, helping others in similar situations? What a kind, virtuous man.

Is that so?

Is that what the public and those fools believe?

They can blindly trust someone without questioning their true nature.

No matter who you are.

Old or young, woman or man.

As long as you show kindness and compassion outwardly, if anyone doubts your true character, they can’t stop others from seeing you as virtuous, a good person.

Because you’re a good person, helping those in need, any wrongs you’ve done—past or present—are just you atoning for your mistakes. To others, you’re mending your past errors.

And you’re completely absolved. Just someone making up for their mistakes, no matter how monstrous they were. In the end, you’re forgiven.

Forgiven, accepted.

She couldn’t understand forgiveness. To her, the concept of “forgiveness” was laughable, absurd.

Some things from the past, though long gone, she could never forgive. She couldn’t use words like forgiveness, mercy, or acceptance for the man who hurt her son.

Even now, her child is still alive, according to that Opuntian.

But is her child truly living with that wretched father, merely surviving in his own home, or just struggling to exist? Patroclus is a smart child, not foolish; he knows what happened to him. She wishes he could escape that damned house. She wishes she could meet him, hold him, protect him with her frail hands. Despite her crippled fingers, she would embrace her innocent child tightly, humming wordless poetry she could never voice.

She would still spread her wings like a nightingale, seeking the freedom and happiness she’s craved since she was a young girl.

She wants to find happiness, a happiness reserved for the freedom she hopes one day she and her son will share.

One day, she might call her little child’s name.

She might say she’s his mother.

One day.

But not today.

It won’t be soon, but she’ll do everything to see her son again, to expose the crimes of that man, Menoetius.

She is a nightingale, a mother, a woman whose youth was stolen by time. Yet she will become Philomela again. No matter the pain, she’ll have her little Patroclus chirping by her side.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

I always wonder if everything is truly okay now. I feel an inexplicable unease.

People have stopped talking about what happened that day. It wasn’t a huge scandal, just something that affected one person. Everything seems calm, almost too smooth for me. I don’t face as many troubles as before.

My father has been gone for days, with no sign of returning soon. I was thrilled, so excited I almost forgot he existed. These past three days have been pure joy. I even had a sleepover with Briseis without worrying about anything bad happening.

Yeah, everything’s great when my father’s not around. I can watch TV in the living room without being bothered or sent back to my room.

Oh, I really wanted to watch a horror movie with my stuffed animals. I picked it out a few days ago with my friend, but she’s been busy with chores and school projects, so I’m stuck watching alone.

Even though it’s still daytime, I’ve got everything ready.

Blankets, stuffed animals, fruit juice, and mashed potato soup (the potatoes are so mashed they’re barely solid). Just this makes today feel amazing, like the heavens are making up for how the world treated me in the past. I’m savoring every second of this peace.

Before evening, maybe I’ll check the news? I don’t know why, but my father’s sudden absence doesn’t feel entirely good.

Wrapped in the familiar scent of my old blanket, it smells like someone I haven’t seen in so long. It’s hard to think about her; I don’t even want to mention her, though it bothers me deeply.

Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see her in myself. Like I’m a smaller, uglier version of her.

She was beautiful. So beautiful. Even though many people I knew said she was ugly. Or maybe I made it up? If so, then I’m the only one talking about her beauty. I don’t think I inherited her looks, but I can still recall her gentle, kind eyes, each blink like butterfly wings.

I also remember, clearly, her tall, slender figure. She seemed small but wasn’t. She was a beauty, even with her face smudged with dirt, even with her dark, despairing eyes. To me, she was still beautiful.

I blush, not expecting to think about her beauty and compare it to myself. She’s buried deep in my memories, under the most horrific ones. She’s a beautiful memory I both want and don’t want to forget. But if I forget her, I’ll lose the gentle memory that holds me like a child. Yet if I keep remembering her, I’ll feel a bit of happiness, relieved that I can remind myself she existed in my life. Still, I can’t help thinking she’s missing now, and I don’t know what she’s doing or where she is.

Oh my. I'n ugly. Fuck me.

The last time I saw her, she was alone in that dilapidated house, held together by large leaves and makeshift logs to keep it from being blown away by the wind. That tiny house—over the years, storms have hit the forests, mountains, and rural provinces, massive storms that flooded areas and claimed lives. I’m terrified she was one of those swept away by the floods.

…What am I thinking? I shouldn’t dwell on such unlucky thoughts.

She’s my mother, for God’s sake. Why do I keep letting my mind spiral to the worst possibilities? I can’t let myself lead me astray. Sometimes, I’m the one making myself sadder.

I think she’s still alive.

Yes, she’s definitely alive.

Not just in my memories or my heart. She’s out there in this vast world, somewhere far away, somewhere I’ll probably never know.

If she’s still alive, she’s met someone good. Maybe she’s living happily with a new family.

Does she still remember me the way I’ve always remembered her? Mother, do you remember you have a disabled son in this world?

