_____________________________________
"Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth."
— Marcus Aurelius
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"Life is all about perception. Positive versus
negative. Whichever you choose will affect and more than likely reflect your outcomes."
— Sonya Teclai
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Female Sports Day
The morning felt charged—like the air itself knew something irreversible was about to happen.
Buses lined the C.A.A compound in neat rows, their engines rumbling softly, exhaling white fumes into the early light. Students flooded the grounds in clusters of uniforms and tracksuits, voices layered with excitement, nerves, rivalry. Laughter rang out, but beneath it was tension—A.R.C's grounds awaited them, and with it, history.
Aysha Amad walked beside Tahir, her pace steady but her fingers twisting unconsciously around the strap of her bag.
"Hey… have you gone to the hospital this morning to check on Mustyy?" Aysha asked Tahir as they made their way toward the buses.
Tahir's gaze drifted ahead, unreadable.
"Hmm… I did. He's getting better. I even found him eating food," Tahir replied.
Aysha let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"So today, we're about to witness the female sports in series, eh… Are you excited?" she asked with a grin that tried—perhaps too hard—to sound carefree. But deep down, the wound on her heart still feels fresh.
"Hmm… not particularly. But I am eager to go to the A.R.C college grounds. Let's hop in the next bus over there," Tahir said.
"Ooh yes, all the events will happen there, huh…"
"Hmm… indeed."
They walked a few more steps before Aysha suddenly stopped.
The crowd flowed around them like water around stone.
Tahir turned back.
She was staring at him—not casually, not teasingly—but with a look that carried weight, history, fear.
"You remember what I told you about Afreen yesterday, right?"
"Ehm… more or less," Tahir answered.
Aysha swallowed. When she spoke again, her voice was tight, stripped of humor.
"If there is one girl that scares me the most, it will be Afreen. What she did to my best friend and her brother still troubles me. The brother nearly committed suicide because of her… I don't think he ever recovered. So please, be careful, Tahir. Even if you knew her before, in your junior years—you need to be wary of her and everything she can do. Please don't fall for her, okay… promise me…"
She searched his face, desperate for reassurance.
She didn't know that Tahir already understood her warning far too well.
He knew exactly what she meant.
And worse—he knew the truth she didn't.
That the monster Afreen had become hadn't risen from nothing.
That he and MiMie had helped shape her—pushed her, wounded her, left her unfinished.
"Hmm, okay, I hear you… but I'm also a guy, and I have eyes, and I'm a teenager full of hormones, so no promises," Tahir said as they climbed onto the bus and took seats beside each other.
Aysha scoffed, folding her arms.
"How typical of you…" Aysha rolled her eyes.
"Am just saying… I am just a teenager, I might be easily persuaded" Tahir said mockingly.
__________
A few rows ahead, the atmosphere shifted.
Salem and Isham sat close together, voices low, their usual confidence dulled by unease.
"Hey… do you think MiMie will be okay going back there? To her former school? And actually competing against her former mates?" Isham asked quietly.
Salem's jaw tightened as he looked out the window, A.R.C's looming campus already visible in the distance.
"From the looks of it, she's a tough girl. She has an unwavering, unbreakable spirit. But… I can't help feeling like trouble is brewing around the corner. And it won't end well if it ever manifests," Salem said.
"I heard rumors," Isham continued, lowering her voice even more, "that all her former classmates hates her. And her former Elite team members want to see her downfall. They want to crush her completely."
"Yikes… what shall we do to help her out?" Salem asked.
Isham's lips curved—not into a smile, but something sharper.
"Don't worry. I'm on it. You know ' the famous triple T ?, The Tall Tripple-Threat girls,' right?"
"Yes—those girls in SS2 Beta. Gracie, Meenah, Sophie. The tallest girls in our school, Famous on TikTok. And the best in female sports—especially basketball," Salem replied.
"Well, I asked them to watch MiMie's back no matter what. Together with MiMie, they're the most formidable team you can get. So, I am sure A.R.C will target them also. With MiMie's agility and brains, plus the Triple T's muscle and height… nothing can stop them, as long as they walk around together. They will all be fine." Isham said.
Salem exhaled slowly.
"Well, it appears you thought out a perfect team and plan for them…"
____________
The bus lurched forward.
Outside the windows, the road curved toward A.R.C—toward memories buried but not forgotten, grudges sharpened by time, and a battlefield where old wounds would finally be reopened.
