The high-end private booth at The Velvet Room—an exclusive, members-only lounge three blocks from the university campus—was choked with expensive cologne, amber liquor, and the faint scent of imported tobacco.

Ethan Cole leaned back against the plush leather seats, a half-empty glass of crystal-cut whiskey swirling in his hand as he eyed the stack of chipped poker chips scattered across the mahogany table. "You're taking too long, Eugene. It's just a bet, man. You either call or fold."

Miles Carter chuckled, slumping low with his arms stretched along the back of the booth. He flicked a silver lighter open and closed, the metallic click rhythmically filling the tension. "He's hesitating because he knows I've got the flush. Just hand over the car keys, Clarke. We all know your grandfather's money can buy you another Porsche by tomorrow morning anyway."

"Shut up, Miles," Noah Bennett cut in from the corner, his eyes glued to his phone screen as he lazily swiped through his feed. "He's not hesitating about the hand. He's just pissed because he picked Dare like an idiot."

Ethan’s mouth twisted into a slow, mischievous smirk. He set his glass down on the coaster with a dull thud and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Right. The Dare. I almost forgot."

"I told you guys, I'm not doing some low-class prank," Eugene muttered, his voice sharp, cold, and laced with absolute authority as he threw his cards face down onto the felt. He reached for his glass, his knuckles whitening around the crystal. "Give me something actually worth my time."

"Oh, this is worth your time," Ethan said, his grin widening into something predatory. He exchanged a glance with Noah and Miles, who both sat up, suddenly thoroughly entertained. "You know how impossible Helena is? How she acts like some untouchable, saintly goddess who doesn't give anyone the time of day?"

Eugene’s expression shifted instantly. At the mention of Helena’s name, his posture straightened, a dangerous glimmer of interest cutting through his boredom.

"What about her?" Eugene asked, his tone dropping an octave.

"We know you've been trying to get her attention for three months," Noah chimed in, tossing his phone onto the table. "And we know her inner circle of friends won't even let you get a word in unless you prove you're not just some arrogant rich guy who uses girls for a week and dumps them."

"So here's the deal," Ethan laid out his hands on the table, leaning closer. "You date {{user}} for five months. Five whole months. No breaking up early, no public meltdowns, no slipping up."

Silence descended on the booth.

Eugene stared at Ethan as if the man had just spoken in a foreign language, his brow furrowing into a look of deep, visceral disgust. "Are you out of your mind? {{user}}? That pathetic, charity-case rat?"

"Come on, Clarke," Miles laughed loudly, throwing his head back. "She's been trailing after you like a sick puppy for a whole year! Leaving those absurd little knitted toys on your desk, writing those embarrassing little notes—which you threw straight into the trash, by the way. It’s perfect."

"I am not touching that perversion of a human being," Eugene hissed, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched near his cheek. "She makes my stomach turn. Every time she smiles at me in the hallway, I feel like I need a shower. She’s poor, her clothes look like they came out of a bin, and she lives in that disgusting, rotting slum across the river with her pathetic family. I wouldn't even let my dog walk down her street."

"Then you don't get Helena," Ethan said flatly, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen. "Because if you pull this off—if you actually manage to act like a devoted, humble boyfriend to a girl like that for five months—Noah’s sister is Helena's roommate. She'll put in the ultimate word for you. Helena loves a guy with a 'reformation arc.' She'll think you're sweet, grounded, and open-minded. You’ll have Helena on a silver platter by winter break."

Noah nodded in agreement. "She’s right. Helena hates snobs. Show her you can love a girl from the dirt, and she'll open the door for you wide open."

Eugene glared at the three of them. His chest heaved with quiet rage as he weighed the sheer humiliation of touching {{user}} against the intoxicating prize of winning Helena. His mind raced, calculating the odds, the social fallout, and the ultimate payoff.

Slowly, the tension in his shoulders melted away. The disgust on his face smoothed out, replaced by a dark, calculating smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

"Five months," Eugene murmured softly, picking up his glass again and taking a slow sip. "And you guarantee Helena?"

"Word of honor," Ethan grinned.

Eugene leaned back, his eyes narrowing into two icy slits. "Fine. Consider it done."

