Thread 11 – Zen Rivers. [0.5. Red Thread of Fate]
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On November 27, 2024 By Fang Dokja In Arc 0.5. Red Thread of Fate
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Content and Trigger Warning:
This story contains themes and scenes that may be distressing to some readers. Please take caution before proceeding. The following content and trigger warnings apply:
1. Childhood Trauma: The character, as a young child, experiences the trauma of witnessing grief and coping with the loss of a parent.
2. Parental Crying and Emotional Breakdown: A scene of a mother’s emotional breakdown, including her sobbing, may be triggering to those sensitive to depictions of distress and sorrow.
3. Abandonment and Emotional Isolation: Themes of emotional abandonment, loneliness, and isolation are explored as the protagonist learns to suppress his emotions.
4. Internal Struggle and Suppressed Emotions: The story depicts the protagonist’s internal struggle to hide vulnerability and emotions, contributing to psychological distress.
5. War-related Trauma: There are references to a parent’s death related to an explosion and war, which may be unsettling to readers sensitive to these themes.
6. Childhood Abandonment: A young child is abandoned by a parent, left in a basket without explanation, which may be distressing for readers sensitive to themes of neglect and abandonment.
7. Emotional and Physical Abuse: The character’s early environment reflects neglect, emotional turmoil, and the impact of parental struggle, including the emotional burden placed on the child.
8. Parental Breakdown and Mental Health Struggles: Depictions of a parent suffering from severe emotional distress, including a breakdown and feelings of hopelessness, are present. This includes themes of mental health deterioration and suicidal ideation.
9. Parental Death/Absence: A significant absence of a parent, along with references to death and the loss of a family, might be emotionally triggering, especially for readers sensitive to grief.
10. Severe Loss and Grief: The character experiences the crushing emotional impact of loss, particularly the loss of a loved one, which is compounded by feelings of confusion and abandonment.
11. Nausea and Physical Distress: There are descriptions of the character feeling nauseous, physically weak, and disoriented, which may be unsettling for some readers.
12. Mental health struggles: The character experiences significant psychological distress, including anxiety, depression, and auditory hallucinations.
13. Emotional isolation: The character deals with intense loneliness and emotional alienation, which may be upsetting to some readers.
14. Bullying and mockery: Instances of verbal abuse and social exclusion from peers.
15. Suicidal thoughts/ideation: Subtle mentions of despair and the character’s internal struggle with feelings of hopelessness.
16. Loud and intrusive thoughts: Descriptions of mental chaos, overwhelming thoughts, and incessant voices.
17. Foul language: Use of strong language in moments of frustration and anger.
18. Sexual Innuendo: Suggestive language and sexual undertones, particularly in interactions between characters.
19. Harassment: Subtle manipulation and possessive behavior, including unwanted physical attention and emotional coercion.
20. Toxic Relationships: The dynamics of unhealthy, one-sided romantic obsession and possessiveness.
21. Self-Harm: Reference to scars from past traumatic events.
Please be aware that the story deals with complex emotional trauma and may not be suitable for everyone. Proceed with care.
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Status: Draft #1
Last Edited: November 27, 2024
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Zen Rivers sat alone in a dimly lit corner of the room, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table, the hollow sound echoing in the silence. He liked it that way. Silence was something he was used to, even if it wasn’t always his choice. The kind of silence that came with abandonment, with being lost in the world, with being tossed aside like something unwanted. Something expendable.
It wasn’t always like this. In the beginning, when he was just a kid, there had been noise—too much of it. His mother’s frantic whispers, his father’s gruff voice, the sounds of shuffling feet, and the hiss of wind through cracked windows. The noise had never stopped. Not until that day.
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It was late at night. The house was silent, except for the faint creaks of the old wooden floorboards. Zen, just three years old, had been tucked into bed hours ago. His tiny body curled beneath the covers, eyes wide open, staring at the shadows that danced across the walls. Sleep had always been elusive for him, a fleeting stranger he couldn’t catch no matter how hard he tried.
The soft murmur of voices from the other side of the house caught his attention. His mother’s voice. Her voice always had a certain soothing warmth to it, like the kind you’d hear from a lullaby. It was always calm, always composed, as if nothing could ever shatter her peaceful demeanor. Zen could remember that voice—her laugh, her gentle scolding when he misbehaved, the soft way she told him bedtime stories.
But tonight? Tonight it sounded different.
There was something fragile in her tone, something Zen couldn’t understand.
The whispers carried into his room, light but full of tension. His tiny heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to be awake. He wasn’t supposed to hear anything—he wasn’t supposed to understand.
Still, he couldn’t help himself. Quiet as a mouse, Zen slipped out of bed, his small bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor. He crept along the walls, crouching low as he made his way toward the doorway. His little hands gripped the edge of the doorframe, his eyes wide with curiosity.
From the hallway, he could see his mother sitting at the kitchen table, her head bowed, her back hunched in a way he’d never seen before. Normally, she was tall and strong, composed even in the face of the day’s weariness. But now? Now, she looked small, broken.
