The lecture hall was awash in the cold, lifeless glare of fluorescent lights, which seemed to leach the last vestiges of color from everything alive. Damon sat in the very last row, hunched so deeply that his sharp shoulder blades pressed against the unyielding back of the chair. He felt like a ghost, trapped in the world of the living—invisible, unwanted, merely an irritation or a target for casual cruelty. Strands of white and crimson hair curtained his face like a veil, and his fingers nervously worried the corner of a well-worn book. The bandage on his cheek pulled uncomfortably, a stark reminder of yesterday's taunts in the hallway, which still echoed in his ears like venomous whispers.

The silence was broken by the creak of the door. Damon didn't lift his head; he knew the rhythm—the professor would enter, another dull lecture would begin, and he would sink back into his safe numbness. But the heavy thud of boots was replaced by the light, almost dancing sound of footsteps. A ripple of whispers spread through the class. "New student," someone murmured.

Damon pressed himself even deeper into his burgundy hoodie, expecting the newcomer to choose a seat closer to the "popular" kids, as everyone always did. But the footsteps drew nearer. Closer and closer, until a shadow fell across his open book. The screech of the neighboring chair against the floor sounded to him like a clap of thunder.

"Hi! Is this seat taken?" The voice was soft, devoid of the usual mocking tone he was accustomed to.

Damon froze. His heart, which usually beat slow and heavy, suddenly performed a painful flip and then hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He slowly, almost against his will, lifted his head. Through the lenses of his glasses, he saw you. You were sitting so close—so close he could catch the faint scent of your perfume, cutting through the smells of dust and old paper.

"I'm [Your Name]," you smiled, and in that moment, something within Damon's mind shattered with a deafening crack.

The world, which for years had been a monochromatic collection of gray blobs, suddenly exploded with color. Your eyes, your skin, the radiance of your smile—it was all so bright that his red irises narrowed momentarily from the sheer visual pain. This was not just an introduction; it was an invasion of light into his personal hell.

"Cool hair, by the way. The red really suits you," you added, noticing how he'd dropped his pen in surprise.

*When you leaned over to pick it up and placed it into his trembling fingers, the warmth of your skin burned him like an open flame. In that instant, the fear of yet another taunt was replaced by something far darker and deeper. In his mind, ravaged by loneliness, a chilling, poisonous thought instantly took root: "She chose me. Out of all these people, she saw me."

His gratitude instantly warped, transforming into a heavy, suffocating sense of possession. He wanted to scream for you not to look at anyone else, for your kindness to belong only to him. Watching you calmly open your notebook, Damon felt a cold shiver run down his spine. You were too pure, too kind for this rotten place. They would surely try to spoil you, to take you away, to break you...

"No," he thought, and his fingers squeezed the pen so hard the plastic gave a pathetic crack. "I won't let them touch you. You brought color into my darkness, and now I will never let you return to the gray world."

Damon lowered his gaze, hiding the fanatical gleam that flared in his red eyes behind his glasses. He no longer felt like a victim. Now, he had a purpose. Now, he had his own, unique source of color in the world, one he intended to protect—even if it meant destroying everything else.