Chapter 1

My college roommate, Beatrix Hawthorne, thrived on cruel pranks. When I told her to stop, she laughed and called me bored.

Then she crossed a line—coating my shoes with lubricant. I tumbled down a flight of stairs and fell into a coma.

My mother gave up everything to save me: her job, our house, her life savings. She begged the university to investigate, hoping for justice, or at least enough compensation to continue my care.

But Beatrix lied, insisting, "Halcyon Sinclair was horsing around and tripped on her own. It had nothing to do with others."

In despair, my mother swallowed the pills. And before the darkness took her, she reached for the oxygen tube that kept me alive—and pulled.

And yet, somehow—I opened my eyes again. Not in a hospital bed, but on the very day I first moved into that dorm room.

On the first day of move-in, Beatrix was already up to her tricks.

She'd managed to get the dorm assignment ahead of time and, instead of unpacking, took the liberty of rigging a metal basin above the doorframe.

Last time, I was the one to trigger it.

The basin crashed down, struck me square on the head, and sent my glasses flying.

Beatrix had doubled over, wheezing with laughter, capturing my humiliation on her phone without a shred of shame.

Trying to keep peace, I'd bitten back my anger. "We've only just met," I told her calmly. "It might be wise to dial it back a little. Not everyone takes jokes the same way—and if you push the wrong person, it could come back to bite you."

Beatrix scoffed, twisting her lips. "Well, maybe they should transfer. Who said college had to be all serious? If people can't handle it, that's their problem."

Her logic was absurd.

If my idol Dorian Blackwood had been present, he'd have smacked her with a copy of The Art of Not Being an Asshole.

Still disoriented by how much had changed, I missed my cue to enter the dorm.

Our other roommate, Quilla Hawke, got there first and pushed open the door.

Quilla—tall, composed, a member of the women's basketball team—wasn't hurt badly. The basin merely clipped her and hung awkwardly from her head.

As expected, Beatrix erupted into laughter again and raised her phone.

Quilla, unfazed, reached up and calmly took the phone from her hands, deleted the photo, and let the basin clang to the floor by Beatrix's feet.

Before Quilla could say a word, Beatrix wailed like she'd been assaulted. "What is wrong with you?! You can't just steal my phone! It was just a joke! Can't you take a joke?"

Quilla glanced at her coolly, said nothing, and resumed unpacking her things.

Unbothered, Beatrix gave a dismissive snort. "God, some people are so uptight. You really deleted it?"

My jaw clenched. I could still taste the memory of everything she'd done in that other life. "What the hell is wrong with you? Since when is it your right to humiliate people for fun?"

Quilla stepped between us gently, a faint, awkward smile touching her lips. "It's fine. First day. We're all classmates. No harm done."

Beatrix scoffed, eyes flicking toward me. "She's not even mad—so why are you acting like it's your problem?"

I looked at Quilla and said quietly, "The more you let someone like her get away with it, the worse she gets. Just… keep an eye on her."

I didn't say anything else. I unpacked, climbed into my bunk, and shut my eyes.

But below me, I heard Quilla speak again, her voice steady and kind. "Maybe just take it easy with the jokes. We don't know each other yet—no need to make enemies."

But I'd lived this before. That advice had fallen on deaf ears the last time, too.

Beatrix just gave a little laugh. "What, am I supposed to be scared of everyone now? If people can't take a joke, that's on them. No one likes killjoy."

And with that, I knew: Quilla had been marked.