The school hallway felt colder than usual.
Not because of the AC or the weather.
Because Elise walked through it and no one bowed anymore.
No heads turned. No eyes followed.
The silence was louder than any chant of her name used to be.
She gripped the straps of her bag, knuckles pale. She'd removed everything personal. Every charm. Every sticker. No more flash drives, no more risk. She checked it obsessively.
They wouldn't find anything again.
They wouldn't dare.
But still—they whispered.
Even if it was behind her back now.
Her world had shrunk to shadows.
And in those shadows, one figure lingered like a curse:
Ren.
He wasn't a student. He wasn't enrolled. He didn't have a uniform. Yet he roamed these halls like a ghost with rights.
He was always with her—with Lira.
They laughed together, like nothing Elise had done to the girl meant anything anymore.
It enraged her.
Burned her.
She'd had power.
And now he had it.
She found him alone that day, leaning against the vending machine near the old music hall. Students moved around him, careful not to touch him. Not to disturb him.
Like he was royalty.
Her role.
Elise stepped forward, fury on her tongue.
"You think you're clever?" she hissed.
Ren turned, as if he'd been expecting her.
"Probably more than you," he replied with no bite. Just calm.
Flat. Quiet. Dangerous.
Elise's lip curled. "You humiliated me. You hacked my things. You think that makes you some kind of justice freak?"
"No," Ren said. "Just thorough."
She froze.
That voice—was the same one from his channel.
The one fans obsess over. Dissect. Rewatch.
Her stomach twisted.
"Your little videos," she spat. "Your creepy edits and weird stories—what? Is this some ARG to you? Am I a character in your game?"
Ren tilted his head. "If you were a character, you'd have had a redemption arc by now. But you skipped that part."
"Don't act like you know me," Elise snapped.
"I know enough," he said. "I know how many girls transferred because of you. I know what you did to Lira. And I know you thought no one would ever fight back."
His eyes were still calm.
But underneath—something cold and unblinking.
Like he was measuring her.
Dismantling her.
One breath at a time.
"I'll have you removed," she said, louder now. "You're not even supposed to be on campus. I'll tell the dean. My father—"
"Already tried," he interrupted. "The school knows I'm a content creator documenting a social study project. You didn't read the bulletin?"
Elise blinked.
He was authorized.
He'd planned this.
Every step.
She stepped back, breath hitching.
Then her fingers curled into fists.
"Why her?" she whispered. "Why Lira?"
Ren raised a brow. "Because she didn't deserve what you did to her."
"She's weak," Elise hissed. "She was always weak. She let people step on her, she didn't fight back—"
"Not everyone gets a choice," Ren said sharply, stepping forward now. "Some people learn to survive. You—learned to step on throats."
He leaned in close.
"Now someone's standing on yours."
For a moment, the hallway vanished.
All she could see were his eyes.
There was no pity in them.
No hate, either.
Just precision.
As if he was dissecting a bug that used to sting and squirm.
Elise shoved past him and walked away, but her legs trembled.
…
That night, her father called.
"They denied the appeal," he said coldly. "The school board's siding with that boy. You're not to make contact with him again."
"I saw him," Elise snapped. "He's there every day. You said this school was mine—"
Her father cut her off. "It's not about pride anymore. You're in a PR spiral. Any misstep now will end your academic career. Focus on rehabilitation. Keep your head down. Apologize if needed."
"I'm not apologizing to her!"
Silence.
"You'll do what I say," her father said, then ended the call.
Elise stared at the dead phone screen.
And for the first time, realized something no one had ever dared tell her—
She wasn't untouchable.
The throne she sat on had always been made of paper.
And now, fire was licking the corners.
…
Elise knew how to play the crowd.
She had done it for years—walked these halls like a queen because she knew how to perform. She knew which smile to wear, which tone to use, how to make people listen.
So she did what queens in exile must.
She rebranded.
By Monday, her wardrobe softened. Less makeup. Neutral tones. Her usual heels were replaced by flats.
Her hair, once curled to perfection, now hung in a modest ponytail. She even borrowed a literature book and tucked it under her arm.
She stopped by the bulletin board between classes, like any normal student.
She helped a junior pick up their dropped papers.
She even smiled at one of the debate kids she'd humiliated last year.
And though it was slow—she felt the shift. Not in admiration, but in uncertainty.
Students glanced her way longer.
Some whispered, not with disdain—but with confusion.
'Was she trying to change?'
'Did people like her even change?'
Elise made her way to the library during lunch. She didn't eat in the cafeteria anymore—it was too loud, too exposed.
Instead, she sat by the windows, flipping pages, pretending to read.
Pretending she belonged among the forgotten.
And she knew Lira would be there.
She always was.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, Lira arrived and found a spot near the back shelves. She was alone. Still quiet. Still composed.
But Elise saw it.
That glow that hadn't been there before.
The kind of peace that came from knowing you were no longer prey.
Elise waited a few minutes before walking over. Not with the old strut, but with measured calm.
Her pulse roared in her ears, but her expression was even.
"Hey," she said, voice low.
Lira looked up slowly.
Her gaze was unreadable.
"Hi," she replied.
It wasn't kind. It wasn't cruel. Just... guarded.
Elise hesitated. "I thought maybe we could talk."
Lira didn't answer.
So Elise sat. Across from her. Not asking permission.
"I know I've done things," she began. "Bad things. But I'm trying to be better now."
Lira tilted her head slightly. "Why?"
The word hit like a dart.
Elise faltered. "Because... because I don't want to be remembered like that. I don't want that to be all people see."
Lira closed her book.
"And what about what I see?" she asked. "What I remember?"
Elise didn't respond.
"I still have voice memos," Lira said. "From you. Telling me to starve myself. Telling me I was ugly. That I didn't matter."
"I know." Elise's voice cracked. "I was... cruel. Besides you are ugly and I didn't think anyone could ever turn things around on me. I didn't think anyone could hurt me."
Lira leaned forward. "You don't get points for realizing you're not invincible."
Silence stretched between them.
Elise searched for something in Lira's expression. Some window. Some path to redemption.
But there was only steel.
Lira finally spoke again. "What do you really want, Elise?"
"I want... forgiveness."
Lira shook her head.
"No. You want absolution. You want people to forget what you did so you can climb back on the pedestal. That's not forgiveness. That's erasure."
Elise's mouth opened—then closed.
For a second, she wasn't the queen or the exile.
She was just a girl with shaking hands and no script.
"Ren didn't make me hate you," Lira said, standing. "You did that on your own."
She walked away again.
Elise stared at the empty seat across from her.
She hadn't expected a warm hug or instant absolution.
But some part of her—still poisoned by old pride—had hoped.
Still, she left the library with her chin high. Not because she felt strong. But because she had to.
It was all she had left.
…
That night, Elise posted a photo to her Mewture.
No filter. No makeup. Just her, in her room, holding a book.
The caption was simple: "Trying. For real this time."
The comments were mixed.
Some mocked her. Some doubted her. But others—especially the ones who didn't know her personally—offered cautious encouragement.
And it was something.
She could build on something.
The next day at school, a few underclassmen nodded at her. Nothing major. No grand welcome.
But they didn't flinch.
That was progress.
Until she saw Ren again.
He was across the courtyard, camera slung over his shoulder, talking with a group of AV students. He wasn't watching her.
But she felt him.
And when he glanced her way—just briefly—he didn't frown. Didn't smile.
Just noted her. Like a chess piece that hadn't moved in too long.
She turned and walked the other way.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
But she'd learned one thing:
If she wanted to wear a crown again—she'd have to earn it from ash.