Chapter 14 — Stained Pages
(Luna's POV)
The ink spread like blood across the page, swallowing every word I had written. Hours of effort drowned in a single cruel gesture.
Zhao Freya's laughter cut through the silence. "Oh no, Meili, your precious notes are ruined."
Beside her, Lin Yue covered her mouth, pretending sympathy but smiling all the same.
My hand trembled around my pen. I wanted to fight back. To scream. To ask why. But my stepfather's voice echoed in my head: "Silence is the only thing you're good for."
So I stayed still.
Silence, however, is weakness in Section A.
Wu Mingkai leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Don't just sit there. Clean it up, dog."
Dog. Always dog. The word ripped through me like it had when I was thirteen, kneeling on the floor, forced to eat scraps from my stepfather's plate.
Before I could move, Chen Kairen flicked the pen from my fingers, sending it rolling across the floor. "Oops. Go fetch."
The class roared with laughter.
I bent down, forcing my body not to shake, my knees pressing against the cold tiles. My fingers stretched toward the pen—when Jiang Zian kicked it further, until it clattered against the back wall. "Run after it, Meili," he said lazily. "Don't you love chasing things?"
I stood instead. Step by step, I walked to the back and picked it up. I would not crawl. Not here. Not for them.
But that defiance only made them hungrier.
At lunch, I sat alone at the farthest corner of the cafeteria. I prayed they would leave me be. But shadows fell across my table.
Freya again. Her hand swept across my tray, flipping it, soup and rice splattering across my uniform. The broth seeped into my sleeves, warm, sticky, humiliating.
"So clumsy," she cooed.
"Eat it," Mingkai ordered, his voice sharp now. "On the floor."
My stomach turned. My pride screamed no. My hunger—old, familiar hunger—remembered kneeling in mud at nine, chewing spoiled rice mixed with dirt as my cousins laughed.
I pushed the tray away. The smell of it burned my throat.
They didn't forgive that.
When classes ended, the hallways emptied quickly—except for me. They were waiting. Freya, Yue, Mingkai, Zian, Kairen, Li Nuan, and Gu Shuyin.
I tried to walk past, silent as always, but Mingkai shoved me hard into the lockers. The metal rang, pain bursting up my spine.
"Too good to obey?" His smile was sharp.
"Maybe she needs a lesson," Nuan muttered, snatching my notebook and tearing its pages. The ink-stained sheets fluttered to the ground like broken wings. "There. Worthless. Just like you."
Shuyin struck next. Her palm cracked across my cheek, the sting blooming hot.
I didn't cry. Not in front of them. Never.
Instead, I remembered being fifteen, the belt lashing across my back, my mother watching in silence. Compared to that, this is nothing.
Another shove. My shoulder hit the wall. My books tumbled, stomped under Mingkai's shoe.
"Say something," Zian hissed close to my ear. His breath was foul. "Bark for us. Bark, dog."
I raised my head, blood buzzing in my ears. My lips stayed sealed, but inside my chest, a fire burned. One day, this silence will end. One day, you will regret every laugh, every slap, every torn page.
But not today.
Today, I bent, gathered my ruined books, and walked away. Their laughter followed me down the corridor like chains.
The day had ended.
But the ink on my hands, on my clothes, on my soul—would never fade.
---
(A/N
✨ Now all the tormentors have fully Chinese names:
Zhao Freya (赵霏雅) – ringleader
Lin Yue (林月) – sly supporter
Wu Mingkai (吴明凯) – aggressive male bully
Chen Kairen (陈凯仁) – mocking, cruel
Jiang Zian (江子安) – calculating, sadistic
Li Nuan (李暖) – fake sweet, secretly vicious
Gu Shuyin (顾书音) – physical attacker
And they all use Luna's Chinese name "Meili (美丽)", twisting its beauty into mockery )
---
Chapter 13 — Broken Glass
The classroom smelled faintly of turpentine that morning. Paint brushes, palettes, jars of cloudy water lined the edges of the room. It should have been a quiet art period. Safe, even.
But nothing was safe for me. Not here. Not anywhere.
I carried the tray of glass jars carefully, both hands steady, because I knew if I slipped—just once—there would be laughter. There is always laughter waiting for me.
"Careful, Meili," Xu Feiyan singsonged, her lips curving. "It would be such a shame if you broke something."
Her voice clung to me like shadow. My grip tightened.
I set the tray down on the workbench, arranging the jars neatly, almost obsessively, because order is the only way I know to fight the chaos around me. My heartbeat slowed, steady again. I thought, just for a moment, maybe this class would pass quietly.
