DAMSEL RULES

DENZEL'S POV

If you ask me when everything started unraveling, I wouldn't say it was the day my dad crashed his car, or even the moment my mom found out he was cheating.

It was the day I realized people only show you what they want you to see. That even the ones you trust most can vanish-first from your future, then from your heart.

Rule #1: Don't fall in love.

Because love? It's not a fairy tale. It's a performance. A game. And I've never been interested in playing a game I can't win.

I stood outside the ICU room, looking through the thick glass at the machine that breathed for him. My father used to walk with confidence, talk with purpose. Now? He was barely more than a shape beneath sterile sheets.

The monitor blinked steady. Like a heart trying to remember how to beat.

"Ma'am?" A nurse placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I didn't flinch. I didn't move. We both knew there was nothing new to say. He wasn't dead, but he wasn't alive either.

I turned and walked out of the hospital.

No miracles. No answers. Just another heavy day stitched into my chest.

-

Rule #2: Don't accept help.

Because help always has strings. Long, invisible threads that tighten when you least expect it.

On the bus ride to school, I pressed my forehead to the window. My earbuds were in, lo-fi playing low.

Outside, Trinidad groaned awake. Horns blaring, street vendors shouting over one another. A vendor passed by yelling, "Palamig!"

I wanted to drink one to ease the heat. But I didn't have coins to spare, not when Ma worked double shifts at the bank and Ivan's job hunt was a joke wrapped in denial.

My fingers clenched around the strap of my tote bag. Not out of fear. Just to stay grounded.

Rule #3: Never show weakness.

Once, in fifth grade, I told a classmate I was scared of beetles. The next day, they left a jar of them on my desk. I fainted. They laughed. Never again.

Three months ago, my father-Antonio Ramos, real estate consultant, family man, fake Superman-drove off the road.

Mangled car. Coma. Secrets.

A week later, Ma found the receipts. Hotel bookings. Unfamiliar names.

She didn't scream. She didn't even confront him. She just adjusted her lipstick, smiled like she wasn't breaking, and poured all her silence into overtime work.

Rule #4: Don't trust people who smile too easily.

Because my mother did. And she still cries when she thinks no one hears her.

If I could tattoo my rules onto my skin, I would. Just to remember.

-

The bus lurched through the rusting gates of Holy Cross Academy.

I sat up and tied my hair back with a practiced tug. My blazer was oversized, hand-me-down from my older brother. My shoes were clean but worn thin at the soles.

"Holy Cross!" the driver called.

I stepped down.

The campus buzzed with the beginning-of-term chaos. Flags flapped from weathered poles. The smell of cut grass clashed with fried street food from the nearby stalls. Students poured in with practiced noise.

Then:

"DENZ!"

I turned just in time to catch Hannah, my human glitter cannon of a best friend, as she launched herself at me.

"You're wearing glitter. Again."

She grinned. "It's spirit day! And I am the spirit."

"You're the ghost that haunts this school," Rheiza deadpanned, appearing with two cups of steaming taho-soft tofu, brown sugar syrup, and pearls. She handed me one.

Bless her.

"You both look like death," Hannah said cheerfully. "Up late again?"

"Yes," I muttered.

Late night chess theory. Budget spreadsheets. Hospital bills. You know, normal college stuff.

We walked past the cheerleaders, who were forming a wobbly pyramid to the beat of some pop remix.

"You're not watching the game later?" Hannah asked.

"What game?"

"Volleyball. Holy Cross vs. Mater Carmeli."

Right. The rival school was visiting today. The same school I'd face at the inter-acad chess tournament. The same school with rich kids who treated tournaments like fashion shows.

"I have chess today," I said.

"Of course you do," Hannah sighed. "But you might want to sneak a look. I heard their team captain is ruin-your-life hot."

"Still not interested."

"You will be."

We passed the trophy wall. An empty center shelf waited for the next interschool chess champion.

I would win that slot. Not for clout. Not even for pride.

For the scholarship.

For the exit ticket.

Out of a house of whispered arguments and unpaid bills. Out of the ICU purgatory. Out of the version of myself that still looked for my Pa in shadows.

Chess was my strategy.

And I never played without a plan.

-

BASTI'S POV

Across town, I sat in the Mater Carmeli courtyard, legs stretched out, trying to pretend the text from my mom didn't exist.

[Family dinner. Wedding planner confirmed. Be present.]

I was 20. Still finishing college. Still figuring out what I wanted.

But apparently, I was also someone's future groom.

"Yo, Captain," Nate waved a spoon in my direction. "You're brooding again. That's dangerous."

"He's always brooding," Luke chimed in. "It's his hobby."

Tim scrolled through his phone, sipping iced Americano. He read a school article, "MCS's Volleyball Gods and their Emotional Support Issues: the documentary."

I didn't answer.

They weren't wrong.

Our team was waiting for the school van to Holy Cross. We were dressed in blue-and-gold varsity jackets like some uniformed boyband.

"Who are we up against again?" Nate asked.

"Holy Cross," Luke replied. "Where your future heartbreaks are currently studying."

Nate grinned. "Let's go."

Biatrice passed by, braid swinging, chess pin gleaming.

"She's facing their top player today," Tim noted. "Shekaira something. Ramos."

That name.

Ramos.

It stirred something in the back of my brain.

A memory? A conversation?

"Let's go," I said, standing.

The van had arrived.

-

DENZEL'S POV

Rule #5: If you're going to win, do it so well they never forget your name.

The tournament venue had been transformed. Velvet cloths. Judges in coats. Chess boards gleaming under harsh white lights.

And in the corner, the Mater Carmeli delegates. Model-perfect, laughing like they already owned the place.

I didn't care.

Not about them. Not about their varsity jackets or high cheekbones or whatever TikTok clout they had.

I was here to win.

But then I saw him.

Broad shoulders. Quiet eyes. Bored expression.

One of them.

I didn't know his name.

Yet.

Biatrice Isidro sat across from me like a queen expecting to win. But I didn't come here to play nice.

I came here to end her.