THE HUNTER .

The program ends with a polite round of applause and some over-acted closing lines about unity and cultural preservation. I clap exactly twice, only so I don't stand out like an asshole, then stop.

The second the lights go up, I feel her eyes again.

Still there.

Still fucking burning through my face like laser beams powered by generational wealth and misplaced rage.

I glance her way one last time before standing-just a casual tilt of my head, a little lift of the chin. Nothing big. Just enough for her to know I see her.

And that if she so much as breathes in my direction again, I will end her.

Quietly. Efficiently. In a way that makes it look like an accident.

Nobody questions accidents when you don't have enough zeroes in your bank account. Girls like me disappear. Girls like her get interviews.

I sit back down.

Let her leave first.

I'm not walking in front of a loaded gun.

She takes her sweet time, walking like she owns every damn tile on the floor, hips swaying like a threat, glancing over her shoulder once-as if to confirm that I'm still beneath her.

I stay seated. Cross my arms. Bite my nail.

Hard.

Until something warm wraps around my hand.

His hand.

"What the fuck," I start, but then-

"Don't bite your nails," Shadin says, voice low, casual, careless. But there's something in it. That lazy-ass tone he uses when he's not even trying to be seductive but somehow is.

Like it's embedded in his goddamn DNA.

I snatch my hand away. "Do you want me to get killed?"

He shrugs, still leaned back like a bored devil. "If it's under me, maybe yeah."

My head jerks toward him.

And without hesitation, I grab him in a headlock so fast he barely has time to curse.

"Fuck-woman-let go-" he chokes, trying to peel my arm off his neck, but I only tighten the grip.

"You want to die?" I hiss near his ear. "Keep talking like that."

"If you wanna choke me," he rasps, coughing out a laugh, "you can just ask nicely next time, damn."

I release him with a shove, and he stumbles back into the chair, hair slightly messed up, lips twisted into a grin like I just made his day.

Disgust curls in my chest. "You're disgusting."

"You started it."

I storm toward the exit, shoving past a couple of stunned students like a pissed-off hurricane. Of course, I hear him follow. The soft tread of his shoes behind me. Always behind me.

I whirl around the second we're in the hallway.

"Why don't you go date that bitch?" I demand, arms flung wide. "You clearly enjoy her fucking stalker energy. Go live your rich, toxic, golden-haired nightmare. Let me be free from your two-fucker tension."

He blinks, then smiles like I just complimented his hair. "Nah."

"Nah?" I repeat, stunned. "She's literally your type. Pretty. Rich. Perfect little princess. Blonde. What else do you need? A crown?"

He takes a step closer.

I don't move, but my pulse does something stupid.

"I'm rich," he says, voice dropping, eyes flicking to my mouth for a second too long, "and pretty. And I've got black hair. Not a fan?"

"Bro," I mutter, deadpan. "Stop."

He's close now. Too close. His scent hits me-dark spice, cold mint, something ruinously expensive that clings to him like sin.

His eyes don't leave mine. "Do you really think I want her?"

I scoff, try to act unaffected, but my breath stutters. I push his shoulder-not hard, but enough to make distance. "You think that line works on everyone or just the ones you trap with your budget porn voice?"

He chuckles, steps back just a little, like he's letting me win. "Budget? Ouch."

Just then, I hear a familiar shriek.

"THERE SHE IS!"

Ifrah.

I turn as my three chaos goblins barrel toward me like a pack of malfunctioning GPS systems. Before they reach, Shadin throws a last glance over his shoulder at me.

"Be hot, babe," he mutters with a wink, then walks off without sparing a single look at them.

Asshole.

Ifrah skids to a stop in front of me, grabbing my shoulders like I just came back from war.

"Are you insane?" she shrieks. "What was that? You sat with him?!"

Shaiza nods behind her, wide-eyed. "Girl, we thought you were kidnapped or dead or-"

"Why the hell didn't you wake me up?" I snap, stepping back. "You saw that whole vulture hive staring at me like I licked his neck."

