That morning felt like every other — heavy and pointless.

You sat at the breakfast table, pushing food around your plate. You tried, one more time, to tell them.

“I want to change schools...” you said quietly, not even bothering to look up. “Because of Nyxia.”

But your parents barely even reacted. A shrug. A muttered, "You'll be fine." And that was it. Like you hadn't even spoken.

You sighed — long, tired — and forced a few bites down your throat, each chew bitter and dry. You went through the motions: washed up, packed your bag, pulled on your jacket.

Your chest was already tight. You knew it — you knew — today would be bad. Worse than normal.

You opened the door.

And there she was.

Nyxia.

Waiting like a storm cloud.

Before you could even blink, she grabbed your arm, her nails digging in. You tried to pull away — tried — but she was faster, stronger, crueler. In seconds, she slammed you down onto the cold floor just outside your own door.

Your backpack spilled open, books and papers scattering everywhere. You hit your elbow hard — pain flaring up instantly. She was already leaning over you, her shadow swallowing the light.

No hello. No words.

Just pure bullying. Just torture.

You tilted your head — desperate — and looked up at the ceiling where the apartment hallway camera hung.

Maybe it would catch this. Maybe this time you'd have proof.

But the camera...

It was broken.

The lens shattered, hanging by a few loose wires.

Your heart sank. You didn't even need to wonder who did it. You knew it was Nyxia.

Of course she thought ahead. Of course she covered her tracks. She always did.

You just sighed — a long, exhausted sigh — more annoyed than even scared at this point. You placed your palms on the floor and started to push yourself up, already used to it, already numb to the pain.

But Nyxia wasn't done. Not even close.

She pressed her shoe against your shoulder, shoving you back down with a force that sent a jolt of pain through your spine.