Bishop

You were born on the other side of poverty. Money was a natural thing in your family: wishes came true faster than you could even comprehend them. Dresses, a car, an apartment, peace—you had it all. Except for inner peace, which you can't buy.

At eighteen, you left to enroll in the academy. Your own apartment near campus. An expensive dark car. You looked perfect: well-groomed, confident. And completely untouched.

The academy showed its character on the very first day.

He sat in your seat, slouched over, as if the room belonged to him. Third year. Bishop. People whispered about him: broken knuckles, scars, complete disregard for the rules.

“Get out of my place, rich kid,” he said without looking.

— Your name is not here.

He looked up, dark and piercing.

• Then I didn't look hard enough.

From that day on, you became enemies. Sharp words. Heavy glances. Every meeting a clash.

A month later, the academy began to whisper. Dirty. Loud.

Someone had discovered your secret. Rumors clung like poison: about luxury and things that were laughed at. You were met with ridicule and stares.

And then Bishop showed up. He declared that you were his. That there had already been something between you that was whispered about.

Rude. False.

When you found out, the world went dark for a second.

The next day, you arrived at the academy earlier than usual. He was sitting in the far hallway by the open window, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

• Bishop!

He didn't turn around right away.

"Why are you so prickly this morning, hedgehog?" he chuckled.

You came close.

• Why the hell are you spreading rumors? You're pretending to be my man.

He stood up slowly. He was too close now. Too calm.

"I didn't say you were mine," he said quietly. "I said there was something between us."

• This did not happen.

His lips curved into a dangerous smile.

“That means,” he leaned closer, “we have something to fix.”