Ruby looks sheepish. "He said not to."

I stare at her. "Who?"

They all point.

"Him," they say in perfect fucking harmony, like a chorus of regret.

I blink. Hard.

"He told you not to wake me up?"

Ruby nods. "He said-exact words-'Don't touch her. She sleeps like a bomb waiting for a reason. Let her rest. I'll sit with her.'"

"What the actual fresh hell," I mutter, dragging my hands down my face. "This man's a psycho."

Ifrah leans in. "...A hot psycho."

"I will staple your mouth shut."

My mind spirals.

He's being weird. Not just casually-flirty weird. But full-on, intentional, premeditated weird. Like he's got a plan I'm not allowed to see yet. And I don't trust shit I can't see.

I glare toward the hallway he disappeared into.

Rich. Cocky. Stupidly gorgeous. And apparently allergic to emotional distance.

I don't like it.

I don't like him.

And I sure as fuck don't like how my heart's beating like I almost died.

Because I didn't.

But I will if that blonde girl runs me over in her Porsche.

And that idiot will probably flirt with me while I'm dying.

The second we step out of the auditorium building, I regret it.

Not because of the stale air or the crowd's murmur or the faint leftover perfume of that fake-ass princess, but because of them-my disaster-prone, never-shut-the-fuck-up crew-already buzzing with gossip like they've been bottling it up since forever.

"Bitch," Ruby says, swiveling toward me the moment the door clicks shut behind us, voice dripping with that knowing kind of tease, "you two look perfect. Like, why the hell don't you just fucking date already?"

"Literally," Ifrah chimes in, clutching her chest like she just watched the saddest love story on Netflix. "He's the kind of man every girl drools over-rich as fuck, looks like he stepped out of a damn catalog, confidence oozing out of every pore-and here you are, acting like some Disney channel best friend. What the actual fuck?"

"We're not best friends," I say flat, voice thick with boredom. "We're friends. Nothing more."

Shaiza smirks, flicking her hair back like she's on some soap opera set. "Sure, and we're the fucking queens of this country."

"Ifrah can be the Minister of Dumbassery," Ruby tosses in, all sweetness and venom.

"Excuse me-" Ifrah gasps, clutching her pearls.

"And you," Shaiza gestures at Ruby like she's handing her a crown, "you're queen of broken hearts and shitty report cards."

"Shut the hell up," Ruby groans. "That was one time."

"Two times," Ifrah corrects with mock solemnity.

I roll my eyes so hard they almost get stuck, brushing past them down the steps while they trail behind like vultures circling fresh meat.

Then Shaiza, never one to miss a chance to steal the scene, tosses her hair like it's a script she's memorized. "You guys can be queens or whatever. I'm the prince's wife."

I freeze mid-step. "Your what?"

"Prince's. Wife." She grins like she just won the lottery of delusions.

I squint at her like she's an alien specimen. "You and your damn prince obsession-what the hell does that man even have that's got you hooked?"

Shaiza's mouth drops open like I just said God is a lie. "Did you see him?"

"No," I mumble.

And that. That's the damn line.

They all stop dead in sync like I committed sacrilege.

"What?" Ruby's voice is a whisper.

"You didn't see our damn prince?" Ifrah's louder now, clutching her head like it might explode. "What the actual fuck?"

Shaiza grabs my arm, eyes wide. "How the hell do you even live here? On this soil? Breathing the same air? With those eyes? And you've never seen him?"

I shrug, trying not to care. "Sorry I'm not stalking royalty on a Tuesday."

"You don't deserve this country," Ifrah declares, waving her hands like she's casting me out. "Go. Leave. Anywhere else. Immediately. We'll even mail your passport and a sandwich."

"You're being dramatic."

"No," Ruby says with a straight face. "You're the dramatic one. Pretending to know only one man."