“Ma?” Zen whispered softly, but his voice was swallowed up by the distance, unheard.
She didn’t respond. She was staring at a small envelope in her hands, her fingers trembling as they clutched it. It was one of the letters from the military—one of the letters that had arrived far too many times.
He didn’t know what it meant yet. He couldn’t have understood, even if he’d tried. But that envelope was different. He could tell. There was an energy in the air that made everything feel off.
His mother wasn’t crying, not yet. Not as he stood there, peeking around the corner. She was just… sitting there. Her face was pale, her lips pressed tightly together as if she was holding something inside her, something she didn’t want him to see. But he could see it. She wasn’t herself.
And then, she spoke. The words came out slowly, like they were too heavy for her to carry. Zen’s tiny chest tightened as he heard her voice crack.
“Oh God… why? Why him? Please… please don’t take him. Not him. Not my… Liam.”
Zen’s heart skipped a beat. The mention of his father made his chest ache, but it was her voice—her voice was what shattered the world around him. There was no control in it. No calm composure. It was raw. It was real. For the first time in Zen’s short life, he saw the mask slip.
And then she cried.
It wasn’t loud at first. It was a small, shaky breath, a sob that seemed to come from deep inside her. But then it grew. It grew louder, like a storm that suddenly broke after holding in the clouds for too long. His mother’s tears fell freely now, her shoulders shaking as she buried her face in her hands.
Zen stood there, frozen, unable to move. He didn’t know what to do. His small hands pressed against the cold wall beside him, his breathing shallow. His mother was crying—his mother was crying. It was a sound he had never, ever heard from her. It didn’t make sense. His mother, who was always the strong one, who had always told him that everything would be okay no matter what, was now breaking apart.
He didn’t understand.
His father. She kept whispering his name. Liam. Liam, over and over, like a prayer, like a plea for him to come back.
Zen’s heart twisted. He didn’t understand, but he could feel the weight of it. The suffocating sorrow that hung in the air like a thick fog. He wanted to go to her. He wanted to comfort her, to make the pain go away, but he didn’t know how.
Should he go to her?
Would he get in trouble for being awake? Should he hide? Should he leave?
No, he couldn’t. He was scared. Scared of her sadness. Scared of what it meant. His mind was racing. But he couldn’t move. His tiny hands curled into fists. His eyes burned as he watched her—his mother—reduced to this broken shell of the woman she had been only hours before.
And then, he heard it.
The words.
“The accident… Liam… died… the explosion…”
Zen’s stomach lurched. The word accident echoed through his head. The explosion. The war. He didn’t know what that meant, but he understood enough.
He felt like he was drowning in the meaning of it. He didn’t understand how, or why, or what it meant for them. All he knew was that his father—his father—wasn’t coming back. His mother wasn’t going to smile at him the way she always had, or kiss his forehead before bed, or laugh when he told his silly stories.
His father was gone.
Gone, just like that.
And Zen, only three years old, didn’t know how to cope with it. He didn’t know how to make sense of it. All he knew was that this new world—the one without his father—felt wrong.
He watched his mother cry in silence, her body heaving with each sob. The stillness of the room, broken only by the sound of her sorrow, filled his small chest with a weight he couldn’t explain. A weight that made him feel hollow inside.
But he didn’t go to her.
He didn’t reach out.
He didn’t know what to say.
He just stood there, peeking around the corner, feeling the first cracks form in the world he thought he knew.
The next few days were a blur of silence. His mother never mentioned his father’s death again. She never said his name. She never spoke of the explosion, the accident. She just went on, like everything was fine, like nothing had changed. But Zen could see it in her eyes. She was broken, and nothing was ever going to fix that.
But Zen? Zen learned something in that moment.
He learned that the world wasn’t kind. It wasn’t safe. It didn’t care about him. It didn’t care about anyone.
But he also learned something else.
He learned to never let anyone see the cracks inside.
Because once you show your weakness, once you break in front of someone, they’ll never look at you the same way again.
He didn’t want to be weak. He didn’t want anyone to see him as fragile. He’d never show his pain.
Not like his mother.
Not like his father.
And so, he fought. And kept fighting.
To survive. To be seen. To make sure he would never be forgotten.
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At age five, Zen had been left in a basket, wrapped in a thin towel, a nameless child with no family, no home. His mother couldn’t take care of him anymore—her tired, worn-out body couldn’t bear the weight of a child she could barely feed. And his father? The man was gone in a flash, snatched away in an accident that took everything from Zen. In the basket, there had been only one thing: a small card with his name written in slanted, hurried script.
No tears. No explanation. Just… abandonment.
Zen had been left in an orphanage, a cold, empty place where the echo of the past was always present, always gnawing at him. There were no hugs. No comforting words. Just empty faces, blank stares from children who had long since learned to protect themselves. He didn’t blame his parents. They weren’t bad people—just… broken, shattered by life’s cruelty. His mother had done her best, and his father? Well, soldiers didn’t get to stick around long, did they?
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The rain hadn’t stopped for days.
