HOPE
"I've told you all this countless times. It was attempted murder, but this is obviously the first time you've heard me." My legs are shaking uncontrollably under the table at the school disciplinary office.
After recapping my journey down memory lane—telling them how I saw a smile on the face of the psycho at the rooftop and how I watched every single student wait for the victim to die—I sound like a total crazy girl in the room. Like a conspiracy theorist on caffeine. Or worse—like a girl desperate for attention.
The puffed man in a very tight suit just stares at me with his row of bored, beige blazers and tired eyes.
I lean forward, shaking legs and all, and slap my palm on the desk. "Okay. Maybe I do sound nuts. But let's walk this through like people with actual brains, shall we?"
"Is that how you were taught to talk to your elders?"
"That's not how my elders react to murder! Let's check this from another perspective, mister. She falls from the roof. Obviously bullied to suicide if she did jump on her own. And someone is up there, smiling like they just nailed the school play's final bow. You think I made that up? You think I want to be the girl giving trauma TED Talks on her first damn day?"
"There's still no proof, miss."
"I know what I saw. She didn't fall. She was pushed. And you're too scared or too blind to believe it."
"Miss—" he says and points a warning hand at me.
I'm not having it at all. What exactly do you mean? I'm honestly not good at keeping my mouth shut or not talking about what I saw. Exactly the reason my high school bullying started in the first place.
"Nope. Don't 'Miss' me," I cut in. "You didn't even request footage. You didn't interview anyone out there. You called me in to check if I'm unhinged enough to expel. Which, by the way, I'm not. But I'm definitely unbothered enough to make this a very loud problem if you keep ignoring it."
He scoffs and shrugs his shoulders like he's given up on arguing.
"Okay, that's enough. You can do the hell whatever you want to do with your information. But for your very own good, I'm just going to arrest and detain you. Cases like this are treated carefully. We don't want any dent on our school name."
My mouth hangs open for a second too long. "Detain me? For what?"
He's already motioning toward the door, muttering something into a walkie-talkie like I'm a threat to national security. My chair screeches as I stand.
"So that's the plan?" I say, laughing bitterly. "Throw the whistleblower in detention while the actual psycho's probably braiding friendship bracelets with her cult?"
He doesn't respond. Just opens the door, and in seconds, two uniformed guards appear like this is prison, not a damn school.
I raise my hands mockingly. "Careful, boys. I'd rather walk on my own. Just lead the way."
They lead me down the hallway—my boots echoing against the tile like I'm walking toward execution. Students peer out of classrooms like I'm some drama episode they're not allowed to pause.
I honestly plan to run away before we get to the prison or whatever, but there's no freaking opportunity.
The door closes behind me once they've put me in a barred room.
Thank God it's neat and habitable.
I scooch on my bum across the grimy stone floor to curl myself into a ball. My forehead presses to my knees until my brain aches.
Several thoughts can't escape my mind at that moment. If this is what prison feels like, it's really awful. Thank God I didn't end up there for killing my uncle.
I start to hum in the hope I'll drown out any sounds—at least something to make this less boring. Damn! I forgot to even ask him how many hours I have to be here. My melody grows louder and louder until my chapped lips start to form the occasional lyrics:
No one can love or understand me… Even a change of environment can't fix me...
"I hate humans!" I say after the song fails to help the silent boredom now creeping into my heart.
"I totally agree with you on that one. People are tiring. I hate them too."
I startle at the sound of a guy's deep, smooth voice, the cadence of a faint British accent warming every note. My curses cut the humid air when my head smashes against the iron bar as I scurry out of reach of the man who... wasn't supposed to be there.
"What the hell—" I spin around, clutching my elbow from the impact, eyes narrowing.
He's leaning casually against the wall, like he's been there all along, half-shadowed under the flickering light. Tall, dressed in the same uniform but with his sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose, like none of this is serious to him.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he says, hands raised in mock surrender. "I thought you saw me when they shoved you in."
"I didn't." I eye him carefully. "Who even are you?"
He tilts his head slightly. "Let's just say I've been here longer than most."
He's far too excited for someone in detention.
I scoot further from him, my back hitting the cold wall. "Are you a student?"
Obviously. Why am I even asking? He's in a half-school uniform.
He shrugs. "Depends who's asking."
I glare at him without saying a word.
"Fine. I am," he says.
There's something unsettling in the way he speaks. Not dangerous exactly—but off. Like he's in on a joke I don't know yet.
"Well, boy," I say slowly, "unless you're planning to bust us out of here, maybe shut up and let me wallow."
He chuckles. "I can do that if you want me to."
"No, thank you."
"You seem to be having a very bad day."
I take a long deep breath but don't answer. I remain still as he walks closer toward me to get a better look at me where I'm huddled in the shadows. When he's as close as the bars will allow, he crouches down. I try to hide beneath my tangled hair and folded limbs, giving him only my eyes.
And because my luck is the worst, he, of course, is stunning.
The unfair kind of stunning—the kind that makes your brain short-circuit for half a second before you snap yourself out of it. High cheekbones, lashes too long for a boy, and a scar just below his lip like a signature he didn't ask for.
His hair is a messy shade of dark cooper and his eyes. They are worst, green beautiful and maddeningly curious.
He tilts his head. "What's your name?"
I stare back, unblinking. "Why?"
"So I know what to call the girl who stares like she's planning my funeral."
I don't reply. He'll find out anyway.
He sits cross-legged just beyond the bars like we're having a picnic. I hate how unfazed he is. Like he's been locked in places like this more than once and never once cared.
"Now tell me. Who is it that you killed recently?" An entertaining grin appears at the corners of his mouth.
"What the hell are you ..."
"Come on , cupcake. I can read your darkest thoughts. All of it!"
He laughs quietly, his eyes raking over me.