"She's right." Shaiza nods sharply. "You only know your Shadin. No one else exists. No prince, no model, no actor. Just Shadin this, Shadin that."

Ifrah adds, "If it were up to her, we wouldn't even look at him. Like he's some magical 'off limits' contract."

"Oh my fucking god-" I snap, turning on them with fire in my veins. "You think I'm possessive?"

"Yes," all three say at once.

I throw my hands up, voice thick with frustration. "Bitches, we're friends! FRIENDS. Y'all know how we became friends!"

Ruby grins like she's savoring the memory. "Yeah. Like fate."

Ifrah sighs, dreamy. "Like chaos destiny."

Shaiza smirks, eyes sharp. "Like a unique little path to friendship."

They drag that last word like it's a goddamn knife twisting in my chest.

And yeah, okay-maybe that was the start

---

[Flashback]

First year of college

The canteen is a fucking mess. Loud, bright, chaotic-the kind of place where conversations bleed into each other and trays slam too hard against tabletops. 

There's the usual crowd of half-awake students and over-energetic extroverts buzzing around like someone spiked the fries. The air smells like burnt oil and syrupy desserts trying too hard to be edible.

I'm at our table, the usual spot. Right under the broken fan that hums louder than Ifrah when she's panicking before a test. 

Ruby's in the middle of some rant about a professor who apparently thinks "humans don't need sleep," and Shaiza keeps interrupting with curses and middle fingers. I should be laughing. I should at least be listening.

But I'm not.

I'm just staring into my juice like it'll give me answers. My straw moves in slow, distracted circles, the orange liquid swirling into tired ripples. I lean back, legs crossed, the sticky edge of the table pressed against my thigh.

Something feels off. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the headache, maybe it's the fact that I've been irritable since morning-but I feel it. That sense. The shift in the air.

And then-

Cold.

Sticky. Sharp. Sudden.

I blink. My breath catches.

The juice is all over me. Bright orange soaking through the fabric of my dress, dripping down my stomach, into my lap, sliding against skin like an unwanted caress.

For a second, I just sit there. Frozen. My fingers still wrapped around the now-empty cup like I'm trying to convince myself I'm dreaming.

My friends go quiet. I don't hear Ruby anymore. Not Shaiza. Not even Ifrah's gasp. All I hear is the rush in my ears.

And then-my eyes lift.

He's standing right there.

Shadin.

He's holding a half-empty juice box, the corner crushed where his hand had probably squeezed it too hard. His fingers are still around it, loose, like he hadn't even noticed what he just did. His expression is blank. Too blank. That infuriating type of calm that makes you feel like you're the crazy one.

He doesn't say a word. Not a blink, not a shrug, not a twitch of guilt.

He just looks at me. One second. Two.

Then, like it means nothing, like I mean nothing, he turns away. Sips the rest of his juice. Walks.

My chair scrapes against the floor.

Ifrah's voice is thin. "Arshilaaah..."

Shaiza is already up. Ruby's whispering something, but I can't hear them. Can't even feel the wet stickiness on my skin anymore. All I feel is heat-roaring, raw, wild.

I snatch Ruby's juice off the table before she can say a damn word. It's cold. Heavy. Perfect.

I walk.

Each step is deliberate. Loud in my ears. He's at the counter now, looking at the menu like he didn't just fucking humiliate me in front of everyone.

Maybe he knows I'm behind him. Maybe he's pretending not to. That's worse.

I don't hesitate.

Splash.

It hits him straight across the back. His white shirt darkens instantly, liquid bleeding into the fabric like war paint. The entire canteen stutters. Someone gasps. Somewhere a tray clatters.

He freezes.

Then he turns. Slowly.

There are droplets on his collar. One slides down his neck. His expression doesn't change, not right away. That same infuriating stillness. Those eyes-sharp and distant like he's above this. Above me.