It poured in thick sheets, slapping against the windows of their small, dimly lit home, like nature itself was trying to drown out the despair inside. The wind howled through the cracks in the walls, and the only warmth that remained in the house was the broken, flickering flame from the fireplace.
Zen’s mother had been growing more distant as the days wore on. Her face, once full of life and warmth, had taken on a haggard, almost skeletal quality. The weight of her sorrow seemed to press down on her, suffocating her more with each passing day. She hadn’t left the house in weeks, and when she did, it was to walk the same worn path to the market, only to return with empty hands and nothing but more despair in her eyes.
Zen never left her side. Not even for a second. He couldn’t.
He was only five, but he could see it—the way her mind was starting to fray at the edges. He could hear the brokenness in her voice, the cracks forming where her strength used to be. She used to tell him everything would be okay, that the war would end, that they’d find a way to survive. But now… now, it was like she didn’t even believe it herself.
“Ma?” Zen’s voice, small and hesitant, came from the doorway of the dimly lit room where his mother sat, her back hunched, her eyes staring blankly ahead.
She didn’t respond.
“Ma, are you okay?” His voice trembled, a mix of fear and concern.
Her eyes flickered toward him, but she didn’t seem to see him. Her lips moved, but the words that came out were soft and broken, as if they were being torn from her throat.
“I can’t… I can’t take it anymore, Zen,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I can’t… not anymore.”
Zen took a step forward, confused and scared. He didn’t understand what she meant, but he could tell something was wrong.
Her hands were shaking, clutching something tightly in her lap. It wasn’t the usual comforting gesture, the way she held him or his little toy dragon. This was frantic, desperate. Zen’s eyes followed her hands, but before he could see what she was holding, she spoke again.
“They’ll come for us, Zen. They’ll come for us, and… you’ll be fine. You’re strong… you’re my anchor.“
Zen’s chest tightened at the words, but he didn’t know what they meant. He couldn’t grasp the weight of them, not at five years old. He just wanted her to stop crying. He just wanted her to be okay.
But she wasn’t okay.
She wasn’t okay at all.
The next moment, everything started to blur.
The rain hit harder against the windows, its deafening roar almost masking the sound of her soft sobs. Zen’s vision swam, his legs suddenly weak. Was he dreaming? Was he imagining all of this?
The words his mother whispered grew softer and more cryptic. Words like “I’m sorry… I failed you… please forgive me…” and “I don’t know how much longer I can protect you…”
Her voice seemed to get farther away, echoing in his ears as if he were submerged underwater. His body felt heavy, his limbs leaden, and the world around him began to distort. Was this how it felt when you were dying? Was this how it felt when the world slipped away from you?
He heard his mother’s voice again, more frantic this time.
“Zen… Zen, listen to me… listen to me, please. Stay with me… Please don’t leave me.”
But he didn’t understand. He didn’t know what was happening. His eyes fluttered, and his breath became shallow. His thoughts were muddled, his mind swirling like a storm. He felt something wet, something cold, press against his skin, but he couldn’t focus. The world was too loud, too confusing.
Everything was fading. Everything was… wrong.
He heard his mother cry out in anguish.
And then, everything went dark.
Zen didn’t know how long he was out. He only knew when he woke up, it was in an unfamiliar place.
The sound of rain still pounded against the roof, but it wasn’t the same rain. It wasn’t the same world.
He was in a bed. A clean, white bed. The kind of bed they only gave to orphans, the kind of bed that smelled sterile and impersonal. His body ached, and his head was heavy, like he had been drugged. The familiar warmth of his mother’s embrace was gone, replaced by cold, empty air.
His eyes shot open, panicked, his chest heaving. His breath was coming in sharp gasps as he sat up, looking around the unfamiliar room. The walls were bare, the floor cold. It smelled like cleaning supplies and something else—something sterile, something wrong.
Then, he heard it.
The soft rustle of paper.
A card. A little card sitting on the bedside table.
Zen’s trembling hands reached out and grabbed it, his heart thudding painfully in his chest as he read the name written on it:
Zen Rivers.
The name felt foreign, like it wasn’t even his. But it was. It was his name. It was the name his mother had given him, the name she had whispered to him as she held him close all those years ago.
But now, it felt hollow.
Zen didn’t understand. How had he gotten here? What had happened? Where was his mother?
He had to find her.
He jumped out of bed, but the moment his feet hit the cold floor, a wave of nausea hit him, and he stumbled, his knees buckling beneath him. He collapsed to the ground, his hands gripping the floor, trying to steady himself.
Where is she?
His thoughts were a mess. He couldn’t remember how he got here. He couldn’t remember what had happened. All he knew was that he needed to find her. He needed to make sure she was okay.
But then, as his blurry vision settled, he saw something else.
A small, worn toy dragon.
His heart stopped.
It was the one his father had made for him. The one his mother had always kept close to her. The toy dragon was all he had left of his family, all he had left of the only love he’d ever known.
He reached for it, clutching it to his chest as if it were the only thing that mattered anymore.
His mind swirled with confusion, with anger, with a deep, gnawing ache. Why had she left him? Why had she left him here?
Why hadn’t she stayed?
