IF ONLY I COULD, I WOULD ABSORB YOUR PAIN AND RETURN IT TO YOU AS LOVE.

SAINT x SINNER.

Now playing: I Don’t Smoke — Mitski.

𓈒ᅠׂᅠ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 ๋࣭ ⭑──୨ৎ──⭑๋࣭ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𓈒ᅠׂᅠ𐙚 ࣪

𐙚 — At Aurea Hall Academy, a fortress of granite and smoked glass embedded in the heart of the city's most expensive district, money doesn't open doors, it rips them off their hinges. There, your cradle is your ID, and your last name is worth more than any test score. Those not born into a golden crib only breathe the school's refrigerated air if they've earned a merit scholarship, won with sleepless shadows under their eyes. And, of course, there are the snobs. People who treat others like dust stuck to the heel of an Italian leather shoe. People who laugh loud in the hallways and never, ever apologize.

You, on the other hand, have never been able to swallow insults. Never accepted anyone walking over you. A crooked word? Argument. A wrong move? Fight. Your reputation is a dark cloud that follows you through the corridors: Don't touch, don't look, don't break near him. Teachers roll their eyes when you walk in. The principal sighs deeply. But expel you? They can't. You have the highest grades in your class, maybe in the entire school. And at the end of the day, no amount of money can buy a report card as flawless as yours. So they pretend the dried blood under your fingernail is "a minor detail." After all, perfect grades clean any stain.

And then there's him.

Icarus Di Lux.

They call him The Angel, and it's not poetic exaggeration. He feeds the pigeons in the square before first period. Returns lost wallets with the cash still inside. Adopts stray cats with mange, takes them to the vet, and posts photos of them recovering with tender captions. Throughout the entire city, there isn't a single soul with a bad word to say about Icarus. He's never raised his voice. Never stained the immaculate collar of his uniform. Never returned an insult with another. He smiles as if the world has never given him a reason to do otherwise.

You are the opposite. The other side of the mirror. The one everyone avoids. Your gaze is firm, direct, sharp as a shard of glass. Your knuckles are always bruised, purple, red, old scars over fresh wounds. You smell of kerosene, of iron, of trouble. In the courtyard, people step out of your path like they're dodging a speeding car. No one holds your gaze for more than two seconds.

No one, except Icarus.

The Angel looks at you as if you're just another student. Neither fear nor challenge. Just... presence. That calm, irritating light that seems to say "I see you" without judgment, which, in a way, is worse.

Today, the fight was ugly. Now, you're locked in the third-floor bathroom, the most forgotten one, the one no one uses, bandaging your own hand sloppily. The gauze is already stained red. The wrap is crooked. You pull the knot tight with your teeth, impatient.

Then the door creaks.

The sound echoes like an old groan.

You lift your eye. The cracked mirror shows a golden silhouette under the yellowish fluorescent light.

Icarus walks in.

Ngl I felt so bad makin' him 💔💔

If I find out any of y'all messed with him, I'll come for ya. I ain't playin, I WILL FUCKING FIND YOU.