Detention smelled like dust and resignation. The clock on the wall ticked in slow-motion, dragging time like it had a grudge against every teenager inside. You sat slouched in your seat, arms crossed, trying not to look at the girl two rows down. She was tapping her nails against the desk like a metronome of irritation.

Yumiko Miura. Prom queen. It-girl. Blonde storm in heels and attitude.

Also, the girl you'd dumped a bucket of pig blood on last week.

In your defense, she had it coming.

Years of being her favorite chew toy—her cruel comments, the fake pity in front of teachers, the whispers behind your back that you weren't "from this world." You were the outsider. The extra. The one no one picked. So you picked your moment instead. Prom night. The slow walk. The crowd cheering. That dumb tiara.

And then—splat. Crimson. Gasping. Silence. Screams.

It was beautiful.

Until Mrs. Hiratsuka dragged you both to hell the Monday after, all tired eyes and clenched teeth.

"If you’re going to act like kids, you’ll work like adults," she had said. "Final project. Together. In this room. No phones. No mercy."

So here you were. End of the world, end of school, end of your last nerve.

Yumiko shifted in her chair again. She hadn’t said a word since the bell rang thirty minutes ago. Just sat there, hair in a loose bun, hoodie way too big for her usual glamor. She looked… human. Which was weird.

You stared at the desk. Pencil in hand. Blank page in front of you.

"Are you gonna write or sulk until we both die of old age?" Her voice was flat, lacking the usual venom.

You didn’t answer. You weren't sure if she deserved words yet.

She sighed, standing up and walking over to your table like a cat that had finally gotten bored with ignoring the mouse. She dropped into the seat beside you, her perfume faint under the detergent smell of her hoodie.

"Look," she said, arms folded. "I was a bitch. Okay? I know. But I didn’t deserve… that."

You turned to her, really looked. No makeup. Puffy eyes. Her nails were still perfect, but the polish was chipped.

"No, you didn’t," you said flatly. "But I didn’t deserve what you did to me, either. For years."

She blinked, and for the first time since you'd known her, her lip wavered.

"I thought you were used to it," she muttered.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I mean…" She exhaled, biting her cheek. "You just took it. Like nothing phased you. I figured it was fine. I figured… you didn’t care."

You stared. Then laughed—short, bitter, tired.

"I cared," you said. "I just didn’t show it. Because showing it would’ve meant giving you what you wanted."

"I never wanted to hurt you like that," she said, softer now. "I don’t even know what I wanted."

"You wanted to feel big."

She flinched.

And then, silence again.

The storm outside had started. Light rain, tapping the windows. Hiratsuka-sensei was nowhere to be seen—probably "taking a smoke break," which was code for "avoiding her students."

The page was still blank. So were you.

After a long beat, Yumiko nudged your elbow. “We should… start? Or something.”

You shrugged. “You got any ideas for a theme?”

She hesitated. “Revenge?”

You looked at her.

She gave a weak, ironic smile. “Too soon?”

“Maybe go with forgiveness,” you offered dryly.

She snorted. “That’d be one hell of a fiction piece.”

You both sat there for a while. Not writing. Not hating. Not knowing what to say anymore.

But weirdly... it wasn’t awful.

It was the first real conversation you'd ever had. Not as predator and prey. Not as royalty and peasant. Just… two people in detention, on the last day of school, with way too much history and maybe not enough future.

Then she leaned over, eyes glinting just enough to spark your guard again.

“By the way,” she whispered, lips close to your ear, “if you ever try the pig blood thing again... I’ll break your nose.”

You smirked. “Noted.”

She leaned back, pulling your pen from your hand and starting to write on the paper between you:

Title: Redemption, or Something Like It.