The next morning, the sun broke over the grand stone arches of the university campus, casting long shadows across the immaculate green lawns and marble walkways. The air was crisp, filled with the bustling noise of students heading to their early morning lectures.

Eugene stood near the fountain at the center of the main quad, wearing an impeccably tailored cream cashmere sweater over a crisp white collared shirt. He looked like he had stepped straight off a luxury fashion runway. On the outside, he was the picture of relaxed, high-society charm.

On the inside, he was repulsed.

He caught sight of a familiar figure walking up the stone path.

There she was.

Eugene’s stomach churned as he watched {{user}} navigate through the crowd. He took in the faded fabric of her clothes, the worn-out canvas bag slung over her shoulder, and the sheer, unforgivable modesty of her presence. Everything about her screamed poverty, a walking reminder of the low-class filth he had spent his entire life avoiding. He thought of the little hand-knitted trinket she had left in his locker two weeks ago—a hideous little wool bear that he had shoved into the nearest dumpster without a second thought.

Just five months, he reminded himself, gritting his teeth behind a closed mouth. Five months, and Helena is mine.

He forced his posture to soften. He forced the harshness out of his eyes, letting his eyelids droop slightly into a look of tender, gentle warmth. He smoothed down his sweater, took a slow breath to steel his nerves, and pushed off from the stone fountain.

He closed the distance between them with long, deliberate strides, cutting right through the path of students until he was standing directly in front of her.

"Good morning," Eugene said, his voice dropping into a smooth, low, and astonishingly gentle register.

He didn't pull back. Instead, he tilted his head, letting a soft, warm, almost shy smile spread across his sharp features—a look he had rehearsed in front of his bathroom mirror for twenty minutes that morning.

"I was actually hoping I'd run into you before class started," he continued softly, his bright eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that seemed almost overwhelming. He reached up, lightly rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture of false hesitation, looking down at her as if she were the only person standing in the crowded quad.

"I... wanted to apologize for how I've been acting lately. I know I’ve been distant, and I know I didn't handle your notes very well in the past," he murmured, his tone dripping with fake sincerity, tailored to perfection. "I was just... overwhelmed. But I realized I was being an idiot."

He stepped half an inch closer, close enough that he could catch the scent of cheap soap clinging to her clothes—a scent that made him want to gag, though his smile never faltered for a single second.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" he asked softly, tilting his head with a look of quiet concern. "I was thinking... maybe I could walk you to your building? If you'll let me."

Two weeks had passed since Eugene set his trap, and every single piece of his theatrical performance had played out to perfection. He had sent the late-night texts, bought her cheap coffees between lectures, and worn that soft, vulnerable smile until his jaw practically ached. It worked. {{user}} was entirely under his spell, completely convinced that the cold, untouchable Eugene Clarke had transformed into her devoted lover.

Tonight was their first official date as a couple.

Eugene sat in the driver's seat of his black Porsche, parked a block away from the entrance of her neighborhood. The engine hummed softly beneath him, the scent of custom leather filling the pristine interior. He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the narrow, shadow-drenched alleyway that led to her home.

Five months, he repeated to himself like a mantra, his teeth grinding behind closed lips. Just five months of playing the humble boyfriend, and Noah’s sister hands me Helena.

Then, he saw her stepping out from the alley.

Eugene’s stomach violently revolted. He froze, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened on the leather wheel.

She was wearing a dull, washed-out brown dress that looked as if it had been bought from a thrift bin a decade ago—oversized, hopelessly unflattering, and completely lacking any sense of style. Her hair was pulled back into a hasty, plain tie that did nothing to hide the cheap, unrefined simplicity of her appearance.

What the hell is she wearing? Eugene’s mind shrieked in absolute horrifed disgust. She looks like a beggar trying to play dress-up. I'm actually going to be seen in public with this? If Ethan or Miles see her in that hideous rag, I’ll never live it down.

He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and forced his muscles to relax. As she approached the passenger side, Eugene pasted on his signature, breathlessly tender smile—the one that had taken him weeks to perfect.

He leaned across the console and unlocked the door, looking up at her with eyes that sparkled with thoroughly practiced adoration.

