The world felt too quiet. That kind of silence weighed on him — the heavy, suffocating kind that pressed down until you couldn't breathe.
Jim sat in the back of the classroom, chin resting on his palm, eyes half-lidded as he stared out the rain-speckled window. Gray clouds clung to the sky like bruises, and thunder muttered low in the distance. He liked storms. They reminded him of himself — all pressure and tension, waiting to break.
The teacher's voice droned on like a distant hum, words lost on him. He barely heard it. He barely heard anything anymore.
A paper ball struck the side of his head. He blinked slowly but didn't move. Laughter — sharp and cruel — erupted behind him.
He still didn't turn around.
They thought he was weak. They thought he was nothing. That he could sit here and take it.
The bell rang. Footsteps thundered as the classroom emptied. He didn't rush. He stayed seated for a moment longer, fingers flexing and curling slowly like something caged.
He eventually stood, slung his bag over one shoulder, and walked out. The hallway was a blur of faces and noise. No one noticed him. No one ever really did.
But three faces were waiting.
At the end of the street, down a narrow alley behind the school, three men stood blocking his path. He heard their footsteps before he saw them. The kind of deliberate, heavy steps of people looking for violence.
One of them — leather jacket, scar along his chin — grinned without warmth. "Dragonblooded trash."
Jim stopped, the rain falling soft and cold around him.
"You think you can just walk among us? Hide like you belong?" The man's lip curled. The two others flanking him cracked their knuckles. Iron rods in their hands.
Jim exhaled slowly, breath misting in the cold air. "I don't want trouble."
The leader spat on the ground. "Too late."
They rushed him.
For one heartbeat, he let it happen. Let them come close. Let them think they had him. He almost wanted them to land a hit, to remind him what pain felt like.
But then that old, cold instinct rose from deep inside — the thing beneath the skin, coiled and waiting.
Black scales rippled up his arms and neck, glistening in the rain like shards of night. His pupils narrowed into vertical slits. Horns twisted from his skull, curling back like jagged obsidian thorns.
He caught the first man's wrist mid-swing. Bones cracked under his grip. The man's scream tore through the alley.
Jim twisted, yanking him off his feet, and slammed him into the wall. The sickening crunch of bone and brick filled the air.
The second man hesitated — too slow.
Jim pivoted and slashed with claws sharp as razors. Blood sprayed the slick pavement as the man stumbled back, choking on his own breath.
The third tried to run.
Jim blurred forward, impossibly fast. He grabbed the man by the back of the neck and slammed his face into the concrete. Once. Twice. Blood pooled in the cracks of the pavement, mingling with rainwater.
He didn't feel anger. He didn't feel satisfaction. Just emptiness.
The bodies twitched and groaned weakly at his feet.
His scales shimmered and melted back beneath his skin. The horns retracted, leaving only pale, wet skin behind. He wiped his bloodied hands on his jeans.
"You shouldn't have followed me." His voice was flat.
He left them there — broken, forgotten.
---
By the time he reached home, the rain had turned heavy, soaking through his hoodie and chilling him to the bone.
His mother stood at the stove, humming softly, cooking something that filled the house with warmth and normalcy.
"You're late," she said without turning.
"Got caught up," Jim replied, voice light, the mask slipping easily into place.
She glanced over her shoulder and frowned. "You're bleeding."
Jim looked down at the shallow cut on his palm. He hadn't even noticed. "Just a scratch."
She wiped her hands on a towel and came over, gently taking his hand. Her touch was soft. Gentle. Fragile compared to what he was.
"You need to be more careful." Her voice trembled.
"I will," he promised. A lie.
Dinner passed with quiet conversation about work, bills, and the small, ordinary problems of a world he didn't belong in. He smiled, nodded at all the right moments, pretending to be her son. Pretending to be human.
After dinner, he stood at the sink, washing dishes with mechanical precision. His mind drifted.
Father.
The word tasted like iron and bitterness.
A dragon. Powerful. Cold. Vanished before Jim could even open his eyes. Left his mother alone to raise a half-blood freak.
Jim's phone buzzed on the counter.
Cassie.
He hesitated. Then answered.
"Hey," she breathed. Her voice was soft, but there was a tight edge beneath it.
"Hey."
"I heard… something happened."
Jim's jaw tensed. "It's nothing."
"Did they hurt you?"
He didn't respond.
"Jim." Her voice sharpened, dangerous now. "Did they hurt you?"
"A little," he admitted quietly.
There was silence. Heavy.
"I'll handle it," she whispered.
His stomach twisted. "Cass—"
The line went dead.
He stared at the screen, heart beating slow and steady.
He should stop her. He should tell her not to do anything stupid.
But part of him… part of him wanted to see what she would do.
Hours passed.
He sat on his bed, staring at the floor, black scales flickering and swirling under his skin.
Outside, the storm raged.
A knock on his window.
He turned.
Cassie. Her hair was soaked, plastered to her face, her eyes wide and bright and feverish. Her clothes clung to her, streaked with mud and something darker.
He opened the window. She climbed in without a word.
She was shaking. Not from the cold.
"They won't hurt you again." Her voice was soft, lilting. Almost gentle.
He swallowed hard. "Cassie… what did you do?"
Her smile was slow. Too calm. "They're gone."
He felt cold.
"You didn't have to—"
"I did." She gripped his hand tightly, her nails biting into his skin. "Anyone who hurts you… dies."
He wanted to argue. But the words wouldn't come.
She rested her head on his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. "You're all I have, Jim."
"I'm not worth it." His voice cracked.
"You are." Her voice hardened. "To me, you are everything."
He let out a shaky breath. "I'm not human."
"I don't care."
"I'm broken."
"So am I."
She tilted her head, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth — soft, trembling.
Thunder cracked outside.
Inside, the silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
"I'll protect you," she whispered again.
He felt her fingers trace along his neck, stopping where the black scales still shimmered faintly. She didn't recoil. She only smiled.
"You're beautiful."
No one had ever said that to him.
He felt something deep inside twist and crack.
"I'll kill for you, Jim." Her whisper was deadly soft. "And I'll die for you."
He closed his eyes.
He didn't deserve her.
But he couldn't let go.
Outside the window, the storm howled.
And in the dark alley, three bodies lay broken and lifeless.
Cassie had made sure they'd never rise again.
And she hadn't felt even a single shred of remorse.
[End of Chapter 1]