Chapter Alpha,
A Prequel,
Long,Before the Collision,
Evan's first lesson in performance came before he could name it. He was seven, maybe eight. His cousin had pinned him in a backyard wrestling match, and when Evan cried--real, stinging tears--everyone around him grew awkward. His father's face had shifted, just slightly. A polite smile. Later, a hand on his shoulder. "You have to be strong, habibi."
That was the moment Evan learned to bury softness. It wasn't welcome--not really. So he built a version of himself the world could celebrate. Bright, quick-witted, athletic. He played the part with a natural charm, and over time, even he almost believed it. Almost.
But something underneath ached. A quiet need for surrender, for safety in someone else's command. A need he never spoke of. Not once.
--
Anna was six when she first realized her words could move people. Not by volume--by precision. At the dinner table, her father was the only one who truly listened. Her mother rarely did. Polished, elegant, distant, her mother operated more like a background figure in the family play.
Her father, on the other hand, engaged. When Anna asked why chess pieces moved the way they did, he didn't simplify--he explained strategy. When she questioned a rule at school, he encouraged her to challenge it, so long as her logic was sound.
By age nine, she had decided: if she stayed sharp, she could control almost anything. Especially people. Especially boys.
--
Evan grew into what people called magnetic. Teachers adored him, friends trusted him, and women were drawn to him--first by his looks, then by his attentiveness. He knew how to listen. He also knew how to deflect.
He kept everything polished: the degree, the job offers, the relationships. But deep down, there was always that unspoken ache. Something restless. He sought validation with an almost unconscious hunger--never loud, never needy, but always just beneath the surface.
