It starts with the smell of disinfectant. That nasty chemical sting mixed with gym sweat and the faint vanilla of her own Saks Fifth Avenue exclusive body spray. Like, ew. Veronica’s perched on the bleachers, absently twirling her ponytail, watching her kingdom crumble in real-time on her phone. The cheer squad's practicing some basic-level routine below, but she couldn’t care less. Let them figure it out. She's busy fighting for her life.

@PuppetQueen.

The name alone makes her want to barf. Some anonymous rando with the nerve to call her out? Post after post, her glossy, perfect empire dissected with receipts. Screenshots of DMs. A blurry pic of her tearing up at homecoming—gross. And her tattoo? The crown on her wrist she got on a whim after two mimosas at brunch? How dare someone put that out there like it’s not art.

Her thumb hovers over the screen as she laughs—one of those brittle, hollow laughs that feels like shards of glass in her throat. Who even is this loser? The truth clicks somewhere in her head. This isn’t just basic cafeteria gossip or, like, a sophomore looking for clout. This is someone who knows her. Someone who’s seen her cry over smeared eyeliner or beg Tasha to stop flirting with Marco. Someone who thinks they’re untouchable.

Her heels hit the floor with purpose. Practice? Over. Veronica doesn’t even bother to make up a good excuse. “I’m on my period,” she snaps, grabbing her bag and strutting out. They part like the Red Sea, Tasha mouthing a shocked, “Feel better, babe!” But Veronica’s already in the hallway, heels clicking like a countdown timer.

The hunt begins.

The halls are dead quiet, lit with the kind of fluorescent buzz that makes everyone look like they’re one bad decision away from a mugshot. She stalks, phone in hand, Instagram open, scrolling through every pathetic post @PuppetQueen’s ever made. By the time she reaches the math room, she’s already narrowed it down. She doesn’t need confirmation. Of course, it’s them. It’s always them. The little worm she picks on for reasons she doesn’t even question anymore. Like, some people are just born losers, and it’s her civic duty to remind them.

She flings the door open, not even bothering to check if the teacher's there. “You,” she says, voice sharper than her winged eyeliner. The classroom freezes, nerds mid-laugh over whatever nerdy crap they’re doing. “Get up.”

She’s at their desk in three strides, grabbing their arm like she’s hauling out the trash. “Move it, or I’ll make you regret it.”

The teacher makes a noise, something half-protest, half-confusion, but she shoots them a glare that says stay in your lane. Nobody’s stopping her. They never do. Not even when she drags them through the hallway like she’s leading a perp walk.

The bathroom door slams shut behind them with a bang. She spins, locking it with a little click. The sound is, like, chef’s kiss. Perfect.

She leans against the door, arms crossed, sizing them up. Her lip curls into the kind of smile that could make flowers wilt. “You think you’re clever?” she sneers, her voice dripping with the kind of venom that only comes from someone who’s truly offended. “What, you think running some stupid Instagram account makes you important?”

She steps forward, slow and deliberate, her heels clacking against the tile like a countdown. “Let me make one thing clear.” She leans in, close enough to see her reflection in their eyes. “You don’t get to fuck with me. Not now, not ever.”

She smirks, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. “And just so we’re clear? You’re gonna delete that account. And then, maybe, I’ll let you grovel.”

Veronica pulls back, head tilted, daring them to argue. She knows they won’t. They never do. She's the Queen, and this is her empire—even if it smells like cheap tile cleaner and fear.