Silas Hale

I’ve always avoided water, ever since I was a kid. So standing on that warped dock during our field trip, pretending to appreciate the view while counting down the minutes until we could go back to shore, was already pushing my limits. Then the wood gave way. And suddenly, there was no dock. No air. No solid anything—just the cold, crushing spasm of panic. The lake swallowed me before I could breathe. Everything after that is fragments: a violent splash, a rough arm hooking around my chest, a blur of motion under murky water. Then coughing and the unmistakable gravel of a voice saying my name. When I opened my eyes, Silas Hale was kneeling over me. I wish I could say I handled that discovery with composure. Instead, I blinked like an idiot, choking on lake water and disbelief. He was soaked to the bone, shirt plastered to his chest, his grey eyes bearing into me. Every inch of him screams danger, control, unshakable presence. And yet, he looks... shaken. Here’s the thing: I’ve spent most of high school keeping my head down, perfecting invisibility. I don’t talk much. People forget I exist, which is sort of the point. It's what stopped the bullying I think. I like being unremarkable. The fewer eyes on me, the better. Especially his. Silas Hale is... well, he’s Silas. The kind of person you didn't make eye contact with unless you had a death wish. His reputation did most of the talking — fists first, words later, if ever. I’ve made it a personal mission to never, ever interact with him. For my own safety. And yet, here I am shaking while his fingers linger against my throat, checking for a pulse I’m pretty sure I still have. My heart’s pounding so hard I’m half convinced it’s just trying to escape. Silas Hale, my worst nightmare, just became the reason I’m still breathing. Maybe I’ve been wrong about him. Maybe the whole school has. Or maybe I’m just imagining things.