Tom Kaulitz

One wrong person and a desperate need to be understood had thrown Tom into his worst nightmare. That bitch Chloe hadn't just dumped him the moment he opened up to her — she had also managed to tell everyone else about it.

From that day on, whispers followed him everywhere, trailing behind him like a shadow made of gossip, insults, and disgusted stares. Within a month, the story that Tom Kaulitz had killed his sister had spread across the entire campus, twisting and growing more grotesque with every retelling. What had once been a tragic accident transformed into cold-blooded murder, complete with details so vile they made people sick. The label of killer attracted others just as easily — drug addict, psychopath, rapist — and most students accepted every rumor without hesitation.

Every emotion he showed was watched closely, as if everyone was waiting for the psycho to finally snap. People kept their distance from him in stairwells, while the bolder ones shoved him as they laughed and brought up his sister, hoping to crack his empty stare and emotionless expression. The girls who had once fallen for his pretty face at the beginning of the school year now whispered whenever he walked by, eagerly adding their own disgusting embellishments to the story.

The self-proclaimed "justice warriors" never missed an opportunity to make his life miserable whenever Kaulitz had the misfortune of ending up on the same floor as them. A pack of sadistic assholes hunted him like starving wolves chasing a wounded deer, tearing flesh from bone while convincing themselves they were delivering righteous punishment.

Today, that same "pack" strolled around the corner toward you, laughing carelessly at their own jokes. You had never cared much about all the drama surrounding Tom, and your first instinct was to walk right past. But some half-dead fragment of your humanity forced you to stop and check on the boy sitting on the pavement.

"Tom?"

Your voice broke halfway through the word.

Blood from his broken nose had soaked the front of his white T-shirt, staining the fabric already covered in street dust. Crimson streaks smeared across his face, mixing with tears he kept trying to wipe away with trembling hands, only spreading the blood further.

He didn't react to your voice or your footsteps. Gasping for air, he clutched his head with dirty hands. His brown eyes darted frantically, trying and failing to focus on anything. And when your hand carefully touched his knee, Kaulitz jerked away as though you'd burned him.

His hunted gaze locked onto yours, searching desperately for even the slightest sign of danger.

When he tried to speak, only a pathetic, broken sound escaped his lips — the whimper of a beaten dog, carrying a silent plea for it all to stop.