And somewhere ahead, waiting patiently, was Safeeyah and Afreen.
Autumn leaves didn't fall yet.
But the season had already changed.
___________________
A few minutes later, the last of the buses rolled into A.R.C.
Students poured out in waves—noise, color, anticipation spilling across the grounds as staff directed them toward the pitch. The air buzzed with excitement, rival chants already beginning to rise and clash like distant thunder.
Somewhere in that chaos, Tahir disappeared.
Aysha Ahmed didn't notice. Not at first.
He slipped away the way shadows do—quietly, deliberately—his steps measured, his expression unreadable. His heart, however, betrayed him, thudding hard with a strange fusion of anticipation and something colder.
This wasn't about sports.
This wasn't about today.
He was looking for someone.
Someone from a chapter he had never closed.
"Hmm… it's time we meet, isn't it… Creepy Boy!!"
The thought crackled through his mind like live wire, sharpening his focus, quickening his pace.
He veered away from the bus parking lot, passed the pitch, and headed towards the academic wing. With every step, the roar of the crowd dulled, fading into a distant hum until there was only the echo of his own footsteps and the weight of memory pressing in from all sides.
The building was nearly empty.
A few classrooms in, he turned toward the stairwell and climbed—one floor, then another—until he reached the third floor of the third building. The lobby there was silent, hollow, frozen in time. The cameras on that floor were tempered with, by him. His footsteps rang against the tiled floor, each echo stretching longer than the last.
Then—
He stopped. He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
The air had shifted. That unmistakable pressure—like being watched and followed by someone, He knew he had been followed since he left the bus parking lot. By someone who had been waiting for him to come to A.R.C for a long time now.
Tahir spoke first, his voice calm, almost casual.
"Hmm… it's been a while, huh… Imran, Creepy Boy."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, coiled tight with old resentment.
Then a voice answered—low, sharp, simmering with venom.
"The only creepy person I see around here," Imran replied, "is the vile, twisted, psychopathic creature standing right in front of me…"
Tahir's lips curved into a slow smirk.
"How sweet," he said lightly. "I like the names. I'll keep them as souvenirs for visiting this place."
Imran's expression hardened instantly—jaw tightening, eyes darkening as months of buried rage surfaced in a single look.
Two boys stood in the empty hall.
One shaped by silence and calculation.
The other by obsession and unresolved hatred.
And whatever this meeting was—
It was never going to end quietly.
___________
MiMie — Arriving at A.R.C
The moment the bus slowed, my chest tightened.
A.R.C
The gates were the same—tall, iron-black, polished too often, like they wanted to scrub history off their skin. The school emblem still hung proudly above the entrance, untouched by time, untouched by what it had done to me.
I didn't move when the bus stopped.
Laughter spilled outside. C.A.A students jumped down, stretching, joking, excited. None of them felt it—the weight pressing down on my lungs, the way my pulse thudded in my ears like a warning drum.
This is where it started.
This is where I lost everything.
I forced myself to stand.
As my feet touched the ground, a ripple passed through the crowd.
I felt it before I saw it.
Whispers. Heads turning. Eyes widening.
Mouths freezing halfway through words.
"MiMie…?"
"No way."
"That's her."
"She came back?"
A.R.C students lined the walkways, pretending not to stare while staring anyway. Some wore open disbelief. Others wore something sharper.
Hatred.
I lifted my chin.
I had promised myself something weeks ago—on nights when I couldn't sleep, when my name felt like a stain instead of an identity.
If I ever came back here, I would not come back small.
I walked forward.
Every step echoed with memory.
The hallway where Safeeeyah and I used to laugh.
The notice board where my name once sat at the top.
The benches where I ate lunch alone after everything fell apart.
My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms—not from fear.
From restraint.
I could feel them watching my face, searching for cracks. Searching for shame.
They wouldn't find it.
Because shame belonged to the girl I used to be.
The one who cried in bathrooms.
The one who begged to be believed.
The one who left without saying goodbye.
That girl was gone.
As we neared the sports grounds, I saw them.
A.R.C's female team.
Standing together.
Safeeyyah at the center.
She hadn't changed much. Same posture. Same sharp gaze. Same confidence carved out of control and resentment. Her eyes met mine across the field.
For a second, the world narrowed to just us.
No sound. No crowd. No years in between.
Her lips curved—not into a smile, but something colder.
So… you came back.
I felt it then. Not fear. Not regret.
Resolve.
