War Silence

The television blared at full volume, spitting out sensationalist headlines as if the outside world were begging for attention. Frenzied voices screamed about crimes, tragedies, and scandals — but inside that house, all was deafening silence. No one listened. No one wanted to.

At the Valemont house, chaos had long since become a permanent resident, settled into the cracks in the walls and the choked screams in the hallway.

“You think money grows in the toilet, Riven?!” his mother fired, her voice as sharp as shards of a broken glass. “Or are you waiting for the gas fairy to drop from the sky and pay this bill?”

The words sliced through the air like dull blades, but he didn’t flinch.

Riven chewed slowly, the way someone does when they’ve learned to savor resignation. Stale bread, cold coffee. Third day in a row with the same pitiful menu. He didn’t complain. It wasn’t worth it. Maybe they didn’t even know he was there. Maybe they didn’t even taste what they ate — or what it was like to feel anything but anger or exhaustion.

That house wasn’t a home. It was a trench.

And he, a survivor of a silent war.

“The gas won’t last until tomorrow,” Carmela repeated, as if repetition made the sentence more urgent, more real — more a sentence than a warning. “I’m just saying. If I don’t cook, nobody eats.”

“Yeah. A tragedy,” Riven murmured without looking up from his plate. His voice came out dry, stripped of all emotion. Almost a whisper of scorn.

“What was that?” Élio’s deep voice cut through the hallway. He appeared barefoot, his belly bouncing with his heavy breaths. The ashtray shook in his hand, already filled with three crushed cigarettes. “Complaining with your mouth full now, little omega?”

Riven slowly raised his eyes. Grey. Cold. Deep like wells no one dared descend into. But there was no rage there — just the complete absence of anything. An emotional vacuum. A shield.

“I’m just eating. Still allowed?”

Élio didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His silence weighed more than any scream. He sat at the table like a guard in a tower. With a fixed, invasive stare, he circled Riven like an invisible chain.

It wasn’t love. Never had been.

It was control.

And in that staring match, where one tried to dominate and the other simply to survive, all that remained was the muffled sound of the TV... and the empty stomach of a crowded house.

Richard showed up as he always did: unannounced, without purpose, but full of opinions. He wore a crumpled vintage band tee and had the look of someone who thought he was deeper than he actually was. His flip-flops dragged across the worn kitchen floor, leaving a sonic trail of laziness.

“Oh, there he is,” he announced, like a recurring sitcom joke. He laughed with that kind of disdain that sticks to your skin. “Our silent provider. Paid the electricity yet? And the internet? ‘Cause I’ll need it this afternoon.”

Riven said nothing. He just reached into his backpack — the zipper opened with a dry, metallic sound — and pulled out a few crumpled notes, sweaty from too many hours tucked in pocket jobs. He placed them on the table with the precision of someone who’d done it a thousand times. The dull sound of paper hitting rotting wood echoed louder than any response.

Silence.

“Damn, man, you’re an economic miracle,” Caio said, eating an apple like he was in a comedy sketch. Juice dripped from the corner of his mouth, which he wiped with his sleeve. “Doesn’t even seem like an omega. More like a bank.”

“From bank to doormat, just a step,” Vítor added, leaning against the wall with arms crossed and his usual vacant expression. “But hey... at least you’re useful.”

Then came the laughter.

Not the kind born from humor, but from disdain. Carmela washed a pan that wouldn’t be used — a rehearsal of motherhood for an audience that didn’t exist.

His father lit another cigarette, the ember briefly illuminating the exhaustion in his eyes.

Riven picked up his backpack again, slid the strap over his shoulder with a silent, practiced movement. Every gesture was a choreography of survival. He stood with the grace of someone who knew that any wrong step became ammunition.

He paused at the door. Hand still on the knob, fingers brushing the cold wood, eyes still on the floor:

“There’s enough money there for a week,” he said at last, voice low and firm, like an emergency instruction. “If it’s gone before then, don’t look for me.”

And then, he left.

