Sturniolo one-shots I think of in class.

but why? 💙💜🧡 (actual story)

this is chapter 1!!!! i think it's quite good for me tbh, and if it doesn't make sense don't come for me cuz ive just recently got good at english😭 i still don't know many word sentences haha!
this is gonna be long and if this a good chapter to you guys i'll make a proper different story instead of it being on the one shot one i have!!

part 1:

The morning sun filtered through the perfect windows of the perfect house on the perfect hill, touching the golden frame that held a single, fading photograph of a woman with kind eyes and wind-tousled hair. The room smelled faintly of lemon polish and wealth. Matt Sturniolo stirred in bed, the necklace resting against his chest like a familiar weight. He always touched it first thing. Always.

Downstairs, the clinking of cutlery echoed like a reminder—breakfast at 8, sharp. His father was likely already dressed in one of his wrinkleless suits, reading something about stocks or land. Probably both.

Matt wasn't particularly interested in any of it.

He dragged himself out of bed, pushed open the curtains, and looked down on the town the way kings probably did in olden days. Cobblestone streets, bakeries with peeling paint, kids chasing each other barefoot. The top of town really did have the best view. But Matt's eyes didn't wander too far. They never did. Not past the river. Not toward the lake. Not even near the glittering ocean that could be seen from the eastern cliff if the day was clear enough.

He tugged the necklace.

She'd given it to him three days before she died. One of those old, silvery things with a strange stone in the center that caught light like it was hiding something. He never took it off. He couldn't.

If someone even suggested he should, Matt would unravel. That had happened in Year 9, when a new boy had called it "a girl's necklace" and reached for it. Matt's scream had echoed down the corridor and into every classroom. The kid never tried again.

⸻

Down in town—real town, not that palace on the hill—Chris Owen was awake for very different reasons.

He'd crashed behind a bakery last night, halfway through a bottle of something warm that made his head fuzzy and his thoughts fuzzier. His shirt smelled like smoke. His breath smelled like defiance. The alley was cool and quiet, which was exactly how he liked it.

He stretched, yawned, and patted his jacket pocket—two IDs, four twenties, and a half-eaten Twinkie. No wallet, of course. He always left the wallets. No one liked a thief with no class.

Chris wasn't evil. Just... practiced.

"Up and at it," he mumbled to himself, sitting up and brushing flour dust off his pants. A pigeon glared at him from the top of a trash bin like it owned the place.

"Get a job," he hissed at it, flipping it off. The pigeon flew away. Smart.

He didn't need to be anywhere. That was the best thing about being the mayor's son. All the crime, none of the consequences. It didn't matter what he did, really. They all whispered behind closed curtains, but none of them dared call the police. Because the mayor's boy could set a damn fire and they'd blame the matchstick.

Chris liked that. It made the game more fun.

Still, something about this town bored him lately. Same people. Same patterns. Same warnings passed to wide-eyed newcomers like urban legends. Don't go down the alleys after dark. Watch your wallets near the market. Keep an eye out for the mayor's kid.

He hadn't done anything that bad in weeks. Not since that couple got lost after the festival and Chris "found" their car keys for a small price. He even walked them to the edge of the town square, like a true gentleman.

He wasn't all bad. Just mostly.

⸻

The school bell rang like a threat that day.

Matt walked in first, as always, surrounded by his orbit of hand-picked friends and empty smiles. His shoes were cleaner than most people's bedrooms. Girls glanced at him, boys nodded in approval or envy, and teachers always asked him to collect handouts.

Nick trailed beside him, grinning stupidly at every word Matt said, hanging off his sentences like they were gospel.

"Wait—so you didn't get grounded after the pool thing?" Nick asked, a little too loud.

Matt snorted. "No. I just said I slipped near it. Didn't even touch the water."

Nick's grin faltered. "Right, yeah. Water's... not really your thing, huh?"

Matt gave him a tight glance. "You think?"

"Sorry. Just... y'know. Trying to joke."

Matt didn't laugh.

Nick coughed and looked down. He always said the wrong thing.

⸻

Across the hallway, leaning against a locker like he owned it (he didn't), Chris Owen lit a cigarette. Just for show. He wasn't stupid—he knew the rules about smoking indoors. But people thought he would. That was enough.

He watched the way Matt strolled down the corridor like he was being filmed. Too clean. Too put-together. Too... untouched.

He'd never liked him. Not for any deep reason. Just something about people like that made Chris itch.

Chris spat on the floor beside him. A cleaner sighed from across the hall but didn't dare tell him off.

Matt passed him like he didn't exist.

Chris smirked. "Good morning to you, too, Princess."

Matt didn't flinch. Didn't turn. He walked right past him like the boy leaning against the locker was just a painting on a wall—something that didn't breathe or speak or matter.

That pissed Chris off more than he cared to admit.

⸻

That afternoon, something odd happened.

Matt was walking home alone for once. His friends had drama club or detention or both, and Nick had gone back to grab his art folder. The streets weren't quiet, but they weren't busy either.

Chris, who had been meandering aimlessly, came around the corner of the butcher's shop holding a half-bitten apple he probably didn't pay for.

They locked eyes.

Matt stopped walking.

Chris raised an eyebrow.

Neither spoke.

Then, without saying a word, Matt turned and walked the other way, back up the hill, back to his safe, manicured world.

Chris watched him go, eyes narrowing.

He didn't hate him. He didn't even really know him.

But he had a feeling he'd be seeing a lot more of the hill boy soon.

And something told him—deep down, in that part of his gut that usually screamed run—that whatever happened next, it wasn't going to be simple.