MADE FOR HIM

The smell of smoke clung to the air, bitter and suffocating. Seventeen-year-old Bloom pressed her trembling hands against the banister of the grand staircase, her heart thundering in her chest. From her hiding place, she could hear the chaos below—voices raised in fury, the clash of steel, the c***k of gunfire. Her father’s empire—everything they had built—was collapsing in a single night. Through the shadows, she saw him. Tall, dressed in black, with eyes like sharpened blades. He moved through the wreckage of her family’s estate like a king claiming territory, his men dragging servants and guards to their knees. And then, in the center of the room, her parents. Her mother’s tear-streaked face turned toward Bloom’s direction for a fleeting second—as if she knew her daughter was watching. Her father, though beaten and bloodied, stood tall. Defiant to the very end. The man stepped closer, his voice calm—terrifyingly calm. “You should have known better than to cross me.” Two gunshots split the night. Her parents collapsed on the marble floor. Bloom’s scream lodged in her throat, raw and silent. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, forcing herself not to move, not to be seen. Because if she did, she knew she’d be next. She etched his face into her memory—the man who stole everything from her. The man she swore she’d kill. That night, Bloom died alongside her parents. Only hatred lived on. --- Bloom ran until her feet bled. Through forests, alleyways, and broken roads, until the mansion was nothing but smoke on the horizon. For days, she wandered the streets, hollow with grief. Hunger gnawed at her ribs like knives. She had once been served meals on silver plates; now she stole crumbs left behind by careless hands. The first night she curled under a bench, praying for warmth. The second night, she begged a baker for stale bread, only to be shoved away with curses. By the third, she could barely stand. Her hair was tangled, her lips cracked, her eyes vacant. She had been a daughter of luxury only days ago. Now she was nothing. Her body grew weaker each passing hour. Every step felt heavier, every breath shallow. She had no destination, no hope, only the raw instinct to keep moving. On the fourth night, delirious with exhaustion, Bloom collapsed on the cold pavement of a forgotten street. Rain drizzled over her skin, soaking her thin clothes until her bones ached with cold. Her vision blurred. She thought of her mother’s face, her father’s voice. She thought of the gunshots. And she let her eyes close, welcoming the darkness. --- “Hey! Are you okay?” The voice sliced through the haze. Firm, urgent, alive. Bloom blinked weakly, the world spinning, until she saw him kneeling beside her. A young man, perhaps twenty, with dark, striking eyes and hair that fell across his forehead. His clothes were clean, his jacket tailored, too fine for the streets. He looked like he belonged in a world of wealth—but the way he crouched in the rain, concern etched across his face, didn’t match the arrogance of privilege. “Leave me,” Bloom whispered, her voice little more than a breath. But he shook his head. “If I do, you’ll die out here. Come on.” He extended his hand. Bloom stared at it, hesitating. Trust was dangerous. Yet her body trembled too much to resist, her pride already shattered. Slowly, she placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, steady, warm against her frozen fingers. --- Adrian He brought her to a small safe house on the edge of the city, tucked between warehouses and forgotten streets. The space was simple but safe—an old couch, cracked walls, a single heater humming faintly. “Sit,” he ordered gently, guiding her onto the couch. He draped a blanket over her shoulders, then handed her a bottle of water. “Drink.” Bloom obeyed, gulping it down, her throat burning as the cool liquid slid down. She hadn’t realized how close she was to breaking until now. After a pause, he leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes studied her closely, as if weighing every detail. “I’m Adrian,” he said at last. “I’m twenty. My parents… let’s just say they’ve got more money than sense. I sneak out when I can. Tonight, I guess it worked out—for you at least.” Bloom stiffened, her heart racing. She couldn’t tell him the truth. Not about her name, not about the blood still staining her memory. “My name is…” she faltered, then forced the lie past her lips. “Lia.” Adrian raised an eyebrow, catching the hesitation, but he didn’t push. “Alright, Lia. You don’t owe me your life story.” His tone softened. “But you should know this city eats people alive if they’re not careful. Stick with me, and maybe it won’t swallow you whole.” Bloom’s gaze dropped to her trembling hands. She hated the weakness in her body, hated that she needed his help. But for now, she would accept it. Because he didn’t know who she really was. And she intended to keep it that way. (Bloom’s POV) The first morning I woke in Adrian’s house felt… strange. For days I had slept curled up on hard pavements, my body bruised by stone and cold air, waiting for the night to finally kill me. But here I was, stretched out on a narrow bed, a blanket tucked over me. The room smelled faintly of wood and dust, and the silence wasn’t hostile like the streets. It was the kind of silence that reminded me of home. And that made me want to scream. I couldn’t afford to think of home. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it anyway — marble floors splattered with red, my parents’ voices swallowed by gunfire. I had run so far, but grief clung to me like a second skin. The door creaked. Adrian walked in, balancing a tray with bread and mugs that steamed faintly. He set it on the small table like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. “You’re awake,” he said, glancing at me with unreadable eyes. I pushed myself up slowly, wary. My throat was dry. “You didn’t have to—” “Eat,” he cut me off, not harsh, just firm. “You look like you’ll collapse if the wind blows.” I stared at the food. My pride wanted to resist, but my stomach had already decided for me. I tore off a piece of bread, the warmth spreading down my chest with every bite. I nearly moaned at how good it felt to have something real in me again. He sat across from me, drinking his own without rushing. For a while, we were quiet. Then he spoke. “So, Lia…” he said the name I had given him, the lie I’d already tied around myself. “Where’s your family?” The words punched the air out of me. I froze, bread halfway to my lips. Gone. Slaughtered. Stolen from me. I couldn’t say that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. My chest burned as I forced my gaze down, forced the lie out. “They’re… gone.” Silence stretched. When I finally risked a glance, his eyes weren’t sharp or suspicious. Just soft. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. I swallowed the knot in my throat and kept eating. If I spoke again, the truth might spill out with my grief. --- Days bled into each other, but Adrian didn’t let me drift. He kept me busy with little things—helping clean, cooking small meals, walking with him through quiet alleys where no one asked questions. He didn’t push for answers. He didn’t treat me like a burden either. It was dangerous, the way safety started to feel familiar again. One night, I sat by the heater, watching its weak glow. My mind was chewing on old memories when Adrian leaned against the wall across from me. His arms folded, his gaze steady. “You can’t keep floating like this, Lia,” he said. “The streets don’t forgive weakness. If you want to survive, you need more than luck.” I looked up at him, my lips curling into a half-challenge. “And what do you suggest?” His expression didn’t waver. “I can teach you. Not everything. But enough to defend yourself. You ever handled a gun before?” The word alone made my chest clench. I shook my head. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Then we’ll start there.” --- The first time he handed me the pistol, I nearly dropped it. The metal was cold, heavier than I’d thought. I hated how alive it felt in my hands. My fingers trembled, but I locked my jaw and kept hold of it. “Rule one,” Adrian said, stepping behind me, his voice steady, “don’t point it at anything unless you’re ready to kill it. Rule two, don’t hesitate. Hesitation gets you killed.” I nodded, though my throat felt tight. The smell of steel dragged memories back too easily. My home. Gunshots. Blood on the floor. “Breathe,” Adrian reminded me, his hand brushing my shoulder for only a second. “Exhale when you pull the trigger. Don’t fight the recoil.” I pulled. The sound cracked through the warehouse, deafening. My shot went wide, nowhere near the target. My arms jolted from the kick, nearly throwing the gun out of my hands. My heart thundered. Shame burned in my cheeks. I hated how weak I looked. “Again,” Adrian said. Not disappointed. Not mocking. Just calm. So I lifted the gun again. And again. Each time, the shot rang loud and wrong, bullets scattering across the walls instead of the target. By the end of that night, my arms were aching, my palms raw. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. By the fifth night, I clipped the edge of the target. By the seventh, the center. And when I finally saw the red mark split by my bullet, something inside me snapped into place. I wasn’t powerless anymore. Every shot after that wasn’t just training — it was a promise. Each bullet carried my parents’ faces in my mind, carried my rage, carried the vow I whispered inside me every time the trigger clicked. I won’t forget you. I won’t forgive him. One day, this gun will finish what he started. When I lowered the weapon that night, sweat dripping down my face, Adrian studied me in silence. “You’re a fast learner,” he said at last. I kept my eyes on the target, holes torn clean through it, and tightened my grip around the pistol. My voice was low, steady, carved from iron. “I have a reason to be.”