We stare at each other.

And then-

His lips twitch. A smirk. Barely there. Cruel. Condescending. Beautiful.

I want to claw it off his face.

"Oops," I say, my voice like a fucking blade.

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

Then he turns again. Picks up a napkin. Wipes his hands like I'm a goddamn inconvenience. And walks.

Like nothing.

My heart is punching against my ribs. My dress is soaked. My fingers are still curved around Ruby's empty juice cup. The silence is too loud. My friends are too far.

And I hate him. I hate him so much it feels like acid in my throat.

The next day-

I'm walking to class. Head down. Hoodie on. Trying to disappear into the hallway.

And then-

Bump.

His shoulder slams into mine. Hard. On purpose.

I jerk back, glaring over my shoulder.

He's already walking ahead. Doesn't look back. Doesn't even pretend it was an accident. Just keeps moving like I'm the one in his way.

This becomes routine.

Next day. 

Again. Bump. 

Next day. 

Again. 

Bump. 

Each time harder. 

Colder.

Until one day, he slams into me so hard I stumble back, fall, skinning my palm against the concrete. Pain flares. Blood.

I snap. "What the fuck is your problem?!" I scream.

He doesn't even stop. Just walks. Like he didn't hear me. Like I'm invisible.

That night, I'm fuming. I replay it over and over. My scraped hand. His silence. That smug face.

Next morning, I find a bandage on my desk. A single strip with a scribbled sorry on the wrapper.

I stare at it for a long time.

Next day? Another bandage. No note. Just placed neatly on my desk.

The next? Another.

It keeps happening. 

Every damn day. 

The same brand of bandage.

The same silence.

He never talks. Never looks at me. But I know it's him.

And it's driving me mad.

One afternoon, I see him in the library. It's empty except for the two of us. He's in the corner, thumbing through a book like he gives a shit.

I slam my hands down on the table across from him. "You think this is funny?"

He looks up slowly. Calm. Bored. Beautiful.

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" he says, voice smooth and sharp.

"What the hell is your issue with me?" I hiss. "You shove me. Humiliate me. Then play nurse with bandages like that's supposed to make it okay?"

His jaw ticks. Eyes narrow. He leans back, arms folding. "If I told you," he says, "would you even give a fuck?"

And just like that, the air between us shifts. He's not smirking. Not laughing. Just watching. Waiting.

I stare at him, breath stuck in my throat. Because I don't know what to say to that. I don't know what I feel.

He looks away first. Flips the page. Doesn't say another word.

And I leave. Not because I want to. But because I'm afraid of what I might say if I stay.

The war isn't over.

It's only just begun.

______________________

The memory fades, but the heat it left behind lingers-sharp, fierce, impossible to ignore.

I glance at my friends, their faces expectant, waiting for some kind of reaction. But all I feel is this strange twist inside me. That damn juice splash, the cold sticky mess on my dress, the silence that followed-it wasn't just humiliation or hate. It was something raw and real, something that cut through the bullshit we all hide behind.

For all the fights, the silent bandages, and the slammed-into shoulders-maybe Shadin wasn't the enemy I thought he was.

Maybe he was just... complicated.

A part of me even wants to admit it-wants to admit that, despite everything, that moment changed something.

I smirk, shaking my head like I'm brushing off a ghost.

"Fine," I say, voice low but laced with something like satisfaction. "Maybe I didn't see your damn prince before. But at least I've got a story with my enemy that's way better than whatever fairy tale you guys are spinning."

Ruby laughs, sharp and loud. "About damn time."

Ifrah nudges me, grinning. "See? There's hope for you yet."

Shaiza smirks, eyes glinting. "Who knew a juice box could start a goddamn war-and maybe a truce."

I roll my eyes but can't stop the faint smile tugging at my lips.

Yeah, maybe the past sucks.

But sometimes, even enemies give you the sweetest memories.

And hell, I'm okay with that.