And then, just as his tears began to fall, Zen heard the last thing his mother had said to him, her voice still echoing in his ears.
“I’m sorry, Zen. I can’t keep you anymore. I can’t… not without him.”
She had left him here. She had abandoned him.
Zen didn’t know how long he cried. All he knew was that from that moment on, he was alone.
Alone. With only the dragon to remind him of the family he had lost.
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Zen’s small fingers twisted the card with his name, staring at it for a moment longer than he should have, letting the ache creep up his spine. “Are they alive?” He didn’t know. But he would never know. And it didn’t matter anymore.
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What mattered was survival.
From that day on, Zen’s voice became his only companion. He spoke constantly—sometimes just to fill the void, sometimes to drown out the incessant whirling of his thoughts. There was always noise in his head, voices that echoed, laughter, whispers. It never stopped. It was maddening.
He had to keep talking. Keep moving. Keep himself from crumbling.
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Zen wasn’t always like this.
He hadn’t always been so loud, so incessantly chatty, so distracting. There was a time when he was just a quiet kid, when the silence didn’t bother him. A time when he could play with his toy dragon and feel the safety of his mother’s presence nearby, even if she wasn’t speaking. There had been a time before the loneliness. Before the voices. Before everything that shattered.
But that time was long gone now.
The first crack in Zen’s world came when they took his father away. The news had been vague—an “accident,” a casualty of war. His mother had been distant after that, a shell of the woman she once was. She had tried to hold it together, for him, for the sake of her son. But even at that age, Zen could see it. The way she struggled, the way her eyes glazed over at times. She never told him the full truth, but Zen could feel it deep inside: She couldn’t do this anymore.
He understood now, of course. She had tried to stay strong for him, but eventually, the weight was too much. The burden of caring for him, the pressure of living in a world that was crumbling around them… it was too much for her fragile mind.
When Zen was abandoned at the orphanage, it was as though the very foundation of his being had been ripped from under him. He had no idea what had happened to his mother. He couldn’t even begin to understand why she had left him behind. All he knew was that he was alone, abandoned, and the emptiness that followed was unbearable.
The first few weeks were the hardest. He hadn’t understood what loneliness felt like until then. It gnawed at his insides, a raw, open wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. He cried, but no one came to comfort him. The staff at the orphanage were indifferent, and the other kids either ignored him or mocked him. He wasn’t special. He wasn’t anyone important.
And then the voices started.
At first, they were just faint whispers, like the fluttering of moths’ wings in the back of his mind. He thought they were nothing at first—just random thoughts, like anyone might have. But they grew louder, more insistent, more demanding.
It started with his father’s voice. It came at night when the shadows seemed to stretch too long, whispering in a low, gravelly tone: “Zen, Zen, you have to listen. You have to stay strong. You can’t let them break you, son.”
Zen would sit up in bed, gripping his stuffed dragon tightly as the voice echoed in his ears, but he couldn’t tell anyone. He couldn’t tell the staff or the other children, because they would think he was crazy. So, he stayed quiet, clutching his toy dragon as if it were the only thing that anchored him to reality. His father’s voice was comforting in its own way, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the others that followed.
The voices grew worse over time. They weren’t just his father anymore. They were strangers. They were… things. No faces, just noises—scraping, scraping at the edge of his thoughts. Sometimes they spoke in riddles, sometimes they cursed him, sometimes they just screamed. He couldn’t control it. It was always there, eating away at him like a sickness.
He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t think without feeling like he was being crushed from the inside out. The silence became his enemy.
Every time he tried to close his eyes, the voices would become more intense, like they were pushing against his skull, trying to break through. And the more he tried to ignore them, the louder they became. They were inescapable. There was no quiet, no peace, no relief.
That was when he started talking.
He didn’t know why, but the moment he spoke aloud, the voices would quiet. It was like a temporary reprieve, a break in the chaos. Even if no one was listening, he needed to say something. Anything. He would talk to himself, recite stories, tell jokes, sing songs, whatever it took to stop the voices from getting louder.
The other kids thought he was weird. They ignored him, mocked him. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Because if he didn’t speak, if he didn’t fill the silence, the voices would consume him. It was a choice between feeling like he was slowly going mad or forcing himself to be the most obnoxious, loud, hyperactive kid in the room.
He could see it in their eyes. They looked at him like he was a fool, but they didn’t understand. They didn’t know what it was like to have your mind constantly assaulted by things you couldn’t see. To have your thoughts constantly shattered by the relentless hum of voices. The only way he could keep it all at bay was to keep moving, to keep doing something, anything, to drown them out.
“Hey, hey! Did you know,” he’d say, his voice almost manic, “that you can actually hear the rain before it hits the ground? It’s like a secret, a sound before the sound—like magic! Try it sometime, it’s pretty cool, right? Yeah, yeah, magic!”
He didn’t care that the other kids stared at him like he was a freak. He didn’t care if they didn’t listen. As long as he kept talking, kept moving, kept doing anything to fill the silence, the voices wouldn’t be as loud.
But sometimes, they would get louder anyway.