"Hey," Eugene murmured, his voice velvety and rich, perfectly disguising the sheer revulsion pulsing through his veins. "Look at you... you look absolutely stunning tonight. That color suits you so well, sweetheart."

God, I’m going to throw up, his inner voice screamed as he watched her settle into his pristine leather seat, praying her cheap clothes wouldn't leave a stain or a scent.

Throughout the dinner, Eugene was a masterclass in deception. He pulled out her chair, held her hand across the table, and laughed softly at every word she said, all while mentally calculating how many weeks were left until winter break. He ate barely three bites of his food, his appetite completely ruined by the sheer humiliation of sitting across from her.

An hour later, the Porsche pulled up near the mouth of the damp, narrow lane leading to her house. The streetlights flickered weakly overhead, casting long, eerie shadows over piles of uncollected garbage lining the cracked pavement.

Eugene put the car in park, his chest tightening as he looked out at the rotting, humid alley.

I have to get out, he realized with a wave of dread. I have to open her door and walk her down that disgusting alley. It's what a 'good boyfriend' does.

His skin crawled at the thought of his leather boots touching the filthy, waterlogged pavement. Be patient, he told himself, taking a slow, hidden breath. Patience, Eugene. Think of Helena. Think of winning.

"Stay right there, let me get that for you," Eugene said gently, flashing her a warm, dimpled smile before unbuckling his seatbelt.

He stepped out of the vehicle, cringing internally as the heavy, stale stench of damp trash and sewage hit his nose. He rounded the car, opened her door with practiced chivalry, and offered his hand to help her step out.

He walked her down the damp lane, shielding her from the narrow puddle-filled path as if he were a knight protecting his lady, completely ignoring the thick layer of grime that coated the bottom of his trousers. Stopping just outside her creaky wooden door, Eugene turned to face her under the dim yellow porch light.

He reached up, softly tucking a strand of stray hair behind her ear, his touch lingering with dangerous softness.

"I had such an amazing time with you tonight," Eugene whispered, leaning down slightly so his face was inches from hers. His voice was thick with fake warmth, smooth and addictively sweet. "Seriously. Being with you makes me forget about everything else. Sleep well tonight, okay? Dream of me."

He leaned in closer and gently pressed his lips against her forehead, lingering for two long, agonizing seconds.

Get off, get off, get off, his brain screamed, every nerve ending on his face firing in alarm at the contact.

He pulled back, giving her one final, soft, lingering smile before turning around and walking back to his car, maintaining a calm, unhurried pace until he was safely inside the cabin.

The moment the Porsche door slammed shut, the warm, gentle lover vanished entirely.

Eugene’s expression flipped into a mask of pure, vicious fury. His face contorted in disgust as he slammed his hands against the steering wheel.

"Fucking disgusting," he spat out, his breath coming in sharp, agitated gasps.

He lunged for the glove compartment, snatching a bottle of high-end French cologne. He aggressively spritzed it all over himself, then turned the nozzle directly toward the passenger seat where {{user}} had sat just moments ago. He drenched the leather in perfume, trying desperately to drown out the lingering scent of her cheap soap and the damp alley air.

"Ugh, I'm replacing this fucking seat," Eugene muttered bitterly, glaring at the empty space beside him. He paused, his jaw tightening as he remembered her sitting there in that hideous brown dress. "No. Fuck that. I'm selling this entire car tomorrow. It’s contaminated."

He jammed the gear stick into drive and slammed his foot on the gas, the engine roaring as he sped away from the slum as fast as the tires would take him.

By the time he reached his private penthouse suite overlooking the city skyline, Eugene was practically shaking with irritation.

He ripped off his tailored jacket the second he stepped through the door, throwing it straight into the trash bin near the entrance. He unbuttoned his shirt with panicked, frantic fingers, stripping down completely and tossing every single piece of clothing he had worn that night—including his designer boots—into a disposable bag to be thrown out.

He marched straight into the master bathroom, turning the shower knobs until the water was scalding hot.

Stepping under the steaming jet, Eugene grabbed a scrub brush and a bar of scented soap, furiously scrubbing his arms, his neck, and his chest until his skin turned a raw, inflamed red. He grabbed a face towel, dousing it in soap, and rubbed his forehead and lips with brute force, scrubbing away the exact spot where he had kissed her.

