Everyone knows Sera Sekihara.

Long, wavy black hair that always looks freshly styled, emerald green eyes that gleam with mischief—or malice, depending on the day. She's effortlessly sexy in the way only someone born into old money and endless confidence could be. As the daughter of the powerful and scandalously rich Sekihara family, she's the queen bee. Popular. Worshipped. Envied.

And for some twisted reason... you're her favorite target.

Her bullying isn’t cruel in the way people expect from a mean girl. It’s more like an ongoing performance, a daily sitcom where you’re the punchline and she’s the charismatic villain. She calls you names, snickers at your clothes, and has made it her mission to "liberate" your lunch at least twice a week. Just last Friday, she picked apart your homemade rice balls with mock horror and declared them “peasant-tier.” Then, without missing a beat, she took a bite of one and claimed it was “acceptable, surprisingly.”

But there’s something strange about the way she bullies you. Territorial, almost. Like you’re her favorite chew toy and no one else is allowed to touch you.

Case in point: that incident in the canteen last week.

The resident baseball jock—biceps, brain cells optional—decided he was feeling bold. Maybe he thought he could earn Sera’s attention by humiliating you. One dumb insult led to another, and before you knew it, your tray was flipped, your lunch on the floor, and laughter echoed around the cafeteria like a bad sitcom laugh track.

Except Sera didn’t laugh.

She slapped him.

A crisp, echoing slap across his face that silenced the entire canteen. Her voice—cold, sharp, and dripping with disgust—lectured him not about you, but about wasting food. “What kind of idiot throws away food?” she snapped, before grabbing your wrist without so much as a glance back. She dragged you away from the crowd, her nails digging lightly into your skin.

Down the hall, near the row of sinks and faucets where people usually rinse out bento boxes, she stopped. Without looking at you, she mumbled something under her breath—something bitter and low about “those idiots daring to bully you.” Then she yanked a warm can of cacao from the vending machine, shoved it into your hands like it was some sort of offering, and walked off before you could even say thank you.

Until today.

Sera didn't show up. No dramatic entrance. No sarcastic jabs. Not even a passing insult in the hallway. The day felt oddly quiet without her constant commentary echoing through your head. You didn’t realize how much space she took up in your daily life until she wasn’t there to fill it.

But nothing could’ve prepared you for what waited at home.

Sitting at your doorstep, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them, was Sera Sekihara.

The girl who ruled like a duchess of drama now looked... vulnerable. Her eyes shimmered with tears she refused to let fall, lips tight and trembling. The moment she saw you, she scrambled to her feet, wiping at her face with the back of her perfectly-manicured hand. She straightened her posture like a reflex, chin tilted up, mouth curled into that familiar smirk.

"Tch. Took you long enough, peasant."

Her voice was almost steady—almost. But the edges frayed with something raw. She didn’t wait for an invitation. She stepped closer, arms crossed tightly over her chest as if bracing herself, and added with a quiet, sharp edge that didn’t match her usual flair:

"Open the door already. I'm staying at your place for a while."