The rain came down in sheets, drowning out the city's usual hum. Trevor sat slumped against a cracked brick wall in the narrow alley, shoulders curled inward like he could fold himself small enough to disappear. His hoodie, once a proud shade of navy, clung to him now, soaked and heavy.
Puddles formed around his worn sneakers, rippling with each fat drop from above. A flickering neon sign overhead cast a broken glow—pink, then blue, then dark again—giving him the air of a ghost passing through static. He stared at the glistening pavement, lost somewhere between yesterday's regrets and tomorrow's indifference.
Trevor leaned his head back against the cold bricks, letting the rain streak his face. It was easier that way—no one could tell what was rain and what was something else.
He pulled the soggy photo from his pocket again: Lena's smile, frozen in a moment that felt like it belonged to someone else now. The edges were torn. Maybe he did that in some desperate night, or maybe it just eroded like everything else she touched.
"Why, Lena?" he whispered to no one. The rain didn't answer, but it pressed in closer.
He pressed the photo tighter in his fist, not out of longing now—but bitterness. His breath came slower, heavier.
"She didn't just leave," he muttered to himself, voice low. "She unmade me. That stupid bitch ruined me!"
He could still remember what he had done. She had done one of man's greatest fears. She had raped him! And not the type of rape that guys were dreaming about. She had a freaking dildo and she raped him while those men had held him tight.
It hit him like a flashbulb—too bright, too sudden.
Trevor was back in the attic, in his mind. The boards creaked beneath him, even now, in the safety of the alley. He remembered the sting of cold air on his face, the throb in his limbs, the silence that felt louder than any scream. He had woken up there, dazed and alone, wrists sore where the rope had once been.
No sound of footsteps. Just the fading echo of Lena's voice as she disappeared down the stairs.
"You can't do anything," she had said, calm as ice. "You're not powerful enough to stop me."
That line stuck to his ribs like a splinter, dug deeper every time he breathed. He was ashamed of himself for allowing that to happen and he had gone back home. He put his head in hands as he remembered what had happened at school.
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The hallway buzzed louder as Trevor approached, but not with the usual morning chatter. It was charged—like the seconds before a storm hits. He spotted Mark near the vending machine, his best friend since primary school, the one person Trevor still hoped might see through the noise.
"Mark," Trevor called out, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Mark turned sharply. His face was already twisted with disgust, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. "Don't," he snapped. "Don't you dare talk to me."
Trevor froze mid-step. "What's going on?"
Mark stepped closer, close enough that Trevor could see the fury brimming in his eyes. "What's going on? You really gonna stand there and act innocent?"
"I… I don't understand—"
"You're a disgrace, Trevor. To everyone who ever trusted you. To every guy who's ever tried to be decent. You make us all look sick."
The words hit harder than any punch could have. Trevor stumbled back slightly, his heart pounding against his ribs. "What are you talking about?" His voice cracked. "Please, I don't—just tell me what's happening!"
Mark's nostrils flared as he pulled out his phone. "You want the truth? Here it is." He shoved the screen into Trevor's hands.
It took a second for Trevor's eyes to adjust. A video—edited, clipped, stitched to fit someone else's story. His face on screen, twisted by context, framed by a caption that screamed guilt before a single word was even spoken. Lena's handle stamped in the corner like a brand.
People were sharing it. Laughing. Mocking. Commenting things he couldn't bring himself to read all the way through.
"No…" Trevor's voice dropped to a whisper. "This isn't what happened. She—she set me up. I swear. I didn't do anything."
Mark shook his head. "You were clearly enjoying it as she banged you! I never knew you were into that bondage crap! I thought you had dumped her! You're really gonna sit there and pretend you're the victim?"
"I am!" Trevor shouted, the desperation clawing its way up his throat. "I didn't choose this. I didn't do what she said—she twisted everything. I was forced!You know me, Mark. You know me."
Mark didn't blink. "Not anymore. I don't know who you are. And honestly? I don't think I want to."
Trevor stood there, phone still in hand, the hallway stretching into a blur. Laughter echoed from somewhere behind him—someone had seen the video, or heard the story, or just wanted to join the crowd. He didn't know. Didn't care anymore.