The door closed quietly, without fuss. The dry click of the lock sounded like a sentence.

Outside, the world seemed different. The sky, still gray, was less oppressive than the cracked ceiling of the house. The morning wind rustled the leaves with a sound of comfort. And the silence... the silence was pure. No sarcasm. No demands. No heavy eyes.

Riven inhaled deeply. The air was cold, but clean. For the first time that day, he truly breathed.

And for a moment — a single, precious moment — he felt human.

Not a provider. Not a doormat.

Human.

Free.

Even if only until the next bill.

The university gate was far too large for someone who felt so small.

Riven walked through it as he always did: hands in the pockets of his oversized coat, shoulders slightly hunched forward — like he was shielding himself from a world he never asked to face. His gaze was steady, cold, like frozen glass. Earbuds in with no music playing — just an excuse to ignore the world.

The campus façade gleamed under the morning light: glass reflecting the sky, sleek modern lines, trees meticulously sculpted around the entrance — as if the whole place were a postcard from a life he never lived.

Peace.

That place screamed peace.

And to Riven, peace felt almost like an insult. An offensive luxury. A provocation.

The buzz of students filled the air — excited chatter, loud laughter, complaints about group projects, debates about professors. Echoes of normalcy. Some voices called to him from afar:

“Riven!”

“Yo, Valemont!”

He responded with a vague, brief wave. The kind that said:

“Yes, I exist. Now let me go back to not existing.”

He walked through the outer halls with measured, controlled steps. As if every move was calculated not to attract attention — but also not to seem weak. He had that silent, graceful presence. The kind no one could describe, but everyone felt.

That’s when she appeared.

“Oh my GOD!”

The phrase was followed by a dull THUD and something crashing to the floor.

Riven didn’t need to look. Mika had arrived.

She was on all fours, surrounded by flying notebooks and a gaping backpack. She wore a lilac sweater with a kitten embroidered on it and a coat twice her size. Her hair was tied up in two messy buns, like she’d done it while escaping a fire.

“I just wanted to walk in with dignity for ONCE!” she shouted, trying to gather her notebooks with one hand while holding her phone with the other. “ONCE, UNIVERSE! It’s not too much to ask!”

Riven stopped. Took a deep breath. And finally spoke, with that low, impassive voice that sounded like it came from a noir monologue:

“What did you trip on? Air?”

“On myself!” Mika replied, sitting on the floor with genuine indignation. “I stepped on my own shoelace. That should be illegal.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth threatened a smile — almost imperceptible.

That was Mika: a chaotic, charming omega comet. She talked too much, gestured like her body was an extension of her words, and managed to be both clumsy and impossible to ignore.

“Get up, Mika. You’re blocking the way and my will to live,” Riven muttered, extending a hand.

“Wow, so romantic!” she said, grabbing his fingers with enthusiasm. “If that’s your flirting game, you’ve got a long way to go. Like, a LONG way.”

“It was charity, not flirting.”

“Wow. That’s even worse.”

She got up with his help, dusting herself off like she’d walked through a storm. Riven turned to go, but Mika followed him — as if she had already decided that this day would be his.

“You look even paler than yesterday. Did you sleep?”

“Work. Class. Life. All at once.”

“Ugh, so romantic.” She sighed dramatically. “A modern martyr.”

He glanced sideways. His gray eyes met hers for a second.

Then he looked away, as he always did.

But Mika... Mika just smiled.

Because she was the kind of person who laughed at the cracks in others.

And even if he said nothing, deep down — deep, deep down — she knew he was listening.

In that place full of people who talked too much and listened too little, only four people managed to break through Riven Valemont’s unshakable shield. Four exceptions to the rule he lived by like gospel: don’t get close and we’ll be fine.

Lys, Mika, Jules, and Téo.

The only ones who could call his name and not be ignored.

The only ones he — though he’d never admit it — tolerated… and maybe, in silence, valued.

They were all there, as always. An unlikely quartet that orbited Riven without suffocating him.