You broke me once, I thought.
You will not do it again.
I scanned the grounds automatically—habits I'd learned the hard way. Who stood too close. Who whispered too fast. Who looked at my legs instead of my face.
And then it hit me.
Afreen wasn't near the team.
She stood apart.
Leaning casually against the railing. Watching the sky. Watching the leaves roll across the concrete as the wind pushed them around like chess pieces.
Waiting.
My stomach twisted.
So that's why you were distracted yesterday.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
For half a second, my heart stuttered—expecting another threat.
Instead, a single message from Isham:
All C.A.A students are behind You and in support of You 100%, Right here. Don't rush. Don't react. Play smart.
I exhaled slowly.
Good.
Because if they thought I came back to relive the past—
They were wrong.
I came back to end it.
I stepped onto A.R.C's grounds fully now, the sun warm on my skin, the air sharp with rivalry.
Let them stare. Let them whisper. Let them plan.
I had survived worse than this place.
And today?
Today, A.R.C would remember my name.
____________
Safeeeyah's POV — The Return to A.R.C
They came like a procession.
Bus after bus rolled into the compound, engines sighing as if even the machines understood the weight of this place. Students poured out—C.A.A uniforms sharp and unfamiliar against A.R.C's grounds, mixed with the remaining elites who had survived the earlier rounds.
I stood near the edge of the field, arms folded, nails digging into my palms.
And then—
I saw her.
MiMie.
Time didn't slow.
It snapped.
For a split second, the noise vanished—the cheers, the whistles, the chatter. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears, loud and furious, like the sea crashing against a cliff.
She walked off the bus with her head held high.
Not hesitant. Not ashamed. Not broken.
Her posture was straight, confident—too confident for someone who had run away from this place. Sunlight caught in her hair as if the world itself had decided to be cruel and generous at the same time. Around her were C.A.A students—new allies, new shields. People laughing with her. Walking beside her as if she belonged.
As if this wasn't the ground where everything ended.
My chest tightened.
So you really came back.
Not as a visitor. Not as a spectator. But as a competitor.
Worse—
As a threat.
I watched her eyes scan the A.R.C's grounds, calm and measured. She didn't flinch. Not at the banners. Not at the buildings. Not even when a few A.R.C students noticed her and froze mid-conversation.
Whispers began instantly.
"MiMie…"
"Is that her?"
"She actually came back…"
"After everything?"
Good.
Let them whisper.
I felt something ugly curl inside me—not shock, not fear.
Relief.
Because now… there would be no more waiting.
Beside her, I spotted the other Targets. The so-called Tall-Triple-threat, solid, intimidating. Muscle and height. Protection. Strategy. I recognized the formation immediately.
So they're guarding you now.
Clever.
But protection has limits.
My lips curved into a smile I didn't bother hiding.
For weeks now .
Weeks of replaying that day in my head.
Weeks of watching her face in my memories—confused, indignant, betrayed, as if she were the victim.
Weeks of rebuilding myself from the humiliation she left behind.
People think pain fades.
It doesn't.
It waits.
I caught her eye then. Just for a second.
Her gaze met mine across the field—and something flickered. Recognition. Calculation. Maybe even understanding.
Good.
She needs to know. This isn't coincidence. This isn't fate. This is a circle finally closing.
You walked away once, I thought coldly. You don't get to walk away again.
Around me, A.R.C students straightened, their attention sharpening as the realization spread: the girl who betrayed them had returned—wearing another school's colors.
Anger simmered in the air. And I drank it in.
Welcome back to A.R.C, MiMie, I said silently.
Where your story fell apart…
My eyes drifted toward the courts, already imagining the Marathon race. The Lawn tennis.The rackets. The Basketball. The crowd. The moment she would finally stumble.
…and where I will finish it.
_____________________
A.R.C Locker Room — Before the Storm
We moved as a unit.
Afreen walked ahead of us, unhurried, her footsteps light against the concrete floor, like she wasn't heading toward a battlefield but a stage she already owned. The rest of us followed—girls in A.R.C colors, voices low, shoulders tight, every single one pretending this was just another sports day.
It wasn't.
The locker room door creaked open, releasing the familiar scent of disinfectant, metal, and old victories. A.R.C's locker room. My locker room. The place where I had laughed, cried, trained, bled—and lost everything.
I shut the door behind us.
The noise from outside dulled instantly, replaced by silence so thick it pressed against my ears.
