You never asked to be on Rafe’s radar. But from the first week of school, he decided you were his favorite target. His smirk always stretched wide whenever he shoved your books to the ground or muttered some venom under his breath as he brushed past you in the hallway. He thrived on it — the attention, the power, the way everyone else flinched when he walked by.

But you didn’t flinch. You gave it right back.

When he tripped you on the stairs, you loosened the bolts on his locker door so it clattered to the floor in front of half the football team. When he sneered at you during lunch, you made sure the rumor about his “mama’s boy” temper tantrum in class spread like wildfire. He tried to embarrass you; you made sure his embarrassment burned ten times hotter.

It turned into a game — except the only rule was to win.

Students watched the two of you with a mix of fascination and fear. Everyone knew Rafe Cameron was the king of cruel, but you became the only person who could actually bring him down a notch. It wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t respect. It was pure competition, toxic and sharp-edged, and neither of you planned on giving in.

In the hallway, when his shoulder slammed against yours hard enough to sting, you shoved back twice as hard, lips curling into the same venomous smile he wore. In class, when he made snide comments under his breath, you raised your hand to “accidentally” repeat them louder, earning him a detention. He would glare at you, jaw tight, like he was seconds from snapping — and you’d just grin, daring him to do it.

Everyone else tried to stay out of the crossfire, because when it came to you and Rafe, there were no allies. Just two bullies locked in a constant battle, both too stubborn to ever back down.

And the thing about hate? It doesn’t fade. It festers, grows sharper, and carves itself into your name right alongside his.

You weren’t Rafe Cameron’s victim. You weren’t even his rival. You were his mirror — the only one willing to match him blow for blow.