They whisper it behind my back. Queenpin.

  The ball hits the wall with a dull thunk. Bounces back. I kick it again. Harder this time. Thunk. The rhythm is soothing. My own personal metronome against the world.

  Behind me, the school is abuzz with life—students shuffling between classes, teachers droning on about things they barely care about. I should be in there. Should be learning. Should be pretending.

  But I don’t do shoulds anymore.

  I tilt my head back, letting the cold air slide past my skin. The sky is a dull, washed-out blue. Boring.

  Another thunk.

  Then—footsteps.

  I don’t turn, don’t acknowledge them, even when they stop just behind me.

  “Ahem.”

  Mont Bretia.

  I kick the ball again. This time, it rolls away.

  “You’ve been missing class,” she says, arms crossed, voice puffed up with authority she doesn’t really have. "I don’t tolerate rule-breakers."

  I finally turn. Her face is round, bloated, her cheeks sagging just enough to make her look permanently displeased. The new principal. She’s trying to establish herself. Trying to act like she matters.

  I step past her. “Then don’t tolerate me.”

  She blocks my path, voice hardening. “Revilsa, your parents will be contacted.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Take my time. Then, with several slow nods, I slowly walk past her—straight towards her office.

  Mont hesitates, then follows.

  We make it to the office. Stiff. Sterile. Like it hasn’t been lived in long enough to collect dust.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I drop into the chair across from her desk, lean back, and prop my boots up. She stiffens. Opens her mouth to tell me off—

  Before she can, I toss the packet onto her desk.

  It lands with a soft thud. White. Sealed.

  Mont stares. Doesn’t move.

  Then, slowly, she picks it up. Turns it over. Her face drains of color.

  “Cocaine?” I hum, tapping my fingers on the armrest. “Even that is too low for a principal.”

  Her breath catches. “I—I don’t know what you’re—”

  I tap my view. Send the proof directly to her screen. The transaction records. The messages. The receipts.

  Mont’s pupils dilate as the evidence floods her retinas. Her cheeks quiver. "You—"

  "—should’ve stuck to blackmailing cafeteria staff," I finish, “like your old school.”

  I push back my chair slowly and take a bunch of candy. Unwrap one, let the wrapper drift onto her desk like trash.

  “Clean up,” I murmur, sucking the candy. “Unless you’d rather I clean you up first.”

  Then I walk out.

  Nessa is waiting for me.

  She’s bigger than the other girls. Older than she should be for this grade. Once, she shoved me onto the ground. Once, she laughed when others did the same.

  Now? She follows me like my loyal dog. Happened after I leaked the video of her crying in the locker room. She tried to slap me. I broke two of her fingers. We had an understanding after that.

  "Mont’s gonna try something," Nessa mutters, falling in step beside me.

  I shrug. She won’t.

  Nessa watches as I sift through the candy, picking out the worthy colors. The rest? I scatter them in the wind.

  She picks up a discarded red candy, rolling it between her fingers. "You always throw away the best ones."

  I pause.

  "Shut up," I say, too fast.

  She scowls. "Someone’s waiting for you in class."

  I sigh, stretching. "Great. My fan club grows."

  I make it to the classroom, air being damp enough to crush a planet. The teacher is sweating. She forces a smile when she sees me.

  "Revilsa, dear…" She fidgets, tugs at her collar. "I don’t know why they’re here."

  I follow her gaze.

  My desk isn’t empty.

  Three high schoolers. Punks by the looks of it, from the underground.

  The leader—blonde hair, an earring, dark shadows under his eyes—leans back in my chair, watching me with lazy amusement. His boots are on my desk.

  He looks me up and down. Then he laughs.

  Looks at the teacher.

  "This one?"

  The teacher stammers, but I don’t listen. I walk forward. Nessa stays by the door, arms crossed.

  The other two punks—one wiry, one built like a brick—watch me.

  The leader taps my desk. “Heard a lot about you, Revilsa.” He talks like he is the one in control. “Didn’t think you’d be so… small.”

  I smile. Not a nice one.

  “I didn’t think you’d be so stupid.”

  His grin anchors. Then he swings his legs off the desk, standing up. Taller than me. He leans in, close enough that I can smell his breath.

  "You think you're top dog here, huh?"

  The brick cracks his knuckles. The wiry one shifts, ready.

  I tilt my head, pretending to think. "No."

  Then I slam my knee into his ribs, hard enough to hear something pop. His breath explodes in a choked gasp. Then blinks, mouth opening like he’s about to laugh.

  His legs buckle, dropping onto the ground, clutching his side, and the classroom goes dead silent except for his wheezing.

  The wiry one lunges. I sidestep, grab his wrist, and slam it down on the desk hard enough to make the teacher flinch.

  "Anyone else?"

  The brick runs out.

  That makes me laugh.

  It's night and home smells like perfume and fresh toast. The lights are dim. My mother sits at the table, silent. My father reads the news through his view.

  “Three high schoolers,” he says, flipping the page. “Hospitalized. Apparently, they tried to take on a wrestler. That's rough.”

  Good cover-up.

  He looks up, notices the split in my lip. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. "You never come home clean."

  I shrug. "You taught me that."

  A beat. The scar under his eye—courtesy of Mom’s wine glass, two years back—stretches pale. Then he chuckles, flipping the news feed again. "Fair."

  He coughs, changing topic, “Your teacher quit today, Rev.”

  I chew slowly. The butter is too warm, greasy on my tongue.

  “Hope you weren’t too attached.”

  Attatched?

  I’d warned her. Quit, or I’d leak the footage of her and the ‘afterclass sessions’ she had in the car with her blonde waste of oxygen.

  Funny how fast she crumpled when I mentioned statutory laws. Not that I care about justice. But watching her beg for mercy? Pathetic. I’d left her sobbing in the faculty bathroom.

  Now my toast sticks in my throat. I force it down.

  Weakness tastes burnt.