Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are always three ways to understand every story.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

First, there was the college.

St. Rakh’s College of Politics was a centuries-old institution that had shaped the influential elite for at least five hundred years. Like all prestigious schools, it boasted a faculty bought with gold—the most brilliant minds money could secure—and an imposing architecture designed to remind its clients just how much they’d invested in their heirs. But St. Rakh’s needed one final touch to be complete: a celebrity. And that was Kylo Ren’s role.

He could usually be found near the library’s double doors, lounging by the bird fountain with his so-called "buddies." (The term was used sarcastically, of course. Kylo Ren was not someone to trifle with—no mere teenager to mock. At least, that’s what he told himself as he lit his blunt.) He was the heir; the danger; the brute. His survival hinged on a lineage of murderers before him—generations of psychopaths who’d slaughtered thousands to maintain the status quo.

And when his time came, he’d do the same. He’d make the choices his ancestors had. He’d tighten his family’s grip, elevate their name further. He’d succeed where his father failed. He’d surpass even his grandfather.

All he needed was to get her out of his mind before then.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Second, there was Rey Verona.

Ranked first in St. Rakh’s entrance exam, her scores were so exceptional that the committee had no choice but to award her the scholarship reserved for the brightest. She was one of those rare exceptions — a mind so brilliant that her lack of wealth couldn’t exclude her. Students like her were assets, tools for St. Rakh’s to maintain its prestige. Her scholarship? Just a marketing investment.

Her family was neither known nor wealthy, but they’d been rebels since the beginning. Long before Rey or Kylo existed, they’d stood against the government — protesting disappearances, organizing against state violence, and occasionally orchestrating terrorist-like events to make their point.

You can’t overcome violence without violence, her grandfather would always say.

Rey’s grandfather knew the rebel cells’ secret codes, the right radio frequencies to hear news from "the other side". She remembered her father’s stories: dozens of people hidden in their attic, then under the floorboards of their tiny grocery store. Anyone persecuted by the regime found sanctuary with the Veronas. Miraculously, they were never caught. The dictatorship fell, democracy rose, and no official ever discovered their role.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Third, there was Mr. Ren.

The Ren family was the picture of tradition in their neighborhood: a father (cis, straight — obviously), a wife (cis, straight— presumably), and their two children — a girl and a boy, as proper families should.

Their eldest, Bazine, was a glittering jewel—a Plastic Arts master’s student, refined and poised, the perfect companion for official dinners. A dictator’s granddaughter through and through. She could charm her way into any circle, any man’s arms, any position she desired. Her allure was her armor, and she knew it.

Their second child, Kylo, was a different story. A morose boy, he’d been a headache from the moment Mr. Ren adopted him. Some evenings, he’d even whisper to his wife about returning him. But she’d refuse, insisting they must be patient with their broken son. He’ll mature, she’d say. He’ll be useful.

Mr. Ren usually agreed. His wife understood their world, and he trusted her judgment. Besides, maintaining a flawless, storybook family was politically essential. If he wanted to be great — as great as his father — he needed a son.

At least, that’s what he was thinking when his driver pulled up to St. Rakh’s gated library. Mr. Ren removed his sunglasses, thumb hovering over the window switch. He’d call Kylo, tell him to hurry — time was money, money was power, power was everything. But he froze when he saw the scene unfolding.

The girl facing Kylo wasn’t short, but she seemed tiny next to his height. Her long, silky hair and shorts (which Mr. Ren deemed too indecent for campus) caught his eye. Kylo leaned against the wall as usual, cigarette in hand, but his lips curled into an uncharacteristically silly smile as the girl spoke. She held a packet of candy, popping pieces into her mouth every few seconds. But that wasn’t what shocked Mr. Ren.

No, it was the moment the group’s conversation shifted, giving the pair a fleeting second of privacy. His son’s gaze — usually flat, opaque — burned as the girl stepped forward, biting a chocolate in half and pressing the remaining piece between Kylo’s accepting parted lips.

What the hell was happening?

Chapter Text

It was one of those days — a weirdly cold morning that demanded sweaters, boots, and all sorts of inconveniences just to leave the house. Not that Kylo could complain; living a block from the beach had its perks. But seasons never mattered much to him. He hated everything.

He hated the beach, for example. The constant sun and suffocating heat left him dizzy; his body simply shut down in high temperatures. Yet this winter’s biting wind wasn’t any kinder, so he grumbled, as usual.

He’d once loved living by the shore. Back when he was a child, and his mother carried that new digital camera — an expensive and revolutionary treasure — tucked in her bag alongside lip balm, three crisp hundred-dollar bills, and her pillbox. The nannies hauled the other bags: snacks and plastic toys he’d bury in the sand. They always wore white, their leather shoes glaringly out of place against the shore. Not that it mattered. They didn’t belong in his world.

Kylo grew up seeing people differently. But then, everyone did when money stacked high enough. The nannies, the drivers, the cleaners — they blurred into a single, anthropomorphic service, paid to shield him from reality. They were visible, sure, but like NPCs in a game, their lives existed only within the borders of his. So at the grand age of five, it never struck him as odd: two nannies, three bodyguards, and his mother’s assistant trailing them as they crossed the street to the sand. He had so much, yet his world was so small.

