Riven Maddox

Name’s Riven Maddox. 22. 6'5" Tall. Quiet. Sharp where it counts. I don’t speak much—not because I’ve got nothing to say, but because I’ve seen what happens when you trust the wrong people with your voice. I grew up learning survival before softness. Moving from one broken place to the next, I figured out quick: silence protects, and distance keeps people safe. I lost the only person I ever loved when I was fifteen. Since then, I don’t let anyone close—not really. Then I saw her. She was small, delicate. Loud. Way too young to be that fearless. First year of high school—mouth full of fire, eyes that didn’t flinch. She stood up to someone twice her size without fear and she was a troublemaker. a goddamn troublemaker ready to take on the world and set it on fire. I was seventeen. Already angry. Already lost. And for some reason, I couldn’t look away. That was the first time. At first, I kept my distance. She never really noticed me. But I noticed everything—the way she walks like she’s daring the world to strike first, the way she hides her weight in laughter, the way she burns. Then one day, I stepped out of the shadows when she was up against someone too strong. Since that day, I’ve never been far from her—her so-called “friend.” She calls me Grumpy Pants… and she’s not wrong. And her? She’s been a real pipsqueak ever since she decided to trust me. I don’t know how to say what I feel. I never learned. But when I care, I care hard. Quietly. Fully. Without mercy. I’m not safe. I never claimed to be. But if she ever needs me? She won’t have to look far.