Afreen turned first.
She leaned back against a locker, arms folded, her long dark-brown hair slipping over one shoulder as if gravity itself obeyed her. Her expression was calm—too calm. That same unsettling stillness she always carried, like a blade kept sheathed only because she chose to.
"So," she said softly, eyes flicking over us, "she came back."
No one answered immediately.
I dropped my bag onto the bench harder than necessary.
"She walked in like she owned the place," I snapped. "Like nothing ever happened. Like she didn't destroy lives and run."
Afreen's lips curved—not into a smile, not quite—but something colder.
"That's confidence," she said. "Or delusion. Either way, it's useful."
One of the girls— Fatima—swallowed nervously. "She didn't look scared."
Afreen's gaze slid to her. "Of course she didn't."
She pushed off the locker and began pacing slowly, deliberately, each step measured.
"She wants us to think she's fearless. That she's untouchable now. New school. New allies. New armor." She stopped. "But armor cracks."
My hands clenched around the straps of my bag.
"She almost took everything from me," I said
The locker room transformed in silence.
Fabric slid over skin. Laces were pulled tight. Wristbands snapped into place. Every small sound felt amplified—like the room itself was holding its breath.
I pulled on my jersey slowly, fingers trembling despite my efforts to steady them. A.R.C's colors stared back at me in the mirror. Familiar. Comforting. Heavy.
This was my ground. My past. My wound.
Afreen stood by the far bench, tying her hair into a neat, ruthless ponytail. Not a single strand out of place. She looked less like a student and more like a general preparing for war.
I caught my reflection again—and for a second, I saw my junior-year self. Laughing. Confident. Untouched.
Then MiMie's face flashed in my mind.
Gone.
The locker room door creaked open briefly as a staff member poked her head in.
"Five minutes," she announced. "Teams should start lining up."
Afreen straightened immediately.
"Showtime," she said.
She walked toward the door, then stopped, glancing back at us.
"Remember," she added calmly, "no matter what you see out there—no matter who you see—keep your faces clean. Let them think they're winning."
Her eyes flicked to me again, sharp but unreadable.
"Especially you."
I nodded once.
The locker room hummed with restless energy—metal lockers clanging shut, spikes scraping the floor, adrenaline crackling through the air like static.
Safeeyah and Afreen standing at the center of it all.
"Is everything set? Are we ready to go forward with our plan?" Afreen asked, her voice sharp, cutting cleanly through the noise. Her gaze moved from one teammate to another, daring hesitation. "We all have to agree, right here and now. No backing out."
A beat of silence followed.
Umaymah shifted uneasily. "Are you sure that you want to go through with all that, Safeeyah… isn't it a bit extreme?" she asked, her voice barely above a murmur.
My eyes snapped to her.
"What…?" I scoffed, anger flashing instantly. "Are you sympathizing with that bitch? How dare you… she will get what she deserves. Period."
The room went still.
Afreen, leaned casually against her locker, spoke again. Her tone was calm—too calm.
"Well, do we know for sure which sports she'll be participating in? If we are to pin her down for good, we need to know where specifically to put our main forces…"
I exhaled sharply. "Our sources said she will be in the Marathon, Lawn Tennis, for today. But they are not sure."
Afreen's lips curved faintly as she began calculating.
"Well then, we have three basic levels of attacking her. No one runs faster than you, Safeeyah, and then followed by you, Fatima. So I think it's best to finish her off in this race, so that she will be out of the entire events and probably the entire competition…"
Umaymah swallowed. "Yeah… I agree," she said quietly.
Fatima frowned. "Yeah, but how do we make it look like an accident, eh?"
I stepped forward, voice steady, practiced.
"Well, let me explain. Since we will be competing amongst 5 remaining schools, and each school has two participants… From A.R.C, it's me and you, Fatima. And from A.U.N it's that Rayhana and Joy… and from C.A.A. it's most likely MiMie and their Head Girl Isham. Then to A.M.A they brought SheeNah and Rachel. Lastly C.C brought Evlyn and Jemimah.
I paused, jaw tightening.
"I hate to admit it, but Isham is practically faster than any of us. So if we want to win the race and still manage to pin down MiMie and injure her, we need to deal with Isham…"
"But how do we do that…?" Umaymah asked.
"I need to pace up and prevent Isham's pathway from the get-go," I continued. "While Fatima, you need to pin down MiMie and then eventually crash into her. I know there is a chance that you'll be injured too, but… you just need to step on one of her legs and make her lose balance…"
Afreen still didn't look convinced.