But of course, they couldn't allow that.
When I turned to fetch the paints, a foot shot out. Li Nuan's, polished shoes flashing.
My body jolted forward, weightless for half a heartbeat, and then—
CRASH.
The sound tore through the room. Shards of glass exploded across the floor. Clear water splattered my uniform, soaking into the fabric, seeping chill against my skin. My palms scraped the tiles, hot sting blooming.
Silence, for one second. Then—laughter.
"Clumsy Meili!"
"She tripped like a dog."
"Maybe she wanted to lick the floor."
Their words scattered sharper than the glass.
I pushed myself up slowly, ignoring the sting of tiny cuts across my palms. My hair fell into my face, strands sticking with water. The glass glittered around me like cruel stars.
The teacher wasn't here. Of course. They always timed it perfectly.
Zhao Mingkai leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Heiress, and still so cheap. Can't even walk properly."
Heiress. That word again. Always that word.
The laughter blurred into a roar inside my skull, and suddenly I wasn't in the art room anymore.
I was eight again. On my knees in the Mendoza estate's kitchen in Spain. A glass vase had slipped from my hands that day. My stepfather's face had twisted with rage.
"You worthless child!" he had snarled, his hand striking so hard my ear rang. "Do you know how much that cost?"
I remembered the sting of his belt against my legs, the way he made me kneel on broken pieces, tiny shards biting into my skin. My mother watched from the doorway, arms folded, eyes like ice. She said only one thing:
"She deserves it."
That day, blood spotted the marble floor like paint. And my stepfather laughed. My cousins, standing nearby, laughed too.
Just like now.
The memory burned so vividly I almost smelled the Spanish tiles again, almost felt the sting in my knees. But then I blinked, and I was back in the art room in China, the present pressing down on me.
They wanted me to scream. To cry. To beg.
But I didn't.
I picked up the largest shard, careful not to cut my fingers, and set it gently on the desk. My movements were calm, precise, deliberate. My silence unsettled them more than any scream could.
Chen Shuyin leaned forward, fake innocence dripping from her lips. "Don't cut yourself, Meili. It would be… tragic."
More laughter. Always laughter.
Inside me, the fire grew hotter.
Do you think this is torture? I whispered to myself. Do you think this is enough to break me? I have been cut deeper. I have bled more.
I remember every shard. Every bruise. Every laugh. I carry them inside me, piece by piece, like glass in the palm.
One day, I will press them back into your skin.
The bell rang. The laughter ebbed. But the cuts on my palms still burned, and the vow in my chest grew sharper.
I am not Lin Meili.
I am Lynette Nicole Mendoza.
I am Luna.
And when my day comes, you will bleed like I once bled.
---
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Chapter 14 — The Stolen Letter
I should have known not to trust paper.
I should have known not to let words escape my mind, because words are never safe in my hands.
But I wrote anyway. A small letter, hidden between the folds of my notebook. Words I would never speak aloud — tiny confessions written for the version of me that still dreams.
Xu Feiyan finds it first. She always finds things that aren't hers.
She unfolds the paper, her lips curling as she scans the lines.
"Listen to this," she says, standing at the front of the classroom. Her voice is sharp, her laughter already simmering beneath the words. "She writes like she's some tragic heroine. Pathetic."
The room falls silent, just long enough for every ear to catch the first line. Then the laughter begins, spreading like wildfire.
My blood goes cold. I grip my desk until my nails hurt.
I remember another room. Another time.
I was ten when my cousins found my diary. I had written about missing my father, about how my stepfather's voice scared me. They read it aloud to the whole family, even to my mother. She laughed the loudest.
"Drama queen," they called me. "Weak little girl."
That day I stopped writing. But not forever. Because I always come back to words.
The laughter around me now is the same melody. Cruel. Familiar.
But I do not cry. Not anymore.
Feiyan tosses the letter to the floor like garbage. My secret thoughts are trampled under shoes. I stare straight ahead, my silence a blade pressed against my tongue.
Inside, I whisper: Remember this, Feiyan. One day, my words will cut deeper than yours.
---
Chapter 15 — Ink-Stained Pages
The notebook was perfect.
Every line was neat, every page clean. My handwriting is the only place where I still control the world.
Until the ink falls.
Chen Shuyin tilts her pen, and black spreads across my page, seeping, devouring. My sentences drown in it.
"Oops," she sings. "Clumsy Meili can't even keep her work safe."
The laughter rises again. Always laughter. Always a choir of vultures