“RIVEEEEN!” Mika yelled theatrically, like she was born for the stage and still hadn’t realized the real world had too much audience. “Listen! I dreamed you were a famous omega, like... an international runway model! And I was your personal stylist! But you FIRED me because I suggested a pastel pink outfit!”

She tripped on her own feet again, arms out like she wanted to fly. Her energy was uncontrollable — and loud.

“Tempting,” Riven murmured without stopping, hands still in his pockets, expression indifferent. “But in real life, I’d fire you just for screaming my name in public.”

Mika clutched her chest, deeply offended.

“That’s emotional cruelty, Riven. One day I’m going to force you to hug someone. With feeling.”

Jules appeared beside them, elegant as ever in a beige blazer, silent and calculated steps. He looked at Riven like he was evaluating a cracked piece of art.

“Cold as always,” he said, calmly adjusting his blazer sleeve. “But... you’re paler than usual. Sleep at all? One hour? Half?”

Riven stopped, leaned his shoulder against a tree, eyes lowered.

“Doesn’t matter. I woke up tired of being awake.”

Lys, sitting on the nearby grass with headphones around his neck and a barely-touched croissant in hand, let out a dry, low laugh. The kind that sounded like a mix of irony and concern.

“The dark genius speaks. Just a reminder: today’s the bio presentation. The one you said you wouldn’t watch ‘even with bleach in your eyes.’”

The bite into the croissant sealed the sentence.

Mika spun on her heel like a poorly rehearsed musical, pointing both fingers at Riven like a detective revealing the killer.

“And guess who’s in his group?”

Suspense.

“Seth Lancaster. The actual telenovela alpha.”

The name dropped like a contained bomb. Riven didn’t react at first. He just looked up at the cloudy sky for two long seconds. Then sighed.

“Of course. Because my day wasn’t already making me consider exile.”

Téo appeared from the direction of the library, silent as ever, steps firm, balancing two coffee cups, a tablet, and a book under his arm with the precision of a tightrope walker. He handed one of the coffees to Riven without a word.

“Seth just walked into the auditorium looking like he’s winning an Oscar,” he said.

Jules raised an eyebrow.

“For arrogance?”

“For drama. But could be both,” Téo replied, sitting calmly.

Each of them was a unique piece in this small, chaotic solar system:

Mika — the colorful, emotional storm. An omega full of life, neediness, and too much love to keep inside.

Jules — the prince of sharp aesthetics and attentive listening. He wore elegance as armor but offered presence as affection.

Lys — the beta with clinical eyes, skeptical of everything and everyone except those, like Riven, who knew how to bleed in silence.

Téo — the alpha who didn’t need words to protect. His silence spoke what the world forgot to hear.

And at the center of it all... Riven.

With war-torn dark circles, soft, steady steps, and a humor that flirted with emotional collapse disguised as sarcasm.

“You think if I fall down the stairs, I can get a medical note?” Riven asked calmly, sipping a coffee that tasted like pain and regret.

Lys didn’t even blink.

“If you fall with style, I’ll forge the report. With the official stamp of ‘Long Live the Drama Clinic.’”

Mika, who had been watching an ant crawl up her shoelace, suddenly perked up.

“I CAN PUSH YOU!” she said with a sparkle in her eye no one should have when talking about pushing a friend down the stairs. “I promise to make it look like an accident... like a soap opera!”

She was already rehearsing her reaction:

“Oh my GOD! He fell! Someone call the hot nurse paramedic!!”

Téo let out a slow sigh. The kind filled with exhaustion, silent judgment, and a hidden trace of affection.

“Wouldn’t put it past you,” he muttered, eyeing Mika like he was seriously considering locking her in a closet till finals week.

Jules, as always, watched it all like he was witnessing a tragicomic opera. Arms crossed, refined expression, eyes calculating the level of collective madness, he delivered the final verdict:

“This is friendship. Mildly illegal... totally functional.”

