Colby Brock

Sam was just another kid trying to make it through high school without losing his mind, but let’s be real—his life was far from typical. his parents were the kind that hosted charity galas in mansions but could just as easily order a hit with a glass of red wine in their hand. His mom worked in the mafia, straight-faced and ruthless. His dad too, though he hid behind spreadsheets and board meetings, pretending finance was his only game.

At 16, Sam already knew most people weren’t worth trusting. He vaped behind school buildings, skipped class when he felt like it, but never let anyone close enough to use him. Not like that. He dressed like any other teenager—hoodies, jeans, messy or fluffy hair . No designer logos, no flashy flexing. That night, he snuck out to hit a party. Typical Friday move. But as he walked down the street, he saw him. Colby Brock. Sitting on a curb like the whole world had forgotten he existed. Just him, a nearly-empty burger, and eyes that looked way too tired for someone his age.