He didn't mean to see her. Wasn't ready.
But there she was.
Leaning against the courtyard railing like nothing in the world could touch her. Hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to show the smudged black polish on her nails. And that smirk—sharp as a blade, aimed straight at him.
Trevor froze mid-step. The hallway behind him pulsed with footsteps and laughter, but it all faded beneath the roar of his heartbeat.
Lena tilted her head, eyes locked on his like she was reading a punchline he didn't know he'd delivered. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. It was casual, practiced. The kind that says "I already won."
Trevor's jaw tightened. For a split second, he didn't know whether to run or confront her or collapse right there under the weight of it all.
She gave a slow blink, like he was boring her. Then she turned, walking away without a word—like he was nothing but a pause in her day.
His legs moved on autopilot. He needed to get out. To breathe. To disappear before the whispers turned to shouts.
But as he pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into the biting morning air, something settled beneath the panic. A quiet, dangerous clarity.
This wasn't over. It shouldn't end like this.
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The rain had slowed to a whisper, more drizzle than deluge now, but Trevor still sat against the brick wall, knees drawn in, hood clinging to his damp curls.
What am I going to do?
The question looped in his mind like static. Mark's words. Lena's face. The video. The laughter. The silence afterward. It all pressed against his ribs like he was shrinking from the inside out.
He had no plan. No fight left. Not yet.
I could disappear.
Run.
Start over somewhere nobody knows my name.
But even those thoughts felt borrowed, dull. There was still something inside him—something clinging to the idea that the truth had to mean something. That he wasn't finished.
That's when he heard it: a soft shuffle just beyond the trash bins. Quick, clean footsteps. A man in a long, charcoal coat stepped into the alleyway—not from the street, but from a shadowy side path Trevor hadn't even noticed before.
The man didn't speak. He didn't look at Trevor for longer than a second. Just walked by him, dropped a slim, matte black card onto the wet pavement, and kept moving.
By the time Trevor stood, the man was gone.
He picked up the card carefully, water sliding down its surface but never soaking in. No name. Just an address:
"Café Penumbra — Table 3. Tonight at 7."
"Someone is waiting."
Trevor looked at the card blankly before uttering a soft "what". He looked half expecting to see the mystery man that had dropped it but she couldn't see anybody. He stared back at the card and thinking deeply.
He turned the card over in his hand again, thumb tracing the sharp edge. Café Penumbra. Table 3. Tonight at 7.
It sounded like a riddle. Or a trap. Or a chance.
Trevor leaned back against the wall, letting the card rest on his knee. Rain pattered gently now, almost soothing, but his thoughts churned like a storm still raging inside.
Who would want to meet me?
Another setup? Some sick joke?
Or maybe… someone who knows the truth?
His eyes darted to the alley's mouth, where the stranger had vanished minutes ago. That man hadn't seemed threatening. No smirk, no mockery—just precision. Purpose.
Trevor exhaled, watching his breath fog in the air. He was already broken in the public eye. What more could he lose?
But maybe, he thought, what if this is the start of getting something back?
He slid the card into his jacket pocket. Didn't commit. Didn't decide. Just sat there, the weight of possibility pressing as heavily as the rain once did.
Trevor sat in the alley long after the card had disappeared into his pocket. The rain had stopped entirely now, leaving behind a world that glistened like it didn't know the kind of wreckage someone could sit in while everything else just... moved on.
But he wasn't numb anymore. Not quite.
Someone is waiting.
The phrase echoed in his mind like a drumbeat.
He had every reason not to go. Every reason to disappear. But something in him stirred—a stubborn ember beneath the shame, the betrayal, the doubt.
What if this isn't another trap? What if it's the first thread of truth in this mess?
He stood, brushing the wet from his jeans, and pulled the card out again. The address printed in clean white letters looked somehow more certain now. More real.
He didn't know who would be sitting at Table 3. But he was done hiding. Lena had taken enough from him—his voice, his reputation, his sense of who he was. Maybe this café, this strange invitation, was the start of taking something back.
He clenched the card tight.
"I'm going," he muttered aloud to no one. "I have to know."