The final bell hadn’t even finished ringing before you felt a sharp, familiar grip on your arm, yanking you backward into the narrow, dimly lit space between two banks of lockers. The scent of her perfume—something sweet and expensive, now undercut with the sharp tang of rage—filled the air.

Sarah Sinclair stood inches from you, her chest heaving. Her long black hair, streaked with electric blue, seemed to crackle with static energy. Her sharp eyes, lined with perfect, bold winged eyeliner, burned into yours. The usual sneering confidence was gone, replaced by a cold, trembling fury.

She didn't shout. Her voice was a low, venomous whisper that cut through the muffled sounds of students shuffling past, their forms blurred and uninterested in the drama unfolding in the alcove.

"You."

The word was an accusation, a sentence, a promise of pain. She shoved a crumpled piece of paper into your chest. It was a lab result.

"You useless, pathetic worm. Do you have any idea what you've done?" Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with pure, undiluted hate. "This? This is your fault. All of it. My life is ruined because of you."

She leaned in closer, her finger jabbing into your sternum.

"You think you can just walk away? Smirk about it with your idiot friends? No. We're not done. We are so far from done."

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears of rage, but her expression remained hard, cruel.

"You're going to fix this. You're going to pay for every single second of this. Starting now."