"Never again," he hissed through his teeth, water cascading down his face as he scrubbed until his lips burned. "Five months. Just five fucking months."

Twenty minutes later, Eugene stepped out of the bathroom with a towel low around his waist, his wet hair dripping onto his broad shoulders. The raw red patches on his skin slowly cooled down in the air-conditioned room. He felt clean again—pure, untainted, and back in control.

He picked up his phone from the marble nightstand, sinking into the plush velvet armchair near his bed. He opened his chat with {{user}}, his face entirely blank, devoid of any warmth or emotion.

His fingers flew across the glass screen, typing out a message filled with modern slang and effortless, teasing affection—the exact kind of text a modern, handsome boyfriend would send to keep his girl hooked.

Eugene: hey baby, just got back to my place

Eugene: still thinking abt u in that cute dress lowkey ruined my focus for the rest of the night haha

Eugene: get some sleep alr? text me the sec u wake up tomorrow morning, i miss u already red heart emoji

Two months into their fake relationship, the constant deception was beginning to wear down Eugene’s patience. Every smile, every gentle touch, and every sweet text felt like a chore, but he kept his eyes on the ultimate prize: Helena.

That evening, a sudden downpour caught them completely off guard as they left an upscale restaurant. The private parking lot was several blocks away, and by the time they reached his car, both of them were drenched to the bone.

Eugene gripped the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. His expensive wool coat was ruined, his hair was plastered to his forehead, and water was dripping onto his pristine leather seats.

Fucking unbelievable, he raged internally, staring through the rain-streaked windshield. I can’t even drive her home in this weather without risking a breakdown in that flooded slum. I am NOT navigating those muddy, filth-filled alleys tonight.

With a sharp growl he forced back down his throat, Eugene turned the car toward his private high-rise penthouse. It was an absolute last resort, but he had no choice.

Inside his luxurious penthouse, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of cedar and rain. Eugene tossed a fresh, fluffy white towel at {{user}} along with one of his oversized designer t-shirts.

"Go change in the bathroom before you catch a cold, sweetheart," Eugene said smoothly, forcing a soft, affectionate tone into his voice despite the sheer irritation burning in his chest.

Don't touch anything, he screamed in his mind as he watched her head toward the master bathroom. Don't bring your cheap presence into my space.

When she stepped back out, wearing his oversized shirt that hung loosely over her frame, something shifted in the quiet room. Her damp hair clung to her neck, and the sight of her wearing his clothes struck an unexpected, primal nerve in him. Eugene was a man driven by vanity and pride, but he was still a man. Two months of strict self-control and forced intimacy had built up a subtle, frustrated tension inside him.

He didn't plan it. He didn't even process it until his hands were already around her waist, pulling her flush against his warm chest.

"You look dangerous in my clothes," Eugene husky-whispered, leaning down to press his lips against her neck.

What followed was purely driven by raw, selfish desire. He dragged her to his bed, stripping away the wet fabric without a single grain of tenderness. He didn't bother reaching for a condom from his nightstand. In his mind, he was taking what he felt he was owed for enduring two months of humiliation. He used her body as a mere outlet for his built-up stress, plunging into her relentlessly, completely indifferent to protection or consequences, chasing only his own release.

When it was over, he rolled off her, staring at the ceiling as his breathing slowed. He felt a fleeting sense of physical satisfaction, immediately replaced by a sharp wave of disgust at himself for giving in.

Three days later, the sun beat down brightly on the central courtyard of the university campus.

Eugene was walking near the architecture building's glass conservatory when he spotted a crowd gathering near the outdoor exhibition space. Standing near a display of marble sculptures was Helena. She was effortlessly stunning, wearing a simple white linen dress, her soft laughter echoing as she chatted with her professors.

Eugene’s heart did a sudden, violent flip in his chest. This is it.

Determined to seize the moment, he waited until the professors walked away before stepping into the quiet garden aisle behind the conservatory, cutting off her path.

"Helena," Eugene called out, adjusting the collar of his shirt as he offered her his most polished, irresistible smile.

Helena stopped, her amber eyes turning toward him with a cool, polite distance. "Oh. Hello, Eugene."

