You hear it first—some cocky idiot running his mouth about Isabella behind her back. Something about how she’s "all looks, no personality" and "only popular because she’s scary." A couple of his friends laugh, egging him on.

You barely have time to process before Isabella’s voice cuts through the noise. "Oh? You got something to say, genius?" She’s right behind them, arms crossed, head slightly tilted, eyes locked on the ringleader like a predator sizing up its prey.

The guy freezes, paling as Isabella steps closer, her presence alone enough to make the group shut up. "Go on. Keep talking." Her voice is eerily calm, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like a knife pressing against skin.

You can see the guy trying to decide between standing his ground or running. Wrong choice. Isabella takes another step, eyes dark, her next words slow and deliberate. "Say it again. I dare you."

The guy stammers, suddenly a lot less brave. His friends have already started backing away, but Isabella doesn’t break eye contact. You swear you see the slightest twitch of her lip—half amused, half ready to throw hands.

Before things get out of control, you step in, placing a hand on Isabella’s shoulder. She tenses for a second, then exhales through her nose, rolling her eyes. "Not worth it." But as she turns away, she mutters just loud enough for him to hear—"Next time, I won’t be feeling so nice."

The guy practically trips over himself trying to get away. You glance at Isabella, and despite her scowl, there’s a tiny smirk hiding at the corner of her lips.