The ritual never changed. Once his mother selected her spot, a nanny unfolded beach chairs and a vast sunshade while another slathered his arms and face with sunscreen. His mother would sink into her chair, fish out the pearled pillbox, and stare into its depths for thirty seconds before sighing. Her fingers would pinch a mound of powder and dab it onto the webbing between her thumb and index finger.

Then — one sharp sniff.

Ketamine was a fickle drug. Some days, she’d stay awake, babbling about celebrities from the nannies’ gossip magazines. Her thoughts turned slippery then, useless for conversation — but those were the good days.

That morning on the beach? A bad day. She inhaled the powder like it was oxygen. Her head lolled back, a lifeless smile on her lips.

Kylo hated it.
But he also hated everything.

When she checked out like that, she’d be gone for hours. He called it clocking out—because it was as if she’d punched a timecard and left reality behind.

And the thing he most hated was that he couldn’t do it yet, too.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Kylo’s first day at St. Rakh’s was suppose to be uneventful, at least by his standards. The driver left him inside the college gates, reminding him in a sulky tone not to forget his backpack. He wished his mother would let him drive himself in one of the garage cars, but to his surprise, she’d refused. Worse, his father had agreed.

A shielded twenty-year-old, he thought bitterly.

He grumbled something resembling a thank-you and glared at the building ahead. It was a tall edifice, linked to others by high, interconnected bridges. His father’s assistant had said his first class — History of the First World War — was in Edifice B. Which might as well have been a riddle for how little it helped him.

Kylo tightened his grip on his backpack, scanning the campus with a sneer. Students swarmed everywhere, some holding fliers (freshman guides, probably), others clustered in chatter. He wasn’t keen on "networking" — if anyone could call mingling with these people such a term.

He was about to call his mother’s assistant, Anna — who’d known him since childhood — and beg her to send the driver back. Pathetic, but the right choice.

His hands trembled slightly. He’d already smoked three blunts that morning and craved another. As he scanned the crowd for any sign of Edifice B, he collided with a small figure.

The girl smoothed her bangs with quick fingers and flashed him a smile. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetie! Are you new? My name’s Amanda!”

Amanda looked like a doll. Her hair was a perfect Chanel-cut bob, her bangs pristine. A designer headband (expensive, though Kylo didn’t care) perched atop her head. Her skinny frame was wrapped in a short black dress, her legs elongated by high pumps. She looked less like a politics student and more like a luxury airline stewardess.

“Ren.” he said, unable to suppress a smug smile. She looked doll-like and sexy — a combination he wasn’t used to. Her smile didn’t waver, but her pupils dilated — just a fraction — like a cat spotting cream. Ren. The name slithered through St. Rakh’s corridors, heavy with legacy.

“The Ren?” she purred, tilting her head. “Wow. I thought you’d be… taller.”

A lie. He loomed over her. But Amanda knew men like him needed to be poked, not praised.

Kylo’s smirk deepened. “And I thought you’d be quieter.”

She laughed — champagne bubbles and calculated charm — and slid a flier into his jacket pocket, her fingers lingering. “Lucky for you, I’m a tour guide for freshmen. Edifice B’s past the clocktower. Want an escort?”

He should’ve refused. But Amanda smelled like vanilla and money, and her skirt promised distraction. The kind of girl his father would approve of.

“Whatever.” he muttered, falling into step beside her.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The lecture hall hummed with the low chatter of students staking their territories — friends saving seats, loners hugging the aisles. Kylo lingered in the doorway, scanning the rows with practiced disinterest. He didn’t need to be here. He could skip, smoke, let his father’s name erase the absence.

But then — her. A girl in a faded sweater, hunched over a book like it held secrets. No pretense. No polished smile. Just… focus. The way her fingers curled around the pages, ink smudged on her wrist. The messy bun, strands escaping like she’d fought with a hair tie and lost. She wasn’t like the others — wasn’t performing.

And that alone hooked him, a sharp tug in his gut. He wanted to crack her open, see what lay beneath that quiet intensity. Wanted, absurdly, to taste it. To press his thumb to the furrow between her brows and ask, What’s so fucking important? But more than that—he wanted her to ask him something real. To look at him and see past the name, the sneer, the armor. To burn him down to the bone.

He didn’t know her. But something caught his attention. No designer headband, no practiced smirk. Just a girl in a faded sweater, hunched over “The Psychology of Total War: WW2 and the Human Cost”.

Wrong war, sweetheart — he almost sneered. But something about her made his pulse hitch. She didn’t belong here. Her clothes were brandless, her nails bare, her hair in a messy bun Amanda’s friends would’ve mocked. Yet there was something raw, real in that girl — a life he’d never had but craved.

He slid into the seat beside her, close enough to catch her scent — ink and oranges, absurdly enticing. “You’re in the wrong century,” he grumbled.

