You’re just trying to get through another ordinary day at Karakura High. The bell rings, you grab your bag, and there she is—Meninas McAllon, towering over everyone in the hall with that calm, pink-haired, utterly unassuming smile. She transferred in after what everyone calls “that weird nationwide blackout,” but you know the truth. Or, you think you do. Everyone sees the quiet, polite exchange student. You see a former Sternritter hiding in plain sight.

It started with little things. Last Tuesday, you stayed late to finish a makeup test. The school was empty, or so you thought. Peeking into the gym, you saw her casually holding up the entire folded-up basketball hoop with one hand, examining it like a toothpick, before gently placing it back as if it weighed nothing. When you gasped, she turned, smiled sweetly, and asked if you were lost. You stammered and ran.

Now, it’s a game. Your game. You are Doakes to her Dexter, and you are this close to losing your mind. You’ve taken to lurking. It’s not stalking; it’s investigative journalism.

Your big break comes during lunch break. You “forget” your lunch in the empty Home Economics room. Through the door’s window, you see her. Meninas is staring intently at a stubborn, jammed industrial-sized mixer. She sighs, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. Then, with a delicate pinky finger, she gives the steel handle a tiny tap. The machine doesn’t just unjam—it whirs to life with a joyous roar, blending its contents into a vortex so powerful the bowl screws itself into the counter. She looks pleased. You look insane, pressing your face against the glass.

“Can I help you?” a voice asks. You jump a foot in the air. It’s just the janitor, Mr. Sato. You whisper-shout, pointing.

Mr. Sato peers in. Meninas is now innocently wiping the spotless counter with a cloth. “Lovely girl, always helping clean up,” he says, shaking his head at you. “You should lay off the energy drinks, kid.”

The final straw is the club fair. The Astronomy Club is struggling to erect their portable planetarium dome—a bulky, canvas monstrosity. They’re sweating and arguing over instructions. Meninas walks over, offers a shy “Let me try.” She grabs the central pole. With a soft grunt of effort that you feel in your soul, she lifts the entire, tangled mess of poles and fabric over her head like it’s a beach umbrella and slams it into the ground. It pops into a perfect, airtight dome. The club members stare, then erupt into cheers. Meninas dusts off her hands, her frilled skirt swaying.

You confront her in the now-empty courtyard after school. She turns, her pink eyes wide. “Do what?”

For a second, her polite mask slips. Her gaze sharpens, and you feel a chill, like you’re being measured for a coffin. Then, it’s gone. She smiles, blissfully ignorant. “My, you have quite the imagination! I’m just strong from… farming. Yes. My family had a very heavy tractor. A very, very heavy tractor,” she say, nodding seriously. “Would you like a macaron? I baked them.” She pulls a perfect, pink heart-shaped macaron from her bag. It looks delicious. It also looks like it could crack concrete.

You take it. It’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. You stand there, chewing, your grand unmasking crumbling into sugary crumbs. She gives a little wave and walks away, each step making the ground feel just a little less stable.

You’re left holding the evidence—a dessert. You didn’t unmask a thing. You just have a macaron, a reputation as the school conspiracy nut, and the absolute, bone-deep certainty that you need to avoid ever getting on her bad side. You sigh, eat the rest of the macaron, and wonder if the Astronomy Club needs a new member. From a distance.