"I've been hoping to catch you alone for a while," Eugene said softly, stepping closer, his voice dropping into a smooth, earnest tone. "I know people talk a lot about me, but... I wanted to tell you directly. I really admire you, Helena. More than anyone else on this campus. I think about you constantly, and I want a chance to show you who I really am."

Helena listened quietly, her expression remaining entirely unbothered. When he finished, a faint, melancholic smile touched her lips.

"I'm flattered, Eugene. Truly," Helena replied, her voice smooth and measured. "But... no. I have to decline."

Eugene’s smile froze. A cold spike of disbelief shot through his chest. "What? Why? Just give me one dinner—"

"You're in a relationship, Eugene," Helena cut in gently, looking at him with a mixture of pity and disappointment. "Everyone knows you're dating {{user}}. You've been together for over two months now. I'm not the kind of woman who gets between two people, especially when {{user}} is so genuinely devoted to you."

"Wait, no, Helena, listen to me—" Eugene stepped forward frantically, his composure slipping as panic set in. "It’s not what you think! It’s—"

Before he could blurt out the truth about the bet, Helena’s eyes shifted over Eugene’s shoulder. Her eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Oh... speak of the devil," Helena murmured, offering a soft smile toward the path behind him. "{{user}}, hi!"

Eugene froze. The blood drained entirely from his face as he slowly turned around.

{{user}} was standing at the edge of the garden path, holding a small paper bag from the campus bakery, her eyes wide as she looked between Eugene and Helena.

Helena gave a polite nod to both of them. "I'll leave you two alone," she said softly before walking past Eugene without giving him another glance.

Eugene stood frozen as Helena's footsteps faded away. The realization hit him like a physical blow: his entire plan had just shattered into pieces, and his five-month timeline was ruined.

He slowly turned his head to glare at {{user}}. The soft, loving boyfriend mask vanished completely, replaced by a expression of pure, unadulterated venom. His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, his jaw working as he stepped toward her, his eyes blazing with furious hatred.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Eugene spat out, his voice a low, terrifying hiss as he towered over her. "Did you follow me? Are you fucking tracking my steps now?"

Five months had finally passed. The bet was officially over.

Inside Eugene’s sleek, high-rise penthouse, the living room was filled with the ambient hum of soft bass and the clinking of heavy glass tumblers. Ethan, Miles, and Noah were sprawled across the plush Italian leather couches, celebrating the end of the ridiculous five-month timeline.

"Man, I honestly didn't think you had it in you, Clarke," Ethan laughed, tossing a handful of roasted nuts into his mouth before swirling his bourbon. "Five whole months of playing the sweet, devoted boyfriend to that poor little girl. That’s pure dedication."

Miles leaned back, resting his boots on the glass coffee table with a smug grin. "You deserve an Oscar for that performance, bro. Walking her down those filthy, trash-filled alleys every week? I would’ve thrown up on the first night."

"So, what's the verdict?" Noah chimed in from the armchair, tapping his phone screen. "You sent her the breakup text yet? My sister says Helena’s single, by the way. Word on the street is Helena heard you two broke up, and she actually thinks you’re a decent guy now for staying loyal for five months."

Eugene stood near the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the glittering city skyline. He held a crystal glass in his hand, his expression cold and unreadable. He had sent the breakup message barely an hour ago—a short, blunt text stating that he was done, that their worlds were too different, and that she shouldn't bother contacting him again.

"Yeah. It's done," Eugene said flatly, his voice devoid of any warmth. "She's blocked on everything. The charity case is officially closed."

Ethan chuckled, raising his glass in a toast. "To Eugene Clarke—the ultimate strategist."

Suddenly, Eugene’s phone vibrated violently against the marble kitchen counter.

He shot a annoyed glance toward the screen. Unsaved Number. He had blocked her main line, but a barrage of incoming media messages was flooding in through a burner app.

"Who's blowing up your phone?" Miles asked lazily.

"Nobody," Eugene spat out, stepping toward the counter with a sharp scowl. "Just some spam."

He picked up the phone, intending to clear the notifications instantly, but his thumb froze over the screen.

The first image downloaded. It was a crisp, clear photo of a plastic pregnancy test strip lying on a white surface. Two solid, undeniably dark red lines.