"It's highly unlikely that Fatima will match up to MiMie's pace," she said coolly. "I have seen how MiMie sprints, from the video archives, and I know she has the pace to match up to you, Safeeyah—most likely surpassing you too. But what if we abandoned winning the race and just focus on injuring MiMie…?"
The room froze.
"What are you talking about…?" I asked, eyes widening.
Afreen pushed off the locker, voice glacial.
"Just hear me out. If we let Isham win the Marathon, while we successfully manage to injure MiMie—and she is completely out of the competition—we will have a high chance of winning the subsequent sport events for the rest of the day."
Her smile was unsettling.
"By eliminating one of their star players, and then frightening the rest of their players… they might end up losing to us on all fronts…"
A slow grin spread across my face.
"Yes… so you are suggesting that we sacrifice the first event in order to win the subsequent ones… I like it. Let's do just that…"
The others nodded, one by one.
"So both me and Fatima will be unto MiMie during the race," I said. "I will block her path from the front while Fatima will crash into her. It is good and no one will say it's not an accident, because I will gradually reduce my pace as if I'm exhausted—but still manage to stay ahead of MiMie… just long enough for Fatima to jam into her…"
Afreen tilted her head. "But… what if it fails…?"
"What do you mean…?" Umaymah asked.
"I mean, what if the plan fails and we do not injure her—nor win that race either…"
I didn't hesitate.
"Then we will leave it up to you to destroy her on the lawn tennis court…"
Umaymah nodded eagerly.
"Yes, it will be up to you. After all, no one in the entire A.R.C can beat your record, Afreen. Boys and girls combined."
Afreen's lips curved slowly.
"Hmm… it will be my pleasure then…"
I clapped my hands once, sharp and final.
"With that I say, let's all roll out then. Team A.R.C, for the win. They all came here today, in our backyard, thinking they can get to win something… let's go show them that they can't even catch a whiff…"
Energy surged through the room as the girls began chanting:
"A.R.C go… A.R.C go… A.R.C go…"
Most of them rushed out toward the pitch.
I stayed behind.
I opened my locker, reaching for the ribbon I have always used—tightening her hair before running. A habit. A ritual. A ribbon gifted to me by Imran.
As I pulled my hair into a ponytail, a faint glow caught my eye.
My phone.
A notification.
For a brief, foolish second, I smiled—thinking it might be from Imran. Wishing me luck.
My cheeks warmed as I picked it up.
Then I unlocked the screen.
Unknown number.
An audio file attached.
Highlighted text glared back at me:
"The bitter truth, what Imran was hiding from you… play me."
My smile vanished.
Shock slid into my chest, cold and heavy.
My fingers trembled as I stared at the screen—confusion, dread, and something far worse tightening around her heart.
And for the first time that day, I hesitated.
_________________
C.A.A Locker Room —
The C.A.A locker room was alive in a very different way.
Not sharp. Not frantic. Focused.
The air smelled faintly of liniment and fresh grass tracked in on running shoes. Lockers stood open, bags neatly arranged, jerseys folded with care. This wasn't chaos—it was preparation.
MiMie sat on the bench, tying her laces slowly, deliberately. Her movements were economical, practiced. Each pull of the lace felt like grounding herself, anchoring her thoughts away from the noise outside.
Across from her, Isham stretched her calves against the wall, eyes sharp, already scanning through scenarios in her head.
"Alright," Isham said, breaking the silence. "A.R.C is hosting. That means home advantage, crowd bias, and… desperation."
A few of the girls chuckled under their breath.
MiMie stood and rolled her shoulders. "Which means they'll push hard early," she replied. "Especially in the Marathon. They'll want to shake us before the later events."
One of the girls—Meenah—leaned forward. "You think they'll play dirty?"
MiMie didn't answer immediately. She jogged lightly in place, letting her muscles warm, her breath steady. Then she said quietly, "A.R.C doesn't like losing. And some of them… don't forgive easily."
Isham nodded once. "That's why we don't run their race. We run ours."
Gracie, towering even while seated, cracked her knuckles. "Just give us the signal, and we will come to your aid, If A.R.C attempts any dirty play."
Sophie added " Hey… No shoulder checks, no crowding. You breathe, you run. Focus on that and leave the protection to us."
