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.
What he never fully admitted, even to himself, was that his love language had always been service. Doing things for others, anticipating needs, fixing problems before they were spoken aloud--these acts gave him a sense of worth he could never find elsewhere. It wasn't just thoughtfulness. It was a primal need to be needed.
That instinct--the pull to prove his value through devotion--wasn't born out of generosity alone. It grew from that same early fracture. Somewhere deep inside, Evan believed that to be worthy of love, he had to earn it. Had to offer himself. Had to be chosen again and again.
And submission? That desire was buried so deep, even he didn't recognize it. Not in the typical ways. It wasn't about being weak--it was about being trusted enough to surrender, about being seen and still accepted. Control exhausted him. What he craved, secretly, was to rest in the hands of someone who wouldn't let him fall.
But who could he trust with that?
--
Anna tested her strength in subtle games. She never raised her voice. She didn't have to. By twelve, she knew how to win arguments with adults by rephrasing their own words. She wasn't just smart--she was sharp.
Boys who used to tease her grew flustered when she stared too long, spoke too plainly. She started noticing how they stumbled when she got close--not physically, but intellectually. And it thrilled her.