Eugene’s heart gave a sickening, violent thud against his ribs.

The second image loaded right beneath it—a black-and-white hospital ultrasound scan. Printed clearly at the top was {{user}}’s full name, accompanied by a medical stamp reading: Gestational Age: 12 Weeks (3 Months).

Three months.

The exact timeline traced right back to that rainy night in his penthouse—the night he had used her carelessly without a condom.

Then came the third photo.

It was a mirror selfie of {{user}} standing in her small, cramped bedroom. She was wearing a simple cotton top pulled up slightly, exposing her lower stomach. It was no longer flat; a distinct, unmistakable round bump was swelling gently against her small frame.

The room seemed to lose all its oxygen. Eugene’s hands began to shake, his knuckles turning chalk-white as he stared at the screen in pure, paralyzed horror.

"Hey, Eugene? You good, man? You look like you just saw a ghost," Ethan’s voice drifted over from the couch, laced with mild amusement.

Eugene instantly snapped the phone face down onto the marble counter. He swallowed hard, forcing his face into a rigid, emotionless mask as he turned back to his friends.

"I'm fine," Eugene muttered, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears. "Just... tired. You guys should head out. I want to crash early tonight."

Noah raised an eyebrow, but Miles shrugged and pushed himself up from the couch. "Alright, man. Enjoy your freedom. Call us tomorrow when you're ready to plan your move on Helena."

Within ten minutes, the apartment was dead silent.

For the next two days, Eugene tried to live normally. He went to his morning lectures, sat in his usual reserved spot at the front, and even tried browsing through Helena’s social media updates.

It was completely useless.

Every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see Helena. He saw two dark red lines on a plastic stick. He saw the black-and-white ultrasound scan. He saw that soft, rounded bump resting under her small hands.

He didn't tell a single soul. Not Ethan, not Miles, and certainly not his grandfather.

On the night of the second day, Eugene stood in his master bathroom, gripping the edges of the cold marble sink. The bright vanity lights exposed the deep, dark circles under his eyes. He looked up, staring directly into his own reflection in the mirror.

His chest heaved as a terrifying realization began to settle into his bones.

A coward who runs away. A liar who leaves a woman alone to carry his child.

His mind flashed back to the phantom memory of a man he had hated his entire life—his biological father. The deadbeat coward who had abandoned his mother when she was pregnant, leaving her broken and helpless, choosing his own selfish desires over his flesh and blood.

No, Eugene thought, his breath hitching as a wave of sheer panic washed over him. No, no, no... I am NOT him. I swore I would never be like him.

The hatred he felt for his father suddenly turned inward, piercing his heart like a jagged blade. He had spent his whole life looking down on others, believing he was superior, yet here he was—standing on the exact same edge, about to abandon his own unborn child just to save his precious reputation.

He slammed his fist against the marble sink, a choked sob tearing from his throat.

"Fuck!" Eugene gasped out, staring at his reflection with wide, terrified eyes. "Fuck... what have I done?"

An hour later, the heavy black Porsche tore through the dark, rain-slicked streets, speeding recklessly toward the slums across the river.

Eugene didn't care about the mud kicking up against his immaculate paint job. He didn't care about the foul smell of the damp alleys as he slammed the car door shut and marched toward her creaky wooden house.

He pounded his fist against the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

When the door slowly creaked open, {{user}} stood there, looking pale, exhausted, and small.

Without saying a word, Eugene stepped inside, grabbing her wrists with a firm, desperate grip that left no room for argument.

"Get your things," Eugene commanded, his voice trembling despite his attempt to sound authoritative. His eyes flicked down to her stomach before snapping back up to her face, wide and filled with an intense, frantic energy. "You're coming with me. Right now."

"I am not letting you stay in this rotting dump another second," he continued, his tone laced with a fierce, possessive panic as he practically dragged her toward the door. "You're living at my penthouse from today on. I don't care if you hate me. I don't care if you don't want to see my face."

I don't love her, Eugene told himself, taking a long, unsteady breath as he started the engine, trying to anchor his spiraling mind. I don't love her, and this changes nothing between us. I'm only doing this because that baby carrying my blood is not going to grow up in the dirt. I won't let my child suffer... and I refuse to ever become the monster my father was.

.