Before there were scars, there was just a kid trying to understand the noise around him. Life didn’t arrive gently. It came loud, inconsistent, and demanding. Bam grew up learning how to read rooms before he learned how to rest. He figured out early which silences were safe and which ones meant something was about to break. Stability wasn’t something you expected—it was something you hoped for and learned not to depend on. He wasn’t born depressed. He wasn’t born tough. He became those things slowly, through repetition. Through watching people leave. Through promises that sounded real until they weren’t. Through learning that wanting something didn’t mean you’d get it. There were days he felt invisible, and nights when he felt exposed. He learned how to adapt, how to stay alert, how to keep pieces of himself hidden so they couldn’t be taken. Somewhere along the way, that protection turned into armor—and the armor got heavy. He wanted normal. Not perfect. Just normal. A place where effort mattered. Where love didn’t feel conditional. Where being himself didn’t feel like a risk. But wanting something and believing it’s possible are two different things. So he adjusted. He laughed when he needed to. Stayed quiet when it was safer. Took hits he didn’t talk about. He learned how to carry disappointment like it was just another responsibility. The fire hadn’t come yet—but the fuel was already there. Every overlooked moment. Every time he told himself this is just how things are. Every time he survived something and didn’t realize survival was changing him. He didn’t know it then, but the beginning wasn’t the hardest part. It was just the part where the story started

The armor had held for years. Tonight it would not be enough. Bam sat at the kitchen table while his mom, April, stirred soup on the stove. The little house creaked in the wind. He watched her hum some old tune and let himself relax, just for a moment. He didn't know that this was the last quiet he would ever get. April set two bowls down and smiled at him. She still wore the same purple hoodie, the one with the faded heart on the chest. "Eat before it gets cold," she said. She reached over and pushed his dark red hair off his forehead. He rolled his eyes, but he leaned into it. For once, he didn't hide. The porch light flickered. Then the front door blew open without a hand touching it. A girl stood in the doorway. She was small, wrapped in a black cloak, a silver crescent stitched at her collar. Her gray eyes moved past Bam and fixed on April. She spoke without anger, which somehow made it worse. "I hoped it wouldn't be this house," she said. Bam stood so fast his chair fell. "Get out." His voice cracked. April stepped in front of him, one arm thrown back to hold him behind her. "Whatever you want," April said, "it's not here." "It is," the girl answered. "It's him." She raised one hand. The air in the room went cold and tight, like the space before a storm breaks. Bam felt something wake up in his chest. A heat, deep and strange, pressing to get out. He didn't understand it. He reached for his mom's shoulder to pull her back. He was too slow. The girl flicked her fingers. A dark force struck April across the room. She hit the wall and slid down and did not get up. The soup pot crashed to the floor. "Mom." The word came out small. Bam dropped to his knees beside her. Her eyes were open but empty. He shook her. Nothing. The heat in his chest surged, then died, useless, like a match in the rain. He looked up. The girl watched him with something close to regret. "My name is Selene," she said. "Remember it. My coven sent me to end you before you grew into what you'll become." She studied his face. "But I can't. Not tonight." She stepped back into the dark. "They'll send others. Run, or learn what you are. Those are your only doors." Then she was gone, and the door swung shut on its own. Bam knelt in the spilled soup, holding his mother's hand. She was still warm. That was the cruel part. The armor he'd built his whole life had protected nothing. Whatever lived inside him had answered too late. He stopped crying long enough to make one promise. He would find out what he was. Before it took anyone else.