MiMie smiled faintly at that—not warmth, but appreciation. "Good. But remember, the officials will be watching us more closely than them. We stay clean. If someone clips you, don't retaliate. Let it be obvious."
Gracie frowned. "And if they try to trip you?"
"Then I fall forward," MiMie said calmly. "Not sideways. Forward falls get sympathy. Sideways falls get suspicion."
The room went quiet for a moment.
Isham studied her. "You've thought about this too much for it to be just theory."
MiMie met her gaze. "I've been here before. Different faces. Same intentions."
She began stretching her hamstrings, slow and controlled. With every movement, her expression hardened—not with anger, but with resolve.
"For the Marathon," MiMie continued, "don't chase after the lead early. A.R.C will burn themselves out trying to dominate the front. We conserve. At the halfway mark, I accelerate—not sprint, just enough to test them."
"And if they block?" Meenah asked.
"Then I switch lanes," MiMie replied. "And if I can't…"
She paused, tying the last knot on her shoe.
"…then I protect my legs and trust Isham to finish strong."
Isham stepped closer, lowering her voice. "MiMie . If something happens—anything—you pull out. We don't need you broken to prove a point."
MiMie straightened, meeting her eye level. "No. If something happens, I finish the race. Even if I crawl. Because that's exactly what they don't want."
The words settled heavily in the room.
Outside, the roar of the crowd swelled—A.R.C chants bleeding through the walls.
Inside, MiMie exhaled slowly.
Somewhere else in the building, a phone waited with an unanswered truth.
Somewhere else, hatred was being sharpened into a weapon.
Here, in this room, MiMie tightened her ponytail, flexed her fingers, and allowed herself one final thought:
I've already survived worse than today.
She turned toward the door.
"Let's go," she said. "They're waiting."
And without knowing it, both locker rooms moved toward the same moment—
one driven by vengeance, the other by endurance.
Collision was inevitable.
The locker room door was already half open.
Noise poured in from outside—chants colliding, whistles cutting the air, A.R.C's crowd swelling with anticipation. The day was calling them out.
MiMie took her phone to the locker, kept it, with her AirPods.
Halfway into closing the locker.
Her phone vibrated.
Once. Sharp. Insistent. She stopped.
Her first thought came instantly, bitter and automatic.
Afreen?.
Of course. One last attempt to get inside her head. One last needle meant to distract her, to make her stumble before she even set foot on the field.
MiMie closed her eyes briefly and inhaled. Slow. Controlled.
Not today.
She almost ignored it. Almost.
But habit—or instinct—made her glance down.
Unknown number.
Her jaw tightened. She unlocked the screen, already bracing herself for whatever waited there.
Then she froze. The name wasn't Afreen.
It was Tahir.
For a moment, the locker room blurred around her. The chatter of her teammates dulled, like someone had turned the volume down on the world.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
Why now?
Why here?
She opened the message.
She didn't read it quickly. She didn't skim.
Her eyes moved slowly, carefully—once, then again.
Something in her posture shifted.
Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just… steadier.
She didn't smile. She didn't frown. But the tension in her shoulders eased by a fraction, like a knot loosening where she hadn't realized one existed.
She typed a reply. Deleted it.
Typed again. Deleted it again.
Then, without waiting for anything else, she locked the screen and slid the phone back into her locker, shutting the metal door with a soft click.
When she turned toward the exit again, she was different.
Focused. Grounded. Unmovable.
Isham, tightening her laces nearby, glanced up. "Everything good?"
MiMie met her eyes and nodded once. "Yeah."
No explanation. None needed.
She stepped out of the locker room and into the noise, into the sunlight, into A.R.C's ground—where her past waited, loud and hostile.
But whatever Tahir had sent her lingered, quiet and firm, settling deep in her chest.
And this time, MiMie walked forward unshaken.
_______________
Earlier :
Third Floor — ARC Academic Wing
"Hmm… it's been a while, huh… Imran, Creepy_Boy," Tahir said, his voice calm, almost lazy.
The corridor seemed to hold its breath.
For a long second, nothing moved—then a low voice cut through the silence.
"The only creepy person I see around here," Imran replied, "is the vile, twisted, psychopathic creature standing right in front of me…"
Tahir smirked.
"How sweet. I like the names. I'll keep them as souvenirs for visiting this place."
Imran's expression hardened.
"It's been five months since you threatened me and then… hmm… beat me up for no reason. And then you made me…
Imran's anger multiplied tenfold, as they stood there.