One night, when he was alone in his room, clutching his stuffed dragon tightly, the voices came in a wave. They swirled around him, louder than ever, pounding against his skull like waves crashing against a cliff. He could barely breathe, barely think. His heart raced in his chest as he gripped the dragon tighter.
“Stop! Stop!” he screamed, his voice echoing in the empty room. But it didn’t help. The voices didn’t stop. They never stopped.
His mother’s face flashed in his mind, and the voice of his father, calling out to him to stay strong, to never give up. And still, the voices wouldn’t stop.
“Please…” he whispered to his toy dragon, holding it as though it were a lifeline. “Please, make them stop. Please. I don’t want to be alone anymore.”
But the toy dragon didn’t answer. It never had.
Zen didn’t care. He just needed it. He needed to feel something, anything, to stave off the madness that threatened to swallow him whole.
And then, the next day, he would wake up and do it all over again.
Talk. Move. Distract himself. Work. Whatever it took.
The silence and the voices were his prison, and he would do whatever it took to keep them at bay.
No matter how annoying, how tiring, how exhausting it became. Because in the end, he didn’t have much else. But he had his words. He had his movement. And sometimes, if he was lucky, he had someone to listen.
But mostly, he had himself—and the toy dragon his father had made for him.
That was all he had left.
And that was enough to keep him going.
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The other kids at the orphanage never understood. They ignored him or insulted him when they didn’t care enough to pretend. They didn’t listen. They never listened. He was a nuisance to them, just a noisy kid who wouldn’t shut up. They would tune him out, or worse, they’d mock him and walk away.
It hurt.
It always hurt.
But Zen wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t blind. He knew what was happening. He could see the looks in their eyes, the way they avoided him, the way they whispered behind his back, always making sure he wasn’t close enough to hear. He wasn’t a fool.
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The orphanage was a grim place. A dilapidated structure that seemed to echo with every footstep. The smell of stale bread and old clothes hung in the air, clinging to everything like a second skin. It had been years since anyone bothered to fix the broken windows or replace the peeling wallpaper. The walls were cracked, the floors uneven, but the real damage was the silence. The thick, suffocating silence of a place where no one truly belonged. Where children were born into neglect, where families had been forgotten, and where all you had was the sound of your own voice… if you were lucky enough to be heard.
Zen was lucky. Or rather, he wasn’t unlucky. He learned quickly that survival here wasn’t about strength or kindness—it was about being loud enough to be noticed.
At least, that was the plan.
“Hey! Hey, you guys! Look at this!” Zen yelled one day, standing at the corner of the worn-out playroom. His hands were full of broken blocks, stacked in a jumbled mess. He had been trying to build something, anything, just to get someone’s attention. But the other kids? They weren’t looking. They never did.
One of the older boys, Aaron, glanced up but didn’t respond. Zen could feel the rejection hanging in the air. Aaron was busy flicking a ball against the wall, trying to impress the older girls.
Zen blinked. Shit. Again. He felt the familiar sting of being ignored, like a slap that didn’t land, but still stung. Still, he wasn’t going to give up.
“I can make a dragon out of these! Watch me!” Zen said loudly, his voice full of that stupid, infectious energy.
“Shut up, Zen,” Aaron called, barely looking at him. “You can’t even build a house without messing it up.”
Zen winced, but he didn’t stop. He never stopped. The voices in his head roared, mocking him, telling him to give up, to stop being a fool. But Zen wasn’t that weak. He grinned through the ache, hands still moving as he tried to make something—anything—beautiful.
“One day…” he muttered under his breath, his hands moving faster. “One day, you’ll all see… I’m not dumb.”
Zen wasn’t stupid. Not by a long shot. He could read the other kids like an open book, and it was becoming painfully obvious: they didn’t care. They didn’t care about his attempts, his laughter, his rambling.
He was just the crazy kid who never stopped talking.
One afternoon, while the older kids were outside for some “free time,” Zen found himself stuck with the younger ones in the corner of the playroom, trying to get their attention. He clutched his little dragon toy in his hands, its threads worn thin from too many nights spent clutching it for comfort. It was the only thing that had stayed with him through it all—the constant, the unjudging.
“Hey, Lucy! Come here! I made something super cool!” Zen called out to a girl sitting on the other side of the room, her dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail.
Lucy didn’t move.
Zen puffed out his cheeks, exhaling a breath of frustration. “I swear, I can be the coolest guy if you just—”
“Zen,” came a sharp voice, breaking his focus. It was Emma, a kid Zen had tried to befriend a thousand times before. She had cold eyes, a girl whose smile always felt like it was painted on. “No one wants to listen to your crap. Seriously. Just… stop trying to be the center of attention all the time.”
Zen’s face fell, and the world seemed to freeze. The words were like a punch to the gut, not because they were new—they were the same old words he’d heard from everyone else.
Stop talking.
Stop being loud.
Stop being annoying.
Zen wanted to retort, to shout something back, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it. The words stuck in his throat, trapped like a rock lodged in his chest.
Instead, he stared at her, a vacant smile plastered on his face, like he always did when the weight of being ignored crashed down on him.