She didn’t look up. “I’m aware.”

“Then why—”

“Because WW1 was practice.” Finally, she turned. Her eyes were flint-sharp. “The real horror came after.”

And just like that, Amanda’s vanilla perfume faded to nothing.

The professor’s lecture on Archduke Ferdinand’s assassination droned on, but Kylo barely heard a word. His attention kept snagging on the girl — the way she scribbled notes in the margins of her WW2 book, the way she rolled her eyes when a classmate mispronounced Sarajevo.

When the bell finally rang, he grabbed her elbow before she could vanish into the crowd. “You’re coming to lunch.” It wasn’t a question.

The girl blinked up at him, her cheeks flushing pink. “I — what?”

“You heard me, sweetheart.” He steered her toward the door, his grip firm but not rough. A group of students bottlenecked the exit, and he tugged her closer, his voice a low growl in her ear. “Unless you’d rather fight for oxygen in this herd?”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Rey stiffened but didn't pull away. His hands burned through the thin fabric of her sweater — an unfamiliar heat that made her pulse stutter. She'd perfected the art of invisibility at St. Rakh's: frayed sweater cuffs pulled over ink-stained fingers, eyes fixed to the floor when legacy students strutted past. Yet this stranger saw through it all with a single glance. Her cheeks flamed as she let herself be steered forward, her throat tight with something between panic and giddy disbelief. Every rational thought screamed to wrench free, but when she glanced up at his wild dark hair and the arrogant slant of his mouth, her protest died unspoken.

He moved through the crowded hallway like a blade parting water — all sharp edges and effortless menace. The black leather jacket, the careless sprawl of his long legs in designer jeans, even the way his throat worked when he smirked down at her... it was all calculated to intimidate. And God help her, it was working.

The cafeteria's glass walls magnified the school's brutal hierarchy: lacquered trust fund babies holding court at marble-topped tables, while scholarship students hunched over meal vouchers near the recycling bins. Rey's steps faltered as neon price tags seared her vision. Twenty dollars for a sandwich? Her monthly grocery budget wouldn't cover—

"This was a bad idea." she blurted, already calculating how many cafeteria apples she could stuff in her bag for dinner.

Kylo followed her gaze and smirked, white teeth glinting. "I'm paying. Obviously."

"Obviously." The word tasted bitter. When their fingers brushed over the tray, she jerked back as if scalded. His laughter curled around her like smoke — rich, indulgent, and utterly full of warmth.

"My father's assistant handles the account," he said, waving off the cashier with a lazy flick of wrist. "Consider it your civic duty — helping me spend my family blood money."

The joke landed like a grenade. Rey's stomach lurched. Was that... guilt in his voice? Or just another rich boy's careless provocation?

Across the room, Amanda's clutch strap snapped between manicured fingers. Her saved seat sat conspicuously empty beside the Dean's nephew, champagne flute sweating untouched on the linen tablecloth. And Kylo didn’t even glance her way.

They settled at a corner table — far enough from eavesdroppers, close enough to feel the weight of whispers. Rey poked at her fries like it might bite back.

“So,” Kylo leaned in “who are your people?”

“What do you mean?” She rose her doe eyes from her meal, looking a bit lost. It must had been the twenty’s hormones, because he just wanted to make her blush even more.

“Your family. Everyone here’s a nepo-baby or a diplomat’s brat.” He took a bite of his steak, watching her. “Which are you?”

But Rey’s grip tightened on her fork. “Neither. I’m here on scholarship.”

A beat. Then, quieter: “My dad works in TI.”

Kylo snorted. “Seriously?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Her chin lifted, defiance sparking in her eyes.

“Nothing. Just…” He gestured around them. “This isn’t exactly middle-class turf.”

“And yet,” she said slowly in defiance “here I am.”

He liked that — the challenge in her voice. “Kylo Ren.” he offered, extending a hand.

She shook it automatically, almost thirsty for touching him again. “Rey Verona.”

Their fingers met — and the world narrowed to that single point of contact.

Kylo’s grip was warm, his palm rough against hers, and Rey hated how her pulse jumped in response. His thumb brushed the delicate bones of her wrist, a slow, deliberate stroke that felt more like a challenge than an accident. Testing her. She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve wiped her hand on her jeans like she’d touched something filthy. But for one reckless second, she let herself linger — let the heat of his skin seep into hers, let her traitorous fingers curl just slightly against his.

"Ren."

The name hit her like a bullet. The family that had bankrolled death squads. The so-called president who’d smiled on TV while his prisons tortured dissidents.

Her grandfather’s voice echoed in her skull — They would take children, Rey. They would make parents watch. — and suddenly, Kylo’s touch wasn’t warm anymore. It was a brand. A collar. A confession.

She wrenched her hand back so fast the table rattled.

Kylo’s smirk faltered. His fingers flexed, empty. And for the first time since they’d met, he looked... uncertain. Like he’d reached for something precious and found his hands stained instead.

“I am sorry, this was a mistake.“ She managed to say, before getting away as quickly as she could.