Chapter 2

Sure enough, everything I had once endured began happening to Quilla. Beatrix had always needed a target. And she didn't stop until that person snapped.

Once classes began, she zeroed in on Quilla.

One afternoon, Quilla showed up to class wearing a dress—rare for her.

Beatrix seized the opportunity. She slid into the seat behind her and waited. When Quilla stood, Beatrix pushed her desk forward, catching the hem of Quilla's skirt.

There was a sharp rip. Quilla stumbled, skirt torn, exposing her compression shorts beneath.

She managed to stop herself just in time. Any slower, and things would've been far worse.

It was calculated. Beatrix had waited until the day Quilla wore a dress.

I'd been through it. Back then, a boy from another class had taken a photo of me—my skirt caught, my face contorted in horror.

The image had spread like wildfire.

They laughed at my panicked expression. They'd mocked my underwear, called it childish.

In the cafeteria, the library, whispers followed me everywhere.

Quilla told me I'd been turned into a meme.

They gave me a nickname—Pinkie. Every time I passed the field, some boy would shout, "Hey Pinkie! Look over here!"

Then came the laughter—loud, cruel, relentless.

Beatrix had sat courtside, clapping like she was watching a halftime show.

That was the year I stopped smiling. That was the year I started crying in the dark, where no one could see.

Beatrix showed no remorse—if anything, she seemed amused. "Oh come on, Halcyon. You're seriously crying over that? Girls post swimsuit pics all over the internet and don't make a fuss. You need to loosen up. How are you going to survive in the real world if you're this uptight?"

Quilla couldn't stand it. Her voice was sharp with disbelief. "How do you say things like that with a straight face? You want to go to the dean and explain yourself? Harassment, humiliation—you really think you've done nothing wrong?"

Beatrix shrugged, tone smug. "Got any proof? 'Cause if not, you're the one spreading lies."

We both knew the truth—it had been her. She'd wedged the skirt in the desk. She'd been whispering with the boys loitering outside.

But her audacity shielded her better than any alibi.

That night, I cried until I couldn't breathe.

Quilla was so furious she nearly took a swing at her.

I never forgot how fiercely Quilla had defended me. And now, with the past somehow looping back, there was no way I was letting Beatrix target her again.

When it happened, I was ready. I rushed forward the moment Quilla's skirt tore, shrugging off my jacket and wrapping it around her waist.

As I did, I spotted someone lurking in the doorway—someone who, in that other life, had snapped the photo that ruined me.

He made eye contact with Beatrix, frowned, and walked away.

And in that instant, everything clicked. They were working together.

I'd once believed the photo had been a fluke. But Beatrix orchestrated the entire spectacle.

She'd even recruited boys from the neighboring class to catch the moment.

The meme that haunted me, spread like wildfire—none of it had been an accident. It had all been her.

The memory that made me shudder surged in. Even after that episode, Beatrix didn't stop.

She found the same brand of pink underwear I'd been wearing that day, bought several pairs, and started "accidentally" dropping them in public. Then she'd smirk and ask loudly, "Halcyon, this yours? Another Pinkie sighting?"

I snapped. One day in the dining hall, I hurled my tray at her.

She fell to the floor theatrically, screeching, "You hit me?! For what? I found something and just asked you!"

Her entourage of boys chimed in, condemning my temper.

Alone and overwhelmed, the crowd turned against me.

And just like before, my depression hit me like a tidal wave. I dropped to the floor, sobbing.

Beatrix knelt in front of me, lifting my chin with mock sympathy, her phone already aimed. "Seriously crying? That's all it takes?"

Quilla surged through the crowd like a storm.

She shoved Beatrix aside, eyes blazing. "If you touch her again, I swear I'll rip that smug face off. Everyone in this dorm knows what you are—take your pack of jackals and get lost."