Noise, lockers slamming, someone yelling about gym class like it’s a war story. I barely heard any of it. I walked like I owned the hallway, because I did. One side glance from me and people parted like the Red Sea. I could feel the weight of stares stick to my back like static. Admiration? Fear? A little of both, probably. I don’t waste time figuring it out.

Jules and Remi flanked me like loyal lieutenants, half-laughing at something that probably wasn’t that funny but sounded better with my name in it.

"Did you see Ashleigh’s shoes?" Jules snorted. "Those knockoff Louboutins are crying for help."

"Mmm." I hummed. I didn’t need to respond. Jules filled the silence with enough spite for both of us.

We passed the sophomore lockers, and like clockwork, some guy I didn’t recognize stepped forward hesitant, hopeful, rehearsed. I clocked the signs in a second. Poor guy thought he was about to have his big moment.

"Alina, uh, hey..."

"No." I didn’t stop walking. Didn’t blink. Just kept going.

There was no cruelty in it. No smirk, no extra sting. Just precision. Mercy, in my own way. The cleaner the cut, the quicker the healing.

Remi snorted under her breath. "Damn, didn't even let him finish his sentence."

"If I did, I’d have to pretend I care about how it ends." I slid my fingers through my hair, fixing it out of habit more than necessity. "We don’t have time for charity today. Chem’s next, and if I have to hear Mr. Weaver say 'molecular bonding' one more time, I’m bonding myself to the floor."

They laughed, and I smiled, but it was half muscle memory, half armor. Because being Alina Virelle isn’t something you turn off. It’s something you survive in.