Epione's POV
The entire classroom froze. The casual chatter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating silence as Ms. Pillarion's gaze locked onto the back row.
I slowly raised my hand, my pulse thundering in my ears as I acknowledged the woman who could suck the life out of a room just by standing in it.
"I believe I am the one you are looking for, Ms. Head Counselor," I said. My voice was steady, though I had to project it from the back of the room.
"A word. At my office. Now," she commanded.
I stood immediately, careful not to add any fuel to the fire visible in her eyes. As I walked down the aisle, the air grew thick with the expectant stares of my classmates. Suddenly, a foot shot out. I stumbled, my heart leaping into my throat, but I managed to catch myself. Stifled snorts and low laughter rippled through the rows.
"Look, the trash is taking itself out," someone muttered.
"There goes her clean record," another whispered.
The murmurs blurred together, but I chose not to give them the satisfaction of my attention. Ignorance is the best tool against arrogance, I reminded myself.
I followed Ms. Pillarion through the empty halls. Despite her small steps, she moved with a brisk, predatory speed. Considering my height, I could easily keep up with her.
Inside the office, four pairs of eyes fixed on me. These were the girls from the rooftop. They sat there with an air of unearned royalty, their expressions shifting from boredom to sharp amusement the moment I entered.
"Take a seat," Ms. Pillarion barked.
I sat beside the girl who seemed the most intent on burning a hole through my skull the same leader who had ground her shoe into my face only hours before. The Counselor wasted no time. She detailed the list of artistic vandalism committed against Section Dream 2: dirt, dead flowers, and vulgar graffiti.
"I suspect you four," she said, looking at the rooftop group. "And then there is you, Miss Paramnesia."
"Uhm, miss? Why am I here? I am from Section Dream 5."
"I am aware," she said, her voice dropping like a heavy iron gate. "I am also aware that you have a perfect record. Because of that, I am placing you in charge of them. You are now responsible for their behavioral marks. Consider this an administrative command."
"Are you serious?" the leader of the rooftop group scoffed, leaning forward with a harsh laugh. "You think this charity case can control us? She's a blank slate, Ms. Pillarion. Her own parents didn't even bother keeping a record of her."
"ENOUGH!"
The Counselor's voice cracked like a whip. My eyes welled up instantly; the mention of my parents was a jagged blade to my heart.
"One more mark on your file and you are expelled," Pillarion hissed at the girl. Then she turned her cold gaze to me. "And you, Miss Paramnesia, if you fail to curb their disruptions, your scholarship will be revoked."
My heart sank. My scholarship was my only lifeline. Ms. Pillarion slid the behavior contract across the desk, and I pressed the pen to the paper. The tip of the nib dragged across the sheet with a dry, scratching scrape.
It was a suffocatingly familiar sound. It sounded exactly like the texture of a dry, coarse towel being forced into a four-year-old's mouth to muffle her screams.
(Flashback: Age 4)
The memory bled through the office walls. Fifteen years earlier, that same dry fabric was scraping against little Epione's teeth. Just hours before, she had been sitting on the floor, happily drawing a picture of a high school full of sunshine.
But the sunshine had vanished the moment she went downstairs. She had found her uncle cowering, cornered by a large businessman screaming over a debt. When the man lunged to punch her uncle, the four-year-old girl had rushed forward, jumping between them with her tiny arms spread wide. "Don't hurt him! Please!"
The man didn't stop. He had shoved the child aside so violently her head cracked against the doorframe, leaving her dazed on the floor. "Epione! Get to your room!" her uncle had roared, his face red with shame rather than concern for her.
Later that night, the bedroom door creaked open. Her uncle didn't ask to see her drawing. He didn't check the swelling bruise on her forehead. Instead, he unbuckled his heavy leather belt, the metal clinking with a cold, rhythmic sound that would haunt her dreams for a decade.
"Turn around," he commanded, his voice thick with the sour smell of cheap gin.