If she’s found happiness, a new family, she’ll forget me soon. She’s just a woman, one who can’t speak like me, and she’s still so young. It feels like her life was ruined because of me. I remember her eyes, always tinged with sadness and despair when she looked at me. I don’t understand why she chose to bring me into this world.

I know how hard pregnancy is for a young woman. Their hips aren’t fully developed, making childbirth dangerous. Yet she still gave birth to me, forcing herself to bring me into this world.

For my father?

She knew how harsh life is. If she knew, she should have ended me when I was still a parasite in her body.

She should have ended my life and started anew for herself. Letting me live in this world is a cruel joke. It’s only brought suffering to both me and her!

I wipe my tears, rubbing my face into my sleeve. It’s so unfair that she chose to give birth to me. So unfair, unfair to me.

If I didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have endured this hellish torment from the start.

I don’t resent my mother. I just wonder why she let me live. From the beginning, she didn’t end me; she let me grow in her womb. And so, I was given the name Patroclus, so blandly. No surname to show what family I come from, like I’m just a wanderer in this world.

Now my father keeps letting me live.

He lets me live in shame and pain, year after year, everything becoming clearer.

He doesn’t want me to die, won’t let me die at any cost.

Oh, yes, so cutting me with a thousand knives, then bandaging me, treating me, or slathering ointment on me? That’s right, he doesn’t want me to die.

He treats me like a flower. He’s cruel to this flower, starving it for months, letting it wilt in despair and pain, letting this little flower be plucked by others while bees buzz incessantly. Then he waters it, cares for it, gives it a new identity, a new purpose.

And then he abandons the flower he once praised.

He calls this flower a defective product, says he doesn’t like the fake petals on it.

The flower starts to wither, and he doesn’t know, doesn’t care, and leaves.

I know I don’t need him, not even a bit. But I wonder, if I do something this time, will he care about me, even for a fleeting moment?

It’s foolish that sometimes I crave Menoetius’ attention. My father, who sold my virginity to his friend, who orchestrated it all, inviting strange men to our house under the pretense of checking on my health.

Yet when he’s gentle, giving me a bit of money, I want to laugh and cry at the same time. He’s never called me family, and I don’t want to call him mine. Though sometimes he acts like a father, a man of the house, what he’s done…

It’s an unforgivable crime. A crime I’ll never forgive.

He’s still my father, and maybe there are moments I feel warmth being near him. But if one day someone uncovers the atrocities he and his accomplices committed, the monstrous things he did to children, and the court sentences him to death, I won’t let them reduce it to life imprisonment.

Because I can’t forgive this man, not even a little.

••••••

I can’t focus on studying, really. This afternoon was insane. Briseis is out sick with the flu. Just yesterday, we were talking, video-calling all night.

The teacher’s lessons slip through my fingers; I can’t even understand what’s on the board. No motivation to take notes or do assignments.

I’m just waiting for the final bell. Sitting alone in class without anyone to talk to is torture. If I’d known Briseis wasn’t coming, I’d have faked being sick to stay home and sleep all day.

I might skip studying and doodle instead. Everything’s fine, except the teacher keeps pairing me with that blond idiot.

That blond idiot I’ll never forget for what he did to me.l

I scowl, not bothering to hide my disgust. I don’t need to act shy or avoid him. I just want him to know how much I hate him, how much I want to strangle him.

The teacher’s awful. I didn’t think this old teacher was so blind.

I’m so unlucky to be stuck working with that jerk, Achilles.

He doesn’t look me in the eye, just scribbles something in his notebook.

Achilles glances up, pretending to look past me, like he’s focused on someone else.

I’ll do it myself. I don’t need to work with this stupid, manipulative guy.

“Ahem!” I frown, gripping my pen so hard the ink smears across the paper.

Achilles grabs a corner of the paper, tugging it toward him. “Let me do it all. Give me what you prepared at home, and I’ll write it. I’ll present.” No one needed reminding of that last part. I roll my eyes, yanking the paper back.

'I didn’t prepare anything. I study on my own, and I understand it myself.'

Achilles purses his lips, letting out a small, annoyed groan. The tip of his shoe nudges my desk, making my ink bottle wobble. I catch it with my other hand, forced to let go of the paper, which Achilles snatches completely.

Some ink splashes onto my hand and shirt. The shirt I just washed and dried yesterday, the one I saved up to buy on sale.

Does this blond pufferfish want me to kill him right here in class?

I grit my teeth, gently wiping the ink with some paper from my notebook. This ink is tough to clean; it’s high-quality, the kind that sticks to anything for a month. On skin, it’ll wash off eventually, but not quickly. Plus, my skin’s sensitive—direct contact with ink will cause an allergic reaction in a few hours.

I stomp hard on Achilles’ shoe. Ha, my shoes are still caked with mud and dirt, sure to ruin his pristine, shiny white sneakers. Achilles yelps in pain, trying not to scream, and reaches to grab my shoulder.

His hand brushes near my chest, just shy of touching it. Maybe because I leaned away, his hand slipped. I flinch, instinctively biting down hard on his wrist. He screams so loudly the whole school could probably hear.