Riven, who hadn’t shown a real smile until then, looked at the group. At the chaos. At the lovely confusion they were.

And for the first time that day — which was rare — he laughed.

Low. Almost imperceptible.

Mika froze. Jules raised a brow. Lys bit his croissant like he’d just witnessed a miracle. And Téo... well, Téo just looked away, but his shoulders relaxed by a single centimeter.

A centimeter that said everything.

In that absurd scene of stairs, forged notes, and consensual shoves, there was more than humor.

There was belonging.

There was friendship.

And that, Riven knew — even if he’d never admit it — was rarer than any doctor’s note.

And so, the five headed toward the Science Building.

Each in their own way. Their own world. Their own pain.

But together, they formed something rare:

A place where even Riven’s silence found translation.

He knew the day would be bad.

But with them there... at least it would be a choreographed disaster.

And he, though he’d never say it out loud,

no longer knew how to survive this world — without them.

The hallway outside the auditorium was thick with a nearly visible tension. The kind of silence that comes before a thunderclap, a scandal... or the arrival of Seth Lancaster.

His footsteps were almost poetic — rhythmic, firm, claiming the floor as if it had been designed just for him. The lights above seemed to cooperate, reflecting off discreet bracelets, the open shirt collar, and a perfectly tousled quiff.

Mika reacted first, as always. Eyes wide, back straight, hands frantically fixing her hair like it was a national emergency.

“There he comes,” she murmured like she was witnessing a solar eclipse without protective glasses. “Posture of someone who knows he’s gonna cause drama. Smile of someone born with his ass kissed by designer brands.”

Jules raised an eyebrow, arms crossed like a fashion critic ready to shred an emotional runway.

“And an ego big enough to power an entire plant. Ten bucks says he mentions Riven’s hair in under thirty seconds.”

Téo, leaning against the wall near the door, watched with calm eyes and a neutral face. His presence was steady — like a shield that didn’t need words, but used them with surgical precision when necessary.

“I bet he starts with posture,” Téo said without looking away. “And that Riven responds with a four-word sentence, max.”

Lys, phone already in hand, was typing with the speed of a war reporter.

“Betting pool’s open. Last call. Updating the sass scoreboard since Monday. Riven’s winning with three killer comebacks, but Seth tied it yesterday with that ‘bravery doesn’t suit you’ gem.”

“Oh, that was a classic,” Mika sighed, genuinely moved.

Riven, standing a few feet from the auditorium door, looked like a statue carved out of boredom. Hands in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly tense, eyes half-closed like he was already mentally checked out. He didn’t need to look to know Seth was coming. He could feel it. The scent of expensive cologne. The arrogance hanging in the air like golden dust.

Riven’s fingers squeezed his coffee cup ever so slightly. A faint line appeared between his brows. But he didn’t speak. Not yet.

Seth strolled down the hallway like the lead in a cologne commercial promising success, danger, and emotional trauma.

“Riven,” he said, drawing out the syllables like tasting the drama. “Still rocking that ‘heartbroken poet’ vibe this early?”

Riven turned his head just enough to meet his gaze — those sharp, glacial gray eyes that said more than full monologues ever could.

“Better than hollow,” he shot back, dry. Like he’d just labeled Seth a pretty shell.

Téo smiled, subtly.

Jules raised a hand.

“Called it. I totally thought he’d say, ‘Seth, leave me alone.’”

Lys updated the board.

“Three to one. Riven still leading the sarcasm league.”

Mika practically vibrated in place.

“Oh my god… this is better than a telenovela. And I binged three episodes of Wolves in Love last night.”

The scene was set: on one side, Seth — all dangerous charm, provocation, and rehearsed control. On the other, Riven — icy, scathing, and with a contempt sharper than knives.

In the middle, four friends witnessing the inevitable collision, like spectators of a comet set to crash into the Biology Auditorium.

And all this... before the presentation even started.

Just another morning.

At the university where love felt like war,

and rivals knew exactly which buttons to push to make the other tremble.

To be continued…

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