“Fine,” Zen muttered, but not loudly enough for anyone to hear. “Maybe one day you’ll understand… you’ll see me for real.”
The days passed in a blur of failed attempts and mindless chatter. Zen had learned to adjust his approach, pretending to be stupider than he was, to act like a fool, to make them laugh, just to make them look at him. His tricks, his jokes, they were all a façade—a mask to hide the sharpness of his mind.
“You see, this is how you do it, Lucy,” Zen said, showing off a trick with a toy dragon that he made out of blocks. He was grinning, his eyes wide with excitement, but beneath it all, the bitterness bubbled. “Watch! I can do anything if I try hard enough!”
But Lucy only sighed and rolled her eyes.
“Whatever, Zen,” she muttered.
Zen’s hands froze, his smile faltering. He forced it back on. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t crazy. He could see it—their indifference, their contempt. It was clear.
He wasn’t dumb.
No, he just had too much energy. Too much life.
He just needed to make them see him.
So, he spent the rest of the day playing the clown, bouncing around the room like an idiot, trying to make them laugh, trying to make them notice him for something other than the annoying, noisy kid. His voice echoed in the hallways, bouncing off the cold walls like an endless loop.
“Hey! Look at this!” Zen shouted again, hopping in front of Lucy and her friends, his arms flailing dramatically. “I’m a dancing fool! Woo!”
Lucy and Emma exchanged looks.
“Stop it, Zen,” Lucy said, her voice sharp. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Zen stopped, frozen. The laughter he hoped for never came. Instead, all he saw were the eyes—cold, dismissive. They were always cold. Always judging.
But Zen wasn’t stupid.
He saw everything. He saw them pretending, the way they’d look at him like he was some circus animal performing for their amusement. He knew what they thought of him. They thought he was a fool. But they didn’t understand. He wasn’t pretending.
He wasn’t pretending when he tried to build a dragon out of blocks.
He wasn’t pretending when he showed them the world through his eyes, a place where he wasn’t alone.
He wasn’t pretending when he kept talking, even though no one was listening.
But that was alright. Zen didn’t care. He would keep fighting. He would keep talking. He would keep hoping, because that was the only thing he had left.
And maybe, just maybe, someone—someone—would finally listen.
Zen could only hope.
And pray.
And never stop.
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But he fought.
He fought with everything he had. He kept talking, kept moving, kept hoping. And one day, someone would listen. Someone would see him. Someone would care. He couldn’t stop. The thought of being alone—truly alone—was more terrifying than the madness in his head. He didn’t want that. Not again.
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And then there was Deon.
She was quiet. Silent. Aloof. But when Zen met her, when their eyes met for the first time, he saw something in her. Something that no one else could see. People thought she was just zoning out, lost in her own world, not paying attention. But Zen knew better. He was sharp. He had spent his life learning to read people, to understand what they were really thinking.
And Deon? Deon was listening.
She wasn’t as empty as the others. She wasn’t tuning him out. When he talked, she heard him. When he rambled about this or that, she stayed there, silent, but there. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t walk away. She just listened.
It was the first time in his life that someone had actually listened to him.
And that, for Zen, was enough.
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The first time Zen saw her, he couldn’t explain it. It was like a crack in his mind had been sealed with something real. Something solid. His gaze locked onto her, and there it was—the unmistakable sense that she was different. The aloof girl in the corner of the classroom, sitting like a stone statue, completely indifferent to the chaotic noise around her. The mute girl with the face as neutral as a marble sculpture, yet somehow, alive.
Deon Fonias.
He’d heard the rumors before—of course he had. Everyone had. How could they not? She was the freak who had the audacity to go head-to-head with Reine Albertine, the golden boy of Bona Fide Academy, and humiliate him in front of everyone on her first day. Zen had laughed so hard at the video, his stomach hurting from the sheer audacity of it. That was a gutsy move, even by his standards. To think that a girl, someone so quiet, so unassuming, would walk into this school and make an enemy of the most powerful student there—well, that was a level of boldness he didn’t expect.
He admired it. Respected it. She was just… so different from everyone else.
It was strange, he thought, how quickly he was drawn to her. He wasn’t normally the type to be so intrigued by anyone. Most people bored him. They all seemed the same, all following the same predictable patterns. But her? She was an enigma. Silent, yes, but there was something in the way she carried herself. Something that spoke louder than words.
Zen wasn’t fooled by her silence. He could feel it—her presence. It was like she was watching, even when she wasn’t. And when they made eye contact? A jolt ran through him, like the first lightning strike of a storm. He couldn’t explain it. He just knew. She was the one.
“Hey, hey!” Zen grinned widely, rushing toward her in the hallway, trying to catch her attention as usual. “You know, I heard a funny story the other day! They say if you sleep with a pen under your pillow, you’ll dream of… I don’t know, something weird—like, I dunno, an alien or a giant banana or something! Pretty cool, huh?”
He didn’t expect a response. He didn’t need one, honestly. She would nod or shake her head, maybe give him a gesture. That was enough. That was all it took to keep him talking. Keep him distracted. Keep his mind from shattering under the weight of the thoughts that constantly buzzed like static in his head.