We’re sent to the principal’s office and separated.

With a strict teacher in class and a school that’s harsh on students, we’re lucky we didn’t get worse.

We almost got into a fight, or so Mr. Phoenix complained to the principal when Achilles had to face me. He grudgingly apologized with his mispronounced words.

They don’t care who I am.

I’m suspended for three days; Achilles gets one day because he’s more “injured.” His parents were notified, and his face went pale with fear. I just got suspended, and for some reason, they didn’t contact my father.

I was hoping they’d tell him so I could find out where the hell he’s been these past few days.

I’ll miss a lot of classes during these three days.

Briseis probably doesn’t know yet, and I’m not sure how to tell her.

But at least I won’t have to see that jerk’s face.

He’s only suspended for one day but got his parents called, while I didn’t.

I prop my chin on my hand, holding my notebook, my gaze drifting to a beautiful, tall woman who seems to be watching me.

God, her stare sends chills down my spine, like the first time I saw Achilles. Really, their eyes are so similar.

It sounds silly, but if they were mother and son, I’d bet they’re 70% alike in personality and presence. My hand moves the pencil, sketching her figure from afar.

Wow, she’s really tall. Capturing her form is tricky. I’ve studied human anatomy in biology, so drawing accurate body details isn’t too hard.

Oh, I made her head looks a bit…

“Hey, kid.”

Too… too big?

“Boy?”

I should tweak the details, her eyes…

“Boy!” I jump, clutching my notebook to my chest, gasping as her face looms close, unnervingly so.

This woman is actually paying attention to me. It’s not my imagination.

What does she want? Did I do something wrong? Is this her usual seat? Or is she mistaking me for someone else?

This woman is so strange, and her eerie vibe makes me shiver. But she hasn’t done anything to me. She said she’s a friend, someone who knows my father.

I can’t quite doubt her. My father brings all sorts of people home, women, men, even strange kids. Maybe she’s one of them, and I wasn’t home or forgot. Keeping track of every face and name isn’t easy. I might’ve overlooked something important.

The park’s busier today than usual. Besides me and this woman, everyone else is in groups of two or more.

Yeah, maybe it’s just a nice day, so people are gathering?

With so many people around, this tall woman wouldn’t dare do anything to me (or so I tell myself to calm my paranoia).

“Actually, my husband is a friend of your father’s. We met a few years ago. Do you remember?” I squint, trying to recall if I’ve seen her before. I’m starting to doubt myself. Her face is familiar, really familiar.

But that familiar face from a few years ago—maybe when I was 10 or 11, wasn’t this feminine or sharp.

“It’s been a while. You’re Menoetiades, right?” I stay silent, sighing, and write slowly on my paper.

‘I’m Patroclus, not Menoetiades. Or call me Opuntian or Lorcis, ma’am.’

Just because I’m mute doesn’t mean anyone who knows my father or me can call me whatever they want. This woman’s meeting me for the first time and doesn’t even know my name.

She pauses, her long, slender fingers on her pale, almost sickly arm brushing my shoulder.

“You know, an adult, especially an older woman, wouldn’t bother approaching a 15-year-old kid buried in a notebook.” Her nails dig lightly into my shirt. It’s thin, and I’m not wearing a jacket, so her long nails feel like they could pierce through. The sharp pain and tension make my heart race.

“We have a meeting… a project together, my husband and your father. I’m involved too. Boy, is your father traveling or sick at home? My husband hasn’t been able to reach him for days.”

“This project is about business. It’ll have a big impact on my husband if your father isn’t there. I came to this area for my family, looking for you. You know, we really need your father to show up. If he’s not interested, we’ll have to renegotiate. If he’s okay with the project, can you ask him to contact my husband?”

I’m confused. She speaks so gently, not as intimidating as before. But she keeps mentioning this “project” her husband needs my father for. I’m curious about what’s going on, even though I don’t understand their business.

She doesn’t seem to be lying or deceiving me. I’ve convinced myself there’s no camera or weird crowd around.

As long as this isn’t a prank, I’m happy to answer her questions.

‘My father, Menoetius, right? He’s been gone for days. I haven’t been able to contact him either.’

“Meno’s gone? He should’ve told me or Peleus. Did he leave any message before he left?” She sounds disappointed when I shake my head. She asks for a piece of my paper and borrows my pencil.

My trembling hand takes the paper, my fingers brushing her skin. Goosebumps rise all over me, like a cold wind hit my shoulder. I wish I could stand up and go home to sleep.

I look at the paper she handed me. A strange phone number, written in shaky handwriting, makes my eyes blur. It’s her number.

‘Call me at this number if your father comes back.’

And she says goodbye. I was about to ask her name. She knows mine, but I don’t know hers. Weirdly, my pencil tip broke, and I didn’t bring a sharpener, so I let it go.

Everything that just happened feels normal. I reassure myself. Yes, nothing’s unusual.

My life is full of weird things.

Hopefully, this isn’t a prank or some silly dream.