Rain tapped gently against the windowpane. Antonella sat on the edge of her bed, phone in one hand and a pen in the other. She had scribbled the same word three times in her notebook: Hernein.
The name had been echoing in her mind since that morning's call.
Six hours earlier…
—I've got what you asked for —her informant had said on the other end of the line, calm as always.
—What do you have? —she asked, impatient.
—Documents. Dates. Payment records. And the best part—testimonies. Not all of them written down, but solid.
—From Professor Hernein?
—Yeah. That one. Apparently, he's got a sweet little history of favors and tampered grades.
Antonella had stayed silent for a moment.
—You sure it's solid?
—Solid enough that if you leak it, the rector's office won't have a choice but to open a formal investigation.
—And what do you want in return?
Xavier chuckled softly through the phone.
—Relax, princess. Not everything in life needs to be paid upfront. Sometimes, knowing someone owes you a favor is enough. Go pick up the envelope, and we'll talk payment later.
She didn't reply. The silence dragged on until she hung up. Now, with the rain as her only companion, Antonella was thinking about the best way to use the information.
She couldn't just drop it. Not now. She had to be patient. Wait for the perfect moment. But first, she had to get that envelope.
...
Santiago couldn't stop staring at his phone. Ever since the rumor about the printers, his anxiety had only gotten worse. He'd spent the whole day replaying that incident in his mind—the meetings, the excuses, the manipulation, and how he forged the receipts.
Only Antonella knew, he kept telling himself.
And now, the rumor. Sure, no one had named him yet. But everything pointed to it being just a matter of time. He felt pale, shaky—he just wanted to go home.
David noticed it the second he saw him that afternoon in the university cafeteria.
—What's wrong? You look like a ghost.
—You heard about the printers, right?
David lowered his voice.
—Yeah. Is it true?
—No —Santiago said, avoiding his gaze—. How could you think I'd do something like that?
—Then why is she accusing you? What does she gain from it?
Santiago looked at him.
—She's playing a game. Trying to throw me off.
David swallowed hard.
—So what are you going to do?
Santiago looked down at the tray of food he hadn't touched.
—The only thing I can do right now—get ahead of her.
...
That afternoon, Antonella went to the address she'd been given, key in hand. She closed the door behind her as she entered.
She climbed to the second floor. The smell of dampness was almost unbearable. She walked down the hallway and stopped in front of a small, half-open door. She knocked.
—Hello?
A woman's voice answered from inside.
—Come in.
She was an old woman watching television, wearing thick glasses and with a box at her feet. She held an envelope in her hand.
—You must be Antonella.
—And who are you?
—Someone who works here. You don't need to say anything. Just show me the seal so I know you're here for him.
—Heh, and what if I don't, old lady?
Suddenly, the old woman pulled a gun from the box at her feet and pointed it at Antonella.
—Stupid girl, do you have the seal, or do you want to stay here and watch TV with me forever? —she said in a voice that made it clear she was dead serious.
—S-sorry, ma'am, yes, here's the seal —Antonella replied, frightened, as she handed over the seal the man had given her.
The woman examined the seal and verified it.
—Good. Everything checks out. See? You just have to do things right, silly girl. Here's your package. And remember—every favor must be paid.
Antonella took the envelope from the woman and opened it. There were internal reports. Printed emails. Documents with redactions and handwritten notes. One letter from a professor warning of system failures and issues with grade reports. Another document where the case was closed by Hernein himself, citing "lack of evidence."
Antonella flipped through the papers in awe, already thinking of how she would use it all. She closed the envelope.
—What's your name?
—Doesn't matter. Just go, girl, and let me watch my soap opera.
Antonella slipped the envelope into her backpack. She was going to need every single page.
—Thank you —she said, and nothing more.
She descended the stairs with firm steps. Outside, the rain had stopped, but she smiled quietly to herself, thinking, Santiago, you're finished.
...
That night, Antonella called her contact again. Not out of courtesy, but because she knew he was waiting.
—Did you get the envelope? —he asked, skipping any greeting.
—Yes. I have all the information.
There was a pause.
—Anything else?
—Nothing else. I won't be contacting you again. If this gets out of hand, I'm taking everyone down with me.
Xavier chuckled softly.
—That's my girl.
—I'm not your girl.
—Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Antonella hung up before he could say another word. She had things to plan. A lot to organize.
...
Santiago, meanwhile, had locked himself in his room. His laptop lay open on his bed, several tabs with emails, records, old receipts.
—I need to know what she has —he muttered to himself.
He couldn't wait for formal accusations. If he could find out what she knew, maybe he could prepare a defense. Or better yet—strike first.
...
Night finally fell over the university city. In every room, the pieces were moving. Phones were ringing. Envelopes being opened. Secrets, both old and new, were rising to the surface.
And Antonella, sitting by her window with the envelope in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, thought about what was coming.
This wasn't just revenge anymore.
It was a declaration of war.