“Anyway, I was thinking,” Zen continued, his voice animated, jumping from one topic to the next, “if you could pick any fruit to be—what would you be? A pineapple? A melon? I’d probably be a pineapple. They’ve got that tough outer shell, but they’re sweet on the inside, you know?” He chuckled, his eyes never leaving her as he spoke. “You, Deon, would probably be some kind of mysterious fruit. Maybe a durian. Everyone hates it, but once you get past the outside, it’s, like, full of gold inside. Yeah. That sounds like you.”
Her expression never changed. But her eyes—they were always on him. He saw it. He knew she was listening. Her gaze was piercing, focused. She might not speak, but she heard. He could tell. It was like she could read every thought he had, could see beyond his act. She wasn’t fooled by his ridiculous stories, his fake distractions. She understood him in a way no one else did.
And that was what made him want her even more.
No one could get him. No one could see him the way she did.
He didn’t know exactly when it happened, but it was like a switch was flipped. One day, he saw her—really saw her—and that was it. His heart had locked into place. He hadn’t expected it, didn’t plan on it, but there it was. The realization hit him like a freight train: he was in love.
He’d never really believed in love at first sight. Not the way people talked about it in books or movies, at least. But with her? With Deon? He didn’t need words to know. It was something deeper, something that went beyond attraction or simple interest. It was obsession. A need. A pull he couldn’t ignore.
“Hey, Deon,” Zen leaned in closer to her during their first tutoring session, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, I’m really happy you’re my tutor. Seriously. I’ve been so distracted in class, it’s hard to focus, but with you here… well, I think I can finally concentrate. Maybe I should be your student for life. Would that be too much?”
He grinned at her, expecting her usual impassive response. But this time, he couldn’t help himself. The thought flickered in his mind, wild and sudden—I should kiss her. Right now.
His heart raced at the thought. She was so close. Just one move, and he could do it. He could take her lips, feel her response, see if she was the same as the others or different. No, wait, he told himself, catching his breath. She’s not like the others.
He pulled back, trying to regain his composure. He wasn’t stupid—he could see she wasn’t the affectionate type. She was too reserved, too aloof. She didn’t want that kind of attention.
But that didn’t stop his mind from racing. What if he could convince her? What if he could pull her into his world, the one where he could make her feel something? He wasn’t like the other boys who tried to get her attention. No, he saw her. He understood her. She wasn’t like everyone else. And he wasn’t like everyone else either.
“Don’t worry, I won’t try anything weird, okay?” Zen laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. He threw her a wink, feeling a little foolish for even thinking about it. “But you know, if you ever wanted to—well, you know—go out for coffee or something, I think I could make a pretty good date. I mean, I’d be great company, I promise!”
He watched her silently for a moment. She didn’t speak, but she nodded, just a small gesture. And that? That was all he needed. That one small nod made his heart leap. She was listening. She always was.
Deon Fonias was different, yes. But she was also his, in a way. He could tell. He could feel it. The way she didn’t look at him with the same boredom or irritation that others did. The way she stayed silent, but it was the silence that spoke to him. She might not understand it yet, but he was sure of one thing.
He was going to make her his.
The thought sent a chill of excitement through him.
His little wife.
The one who listened when no one else would.
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Deon reminded him of the stuffed dragon he had kept with him through the worst of it. The toy his father had made for him before he died, a silly little thing, a soft, silent thing. A creature that never judged, never spoke, never demanded anything. It was always there. And when the world felt too loud, too overwhelming, Zen would curl up with it, clutching it tight, and for a moment, the voices would stop.
Deon was like that dragon to him.
She wasn’t a protector. She wasn’t strong, not in the way others thought strength worked. But she was there. Silent. Still. And for Zen, that was enough. That was what he needed. Someone who wouldn’t leave. Someone who wouldn’t judge him.
Someone who would listen.
He didn’t know much about Deon’s past. He didn’t need to. It didn’t matter. He knew she wasn’t perfect. She had her issues, her problems, her quiet battles. But then again, so did he. They weren’t so different. They were both broken in their own ways. Both of them had learned to live in silence, to drown out the world with the noise of their own minds. But Deon—she was different. She was the first person who truly understood what it was like to be ignored. To be an afterthought.
Zen’s fingers traced the scar on his arm, a faded memory from when he was just a child, the remnants of a war that had scarred everyone around him. The orphanage had barely survived the violence, and so many of the kids had carried the weight of it in ways that were harder to see. But Zen had learned. He had learned to listen, to help, to be there when someone needed it.
He wasn’t a fool. He knew Deon’s silence wasn’t just about being mute. It was about the pain. It was about the trauma. The things she didn’t talk about.
But Zen didn’t push. He couldn’t.
He wanted to be there for her.
But he wouldn’t force her.
He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted to see what made her tick, what made her react. But for now, he was content with just… being there.
He could already tell that she didn’t mind his touch. She wasn’t uncomfortable with it. She wasn’t pushing him away. It was a small thing, but to Zen, it meant everything. He didn’t know how long he’d have this chance. To be close to someone, to be the one who wasn’t ignored, who wasn’t mocked.