He jammed the dry towel deeper into her mouth, forcing her to bite down until her gums bled, ensuring the neighbors wouldn't hear a thing. As the leather bit into her small, tender back, stripping away her innocence with every strike, she learned her first truth: You have to be bruised to learn. Every scar is a reminder of a mistake.
Back in the Present
The scratching of the pen stopped. I lifted my hand, the contract signed.
"Actually," Pillarion added, a sickeningly calm afterthought, "she is being transferred to Section Dream 2. You will be sharing the same space from now on."
The words felt like a second blow.
Dismissed from the office, I walked back down the quiet corridors to finish out the remaining hour of the day. But the news had already beaten me back to my classroom. The moment I stepped over the threshold of Section Dream 5, the atmosphere was entirely different.
"Look who finally degraded themselves down to our level," Kiro laughed from his desk.
The "rain" started immediately. Crumpled papers, wet tissues, and stones wrapped in yellow pad paper pelted my shoulders and chest.
"Oh, look, the model student is getting overwhelmed," Ssatihs mocked. She had been waiting for this. She grabbed a pack of chemical wipes and aggressively smeared them across my face, the sting burning my nose and eyes. "Let's clean off that perfect attendance attitude."
"Hey, someone forgot to clear out the plumbing on the third floor," one of the boys near Kiro snickered, holding a cup of murky, foul-smelling liquid. "We figured a gutter girl should feel right at home." Before I could pull away, he splattered the warm, stagnant waste over my bag and blazer.
"S-stop it," I whispered, my stomach churning violently from the stench.
"What was that? Speak up, we don't speak lower-class," Ssatihs poked my forehead, her finger jabbing like a needle, forcing my head back against the chalkboard. "Did you know industrial chalk is non-toxic? It's meant for marking things that don't have any real value." She ground a stick of white chalk into my hair, the dust settling into my lungs until I coughed.
The atmosphere in the room shifted from chaotic to predatory. The laughter of the class took on a jagged, darker edge as the physical boundaries began to dissolve entirely.
"You really are just an empty cup for us to dump our boredom into, aren't you?" Kiro said, stepping closer until he loomed over me. He reached out, his hand sliding with a sickening, invasive slowness over my shoulder, his fingers digging into my skin. "Someone like you... you don't really own anything, Epione. Not even your own space."
Ssatihs grinned, enjoying the way I shriveled under his touch. "He's right. You're barely a person. Maybe we should show the whole class what a scholarship looks like underneath the uniform. Let's see if you keep that quiet look when we actually get creative."
"Yeah," one of the boys from the back chimed in, his voice flat, completely devoid of empathy. "Let's see how long she stays pristine. We've got plenty of time before the next bell. I'll take the lead on this one."
He reached for the hem of my skirt, his fingers grazing my bare leg. A cold, paralyzing wave of terror washed over me. This wasn't just a hazing anymore; it was an execution of my dignity.
"I said stop it!" I yelled, my voice cracking with a decade of suppressed rage.
SLAP. The hard palm crashed through my cheek. My vision swam. Ssatihs grabbed my collar, twisting the fabric until it choked off my airway. "Don't raise your voice in our room!" she screamed. Slap. "You're nothing!" Slap. "Just a waste of space!" Slap.
The class was chanting now, a tribal, rhythmic sound that drowned out my gasps for air. "Put her in her place! Scrub the board with her! Let's see how white that chalk stays!"
I felt Kiro's hand tighten on my arm, dragging me toward the center of the room like property being put on display. I closed my eyes, bracing for the inevitable violation, waiting for the heavy, rhythmic sting of my childhood to return in the form of their hands.
But the blow never came.
I opened my eyes to see a hand frozen in mid-air, inches from my face. Another hand strong, slender, and absolutely steady was gripping Ssatihs's wrist with bone-crushing force.
I looked up. My breath caught.
"C-Chizuru?"