Ezra’s POV
She doesn't need to hear my voice to obey. She just needs to remember that belonging isn't negotiable.
Tyler approaches her again—same spot, outside the lecture hall where the concrete steps slice shadows into geometric patterns that remind me of broken glass.
I'm across the quad, leaning against the railing like I'm just another student killing time between classes, which is exactly what I want everyone to think.
Camouflage is an art form, and I'm basically Picasso.
Leia sees him coming. Her posture shifts immediately—shoulders going rigid, jaw tightening like she's bracing for impact.
But she doesn't move. Doesn't slap his hand away when it lands on her arm, doesn't recoil when he leans in with that smug, possessive smile like she's already signed some kind of ownership contract.
"I've been trying to talk to you," he says, and even from here I can read the desperation in his body language.
She doesn't answer. Smart girl. My girl.
"I didn't mean anything by it," he adds, because apparently Tyler's strategy is to keep talking until something sticks. "You know that, right?"
Her silence is more devastating than any verbal beatdown could be. It's surgical—precise, clean, absolutely lethal. I don't need to intervene because messy isn't my style, and Tyler's already marked for deletion.
He just doesn't know it yet.
By late afternoon, I'm in the tech lab during open hours when nobody gives a shit who comes and goes. Perfect anonymity in a room full of computer science majors who think social interaction is a bug, not a feature.
I blend in seamlessly—just another student working on a project that definitely isn't systematically dismantling someone's entire digital existence.
Every camera angle mapped, every admin credential memorized, every vulnerability catalogued and ready for exploitation.
I don't need to break down doors when I can simply walk through them.
My fingers move across the keyboard like I'm conducting a symphony of digital destruction. Spoofed credentials, faked timestamps, sliding into the university's system like I belong there.
Tyler's student profile opens in seconds because their security is basically held together with duct tape and good intentions.
By morning, his inbox looks like a war zone.
First comes the academic misconduct warning—beautifully crafted, complete with fabricated evidence of plagiarism that would make professional forgers weep with envy.
Then a harassment complaint from a "concerned classmate" detailing a pattern of inappropriate behavior that escalates just enough to seem credible.
But the kill shot? That comes in the form of a screenshot—perfectly edited, naturally—sent to three of his closest friends.
A group chat where Tyler allegedly brags about Leia like she's some kind of conquest.
Tyler: "Messed-up girls are easier. She was basically begging for it."
The beauty of character assassination is that it doesn't matter if it's true.
It just needs to feel true enough that people want to believe it, and everyone loves a reason to tear down the golden boy who seems too perfect to be real.
By lunch, the screenshot has spread through the social ecosystem like blood in shark-infested water. Whispers follow Tyler everywhere—in hallways, in classrooms, in the dining hall where conversations suddenly stop when he walks by.
He tries to catch Leia after lecture, probably thinking he can explain his way out of social suicide.
"Leia, can we talk?"
She walks past him like he's invisible. Doesn't even acknowledge his existence, which is honestly more brutal than if she'd screamed at him.
"Come on, will you at least look at me?"
Nothing. Her silence cuts cleaner than any blade could, and I watch Tyler's face crumble as he realizes he's been erased from her world as efficiently as deleting a file.
By the end of the week, he's gone.
No dramatic confrontation, no tearful goodbye, just... gone. Like he never existed in the first place. Leia walks alone now, exactly as I planned.
That night, I'm in my room with the lights off, just the blue glow of the screen illuminating my face like some kind of digital séance.
Her dorm room feed is crystal clear—technology is beautiful when it works for you instead of against you.
She's not asleep yet. The lamp beside her bed casts everything in warm light, and she's lying there with that particular stillness that comes from being hyperaware of your surroundings.
My girl knows I'm watching. Can probably feel it like static electricity before a storm.
I don't touch the keyboard, just let my fingers hover above the keys like I'm playing an invisible piano. The feed is silent, but I see her anyway—the catch in her breath, the subtle shift, the quiet desperation of someone fighting a war against their own body.
Last night, she slid a hand under the covers once again.
Pressed her thighs together, searching for friction that wouldn't come from her own touch because her body knows the difference between simulation and the real thing. Bit her lip to keep from making sounds that might give her away.
I replay it every night, not to remember but to relive. Because I know she does too.
I don't speak—haven't spoken to anyone but her in years—but my mind always drifts back to the beginning.
Not the incident that took both my parents and all sounds of the world from me. Not beatings in the orphanage or the social workers who treated us like case numbers instead of people.
What I remember is the moment Leia showed up.
Small, scared, carrying her own damage like a backpack full of broken glass. She didn't speak much either, but her hands moved—clumsy, desperate fingers trying to sign words she barely understood.
She got every letter wrong, and I almost corrected her. Then she smiled, and that wrecked me completely.
She didn't care if I heard. She didn’t care if I tried to speak. Didn't need sound to see me as something worth saving.
That's when I decided my voice didn't belong to the world. It belonged to her.
Now I watch her sleep, and I don't need to touch her. She's already aching, already claimed, already mine.
She knows.