"Three, Two, One"
(The screen flickered to life from blank void, a haze sharpening into crystalline focus on four striking figures sprawled across a sleek black leather couch. Renji Kurose, Damien Fuller, Soren Valenhardt, and Han Jiwon—four towering men, their lean well built frames radiating effortless dominance under the studio's warm golden lights. The camera captured them in perfect symmetry: broad shoulders tapering to narrow waists, vascular arms draped casually, long athletic limbs stretched out like coiled predators at rest. A live stream counter ticked upward, chats exploding in real-time frenzy.)
(A deep throat-clear echoed, gravelly and commanding. Damien Fuller leaned forward first, his deep brown skin glowing with that radiant sheen, dreadlocks pulled into a loose half-tie—most cascading mid-back, a few rebellious strands framing his bold jawline and collarbone. His almond-shaped eyes, flecked with amber, locked onto the lens with piercing warmth tempered by restraint. The earthy scent of sandalwood and fresh rain clung to him subtly, mingling with the room's ambient hum.)
"Yo, it's been a minute," (Damien rumbled, voice smooth and resonant, lips curving into that soft, knowing smile revealing even white teeth. He wore an olive green short-sleeved shirt, top buttons undone to flash a thin gold chain nestled against his firm, pectoral-carved chest; khaki pants hugged his long legs down to pristine white sneakers. A golden watch glinted on his wrist as he gestured broadly.) "Y'all wondering where we ghosted to? First off—our bad."
(His gaze flicked to the monitors, scanning the chat avalanche. The automated voice chimed crisply:)
"MRLARPINATER donated $5. 'Where did y'all go that was so important you ditched us?'"
(Damien's chuckle rumbled low, silent but vibrating through his sculpted frame—a ripple across traps and delts. Beside him, another figure stifled a laugh, silvery-white ponytail swaying faintly; they'd circle back to him soon.)
"Alright, alright—settle," (Damien said, leaning back with coiled ease, posture impeccable yet relaxed.) "We got pulled into a high school reunion. Hosted by an old classmate from... four, five years back? Timeline's fuzzy—I scrubbed most of that era clean." (His warm gaze iced over briefly, jaw squaring as buried memories surfaced. He cleared his throat, amber-flecked eyes refocusing.) "Point is, all four of us jetted abroad for it. Dubai. Why *us* specifically? Hell if I know—our host's a 'he,' kept it cryptic. But before I spill on the reunion, lemme rewind. The others'll share theirs, but first... my high school hell."
Damien Fuller's Past
(The halls of Lincoln High loomed dim and echoing, fluorescent buzz cutting through stale air thick with teenage sweat and cheap cologne. Damien Fuller shuffled through them in a deliberate, awkward stride—6'3" of raw potential on the skinnier side back then, deep brown skin smooth but shadowed by exhaustion, dreads shorter and messier, framing a face already striking with its bold jaw and expressive lips. His mind screamed internally: 'Please don't notice me. Please, for fuck's sake, don't.')
(The universe ignored him. He froze outside Class 8-B, deep breath steeling his narrow frame before shoving the door open. But rewind—who was this Damien? A handsome giant with flawless skin, straight teeth, and symmetrical features that turned heads. Good looks, sure—but what good were they against a shattered psyche? Home was a warzone: middle-class facade hiding a father who pummeled his mother daily, sparing only Sundays for "church sanctity." Damien escaped the fists, but not the mind games. Over her screams, Dad's booming voice would thunder: "Damien! Guess who's crying? Your bitch of a mother—and guess whose fault? Yours! Tell him, honey, why'd I start?", "After I gave birth to Damien," she'd sob. Everything? His curse. No wonder he craved invisibility.)
(Inside, the room hushed then buzzed. Guys flicked glances, girls whispered and averted eyes. Damien was the school's untouchable Adonis—known since fifth grade, yet friendless. An extrovert's nightmare trapped in isolation: not bullied much, not mocked outright, just... erased. Wasted potential. Charisma? Zero. Funny? Nah. Athletic? Untested. Smart? Bottom of the barrel. Teachers sighed at him—so much potential—yet he squandered it all. Spotlight material, reduced to background noise.)
(He wove past desks to the back, bag thudding beside him. Stared blankly ahead, chest tight.)
(To his right, a cluster of guys muttered. Glances darted his way. One sighed—a boy with jet-black hair, light blue eyes, average everything—before twisting around.) "Yo, Damien."
(The class froze. Damien jolted, eyes narrowing.)
"I heard your bitchass mom gets beaten by your dad."
(Damien's mind reeled: How the fuck does he know?) "What?" (he muttered, voice low and edged.)
(The boy grinned, confidence surging.) "My boy here's your neighbor—says he hears your dad yelling at you while pounding her. Me? I'd never let a man touch my mom."
(Gasps rippled. "Nahhhh," someone intoned.)
+A girl snapped,) "Hey, not funny laughing at someone's pain."
(The boy wheeled on her.) "Ain't you the one who called Damien a pussy for ghosting you? And didn't you clown at that other guy for getting abused by his girl?" "Oh damn." "You're just simping 'cause you wanna fuck him. Can't blame a slut."
(Damien sat stunned: Great, I sparked this shitshow. Why always me?)
"Funny, how's a failure like Damien even here? Daddy bribe the teachers? Or Mommy suck off the principal?"
"Bro, chill," (a friend snickered, lips twitching.)
"Nah, he's a pussy—won't do shit."
(Damien exploded upright, surging forward.) "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" (Guys scrambled to restrain him, traps flaring under his shirt.)
(The ringleader paled as a friend flashed a crumpled bet note—cash on making Damien snap.) "Dude, chill—it was a joke. Why the scene?"
(Damien snarled,) "JOKE MY ASS! Y'ALL BITCHES WON'T FIGHT FAIR. CALLED ME A PUSSY? SAY IT TO MY FACE!"
(A whisper, then a grin. The group rose; one kicked Damien's groin hard. Restrainers dropped back. Boots rained down—stomps thudding into his lean frame, ribs, back.) "Your slut mom's fault you're here! Dad beats her 'cause of you. How you even look like this? Shoulda been me—banging baddies, balling MVP, owning it all. But you? Bitchass waste."
"Where's the teachers?" "Stop this cartoon bullying!" (A shout cut through as the door burst open.) "HEY!"
(They scattered, one spitting on him. Chaos resolved, Damien slumped sore and shattered—reputation in the gutter, now negative infinity. Girls pitied silently; guys jeered openly. Bullying? Daily spite now. No fightback—grades teetered on Mom's rumored "favors," transfers vetoed by Dad.)
(Five months later, Damien slumped on a bench behind the school, bruised but unbroken. Beside him: three shadows emerging from isolation. Who were they?)
(Next chapter...)