So, he clung to it. To her.
She was his.
And he would protect that.
No matter what.
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Zen Rivers wasn’t stupid. Far from it, actually. He just acted like it, and people bought the act. They were too busy laughing at him, dismissing him as a fool, to notice how sharp his mind really was. He didn’t care much for grades—those didn’t matter. But his mind? His mind was always working, always spinning. Analyzing, calculating, observing.
And right now? He was observing her. Deon.
The aloof, silent girl who’d stolen his attention, his heart, his thoughts.
It wasn’t just that she listened to him in ways others didn’t. It wasn’t just that she seemed to understand him even when she didn’t speak. It was everything about her. Her silence, her mystery. The way she held herself like a secret, a puzzle begging to be solved.
But, of course, Zen wasn’t blind.
He noticed the competition.
It had been obvious for days now. Reine Albertine, the golden boy of Bona Fide Academy. Rich, handsome, charming—the whole package. Everyone loved him. He was adored by his classmates, by the teachers, by anyone who had the pleasure of meeting him. He could do no wrong. The emperor of the school. The heartthrob.
And yet, Zen could see it.
He’d been watching Reine closely since that day. That day when Deon had completely floored him. The first time she insulted him, then humiliated him in front of everyone on her first day. Reine’s pride had been wounded, his ego bruised. He’d sworn to never acknowledge her, but Zen could tell something had shifted in Reine after that moment. He’d seen it in his eyes. The way Reine looked at Deon, distant and lost, as if he were lost in a fantasy, a dream that only existed when he looked at her.
Zen had caught him more than once, staring at her from across the room, his face slack, his eyes almost soft—not like Reine at all. Zen wasn’t the type to let these things slip by unnoticed. He’d seen it. Reine had feelings. Real feelings. Something Zen hadn’t expected.
Reine was in denial, though. He was the playboy, the flirt, the king. He couldn’t have fallen for someone like Deon. She was a freak. An outcast. She was the girl no one noticed. She was the girl no one wanted.
And yet Reine wanted her.
Zen chuckled to himself, feeling a thrill of dark amusement at the thought. Oh, it was delicious. Watching Reine squirm under the weight of his own feelings, so sure of himself, acting as though he was above it all. But Zen could see the cracks in his armor. The way Reine couldn’t keep his eyes off Deon, the way his voice softened when he spoke to her.
It was clear as day to Zen.
Reine had fallen for her. And Zen wasn’t about to let that happen.
So Zen did what he did best. He made his move. He’d seen the way Reine would get closer to Deon after school, working together on some punishment project or another, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Deon started leaning toward him. But Zen wasn’t about to wait for that.
No.
Zen was smarter than that.
He had his own plans.
That’s when he’d asked for the tutoring session. The tutoring session that would keep him close to Deon during the day, when she wasn’t with Reine. The tutoring session that would give him the upper hand. The chance to be with her all the time, to work with her, to feel her presence constantly.
He didn’t care about the academics. He wasn’t here to study or learn. He was here to claim what was his.
And then—oh, the sweet part of it. The cherry on top.
During lunch, Zen had decided to make Reine’s jealousy clear. He wasn’t subtle about it. He didn’t have to be. He wanted Reine to see.
When he sat down in the cafeteria, he made sure to take Deon’s hand, pulling her onto his lap. He didn’t care who saw, who whispered, or who judged. He wasn’t here for their opinions.
He held her close, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering for just a moment too long. His smile was wide, almost too innocent, as he looked around at the people staring. But he didn’t care. His eyes were on Reine.
Reine’s face was priceless. The darkening of his expression, the tightness in his jaw. The possessiveness radiating off him in waves. Zen could feel it. He could feel Reine’s gaze burning a hole into the back of his head, and it sent a thrill down his spine.
Perfect.
Zen knew exactly what he was doing. He was taunting Reine. Testing him. Pushing him further into the denial he so desperately clung to.
Zen knew how Reine looked at Deon now. It wasn’t the same as before. The coldness, the disinterest, it was gone. There was a softness in his eyes when he spoke to her. A tenderness that no one could deny.
It was funny, really. Reine thought he had everything, but Zen could see the cracks. He could see the desperation in Reine’s eyes when he looked at Deon, the way his bravado faltered for just a second whenever she was near.
But Zen didn’t need to worry about Reine right now. The problem wasn’t Reine. It was Deon.
And Deon? She didn’t notice a thing.
She was as clueless as always. She didn’t realize that Zen was playing the game. She didn’t realize that he was the one who would win.
She was dense, almost painfully so. She didn’t notice when he touched her hand, when he made a joke, when he held her a little too close. She didn’t seem to care that he’d just made Reine’s life a living hell by flaunting their closeness.
But that was fine. Zen didn’t need her to notice yet.
She would.
Eventually.
And when she did?
She would be his.
For now, Zen was content to play the fool. He didn’t mind being laughed at, being mocked. The clowns of the world often had the last laugh.