The door slammed behind him, echoing through the vast, silent house. Daniel slowly took off his shoes, eyes blank, his mind still clinging to that alley, to those men, to their words. He had watched them like a scientist dissecting an insect. One of them, the older one, had hatred burning in his gaze. The other, younger, had that hungry, sick look… but they had both talked. Too much.
And what they had said — it was far more than he'd hoped for.
Elene Ferza's daughter… A whore, huh?
The name had echoed in his mind like a familiar refrain. It wasn't just an insult — it was a truth spoken cruelly, but without lies.
He climbed the stairs in silence, passing his younger brother Ben who was playing on the console, headphones over his ears. He didn't say a word to him.
Daniel stepped into his room and slowly locked the door behind him, like sealing a crypt. His footsteps carried him toward the back of the room, where a small wooden box, old and dusty, lay forgotten beneath his bed.
He pulled it out. Opened it.
His fingers brushed against the worn cover of a spiral notebook, wrapped in weathered leather. A journal his mother had given him shortly before her death. She had told him:
"Write whatever you want in it, darling. What you can't tell anyone else."
He had kept it. Untouched. Untainted. For years. Out of respect? Out of forgetfulness? No... Because until now, no words had ever deserved to be written in it. But tonight was different. Tonight, he had something to say. To confess. To release.
He sat at his desk, picked up a black pen, and opened to the first page. He stayed still for a long moment, then wrote in steady letters:
"Hena Ferza."
The name trembled slightly in the ink. Then he continued:
> Tonight, I saw the truth.
She's more beautiful than the shame surrounding her.
Purer than the filth she's trapped in.
But she's marked.
Already half-broken.
She struggles in a life she doesn't control.
She thinks she's strong.
She thinks she can hide her pain.
I see it all. Every piece of it.
And I know what I'm going to do.
He paused, took a slow breath, then resumed, this time with a more urgent handwriting:
> I'll get closer. Slowly.
Make her laugh.
Reassure her.
Become her support. The one she never had.
I'll be there when she cries.
When she doubts.
When she feels empty.
And when she finally opens her door to me…
I'll shut mine. On her.
A cold smile twisted across his lips. He turned the page. This time, the tone changed. No more strategy. No more plan. Just raw desire. Twisted. Bare.
> I want to see her on her knees.
I want to see the confusion in her eyes when she realizes she gave herself to the worst.
I want to turn her into a glass doll — delicate and cracked — whose every shard I hold.
I want her to belong to me completely — mind, body, memories.
I want her to breathe only through me.
I want her to beg.
And love me anyway.
He scribbled a string of unmentionable fantasies. Scenes, sensations, and words that no sense of morality would ever allow to be spoken aloud. But here, in this notebook, there was no censorship. No restraint.
Only him.
And that girl.
When he was done, he laid the pen down slowly, and stared at what he'd just written.
A whisper escaped his lips:
— You will be mine, Hena. Down to your very last breath.
Then he closed the notebook, stroked its surface like the skin of a secret, and tucked it back into the box.
The night could begin now.
The next morning, the usual chaos of the high school was in full swing. The hallways swarmed with students laughing, shouting, pushing. Daniel walked through them like a shadow—unbothered, his bag slung over one shoulder, eyes fixed straight ahead. He ignored greetings, whispers, and lingering stares. Nothing interested him—except one thing.
Her.
Hena stood by the lockers, talking with Bérénice. Her hair fell over her face like a curtain, hiding the expression in her eyes. But Daniel saw her lift her head slightly as he approached.
He slowed his pace. Just a little.
"Hi," he said, voice calm.
It was the first time he'd spoken to her so plainly in public. No sarcasm, no game. Just a simple, almost ordinary greeting.
Hena looked at him for a moment, a bit taken aback. Then, quietly, she nodded.
"Hi… And… thanks. For… what you did the other day."
Daniel didn't answer immediately. He simply looked at her, a barely noticeable smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Then he walked on without another word.
Hena turned her eyes away.
The night before
Hena's room was bathed in dim light, the bedside lamp casting a warm golden glow on the worn walls. Bérénice sat cross-legged on the mattress, munching on a cereal bar while Hena folded a sweater.
"You should thank him," Bérénice said, not looking up.
"What? Who?" Hena asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Daniel. For helping you in that alley. He got you out of a disgusting situation, didn't he?"
Hena shrugged, trying to sound indifferent.
"I didn't ask for his help."
"So what? You were in deep shit, and he stepped in. Did you see the way those guys were looking at you? He scared the crap out of them."
Hena flopped down on the bed, back against the wall.
"I know. But I don't want him to think I'm weak. That I need him."
Bérénice rolled her eyes.
"It's not about pride. It's just… basic decency. It won't kill you to say something nice."
Hena stayed silent for a while. Then she turned her head toward her best friend, jaw tight.
"He scares me, Bérénice. That guy… there's something about him. It's like he really sees me. Like he reads the filth in me, all my secrets."
"Maybe he's just curious. Maybe he sees what others refuse to see in you."
"Or maybe he's worse than I think..."
A heavy silence fell between them. Then Bérénice sighed.
"Look, you don't have to like him. Or trust him. But he protected you. That's a fact. So tomorrow, just a simple 'thank you'—that's not too much to ask."
Back to the present
In the school hallway, Bérénice watched the scene discreetly. She saw Daniel walk away after the brief exchange. Hena was staring at the floor, as if that single word had cost her more than expected. But deep down, it was done.
She had thanked him.
And Daniel had gotten what he wanted: a first step. A word. A bridge, fragile as it was.
But still… a bridge.