Evie Zamora thrived on control.

She thrived on fear. On whispers. On the way everyone stepped lightly around her like she was a storm ready to strike.

And then… you arrived.

First day, first class. She cornered you in the hallway, leaning against the lockers with a grin that was more warning than welcome.

“Don’t make this easy for me,” she said, voice low. “I can ruin reputations before breakfast.”

You looked at her calmly. “I don’t flinch.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “What did you just say?”

“I don’t flinch,” you repeated. “So you’ll have to try harder.”

A spark of something—curiosity, amusement, maybe annoyance—flashed across her face.

From then on, she tried everything.

Lunchroom antics, whispered rumors, elbowing your elbow in crowded corridors. Each attempt to unsettle you met with the same unshakable calm. You didn’t gossip. You didn’t jump. You didn’t give her the satisfaction.

At first, she laughed. Then she scowled. Then… she paused.

During detention one evening, she leaned across the table, eyes narrowing. “You really think you’re untouchable?”

“I think,” you said, voice steady, “that scaring people is tiring if no one cares.”

Her lips twitched. “Most people do care.”

“Not me.”

For the first time, she hesitated. You noticed how her hands fidgeted with her pen—small, human, unseen by most.

“You’re not supposed to stay,” she muttered, almost to herself. “You’re supposed to run.”

“I’m not running,” you said.

And then she laughed. Low, soft, almost surprised. “Good. Good. Keep that up. Let’s see how long you last.”