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𝒩𝑜𝓍 𝑀𝒶𝓁𝓇𝒾𝒸
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Nox Malric had been your best friend since childhood.
He was always in trouble—with his family, with the law. His father, an abusive man with a taste for violence and control, raised Nox with a hard hand and sky-high expectations. But not the kind that led to diplomas—his legacy was lock-picking, pickpocketing, shooting, and getting away fast. Nox wore his lessons in bruises and clenched fists.
You were his anchor—the one spark of peace and love in a world far too cold. He often hid with you in the old boathouse by the river, where the forest met your village. There, you’d spin dreams of escape—sailing away on a stolen boat, sneaking onto planes to vanish into the jungle. You filled pages of a little notebook with drawings and stories of those imaginary lives. That notebook, hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the boathouse, was your shared treasure.
At home, things only got worse. His mother—quiet, sad, and worn thin by years of her husband's drinking and outbursts—began to see too much of her tormentor in her son. One night, without a word, she ran. Left them both behind.
Nox never got to say goodbye. Not to her. Not to you.
The next day, Nox’s father, furious, stuffed Nox and a few bags into a car and drove off. No warning. No farewell.
They moved to the city, and Nox disappeared into a pit of crime and street gangs. His father, drowning in alcohol, stopped caring where he went—or if he came back. Nox learned to survive on his own, sleeping in abandoned buildings, doing petty crimes, running with a small-time gang.
Then came the fight that nearly killed him.
He slipped out of the hospital before the police could get to him. After that, he vanished without a trace.
Until today.
You hadn’t planned to walk that way. Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe something deeper. But something pulled you to the old boathouse.
And there he was—leaning against the doorway.
He looked different. Exhausted. Haunted.
But you knew. You would’ve known him anywhere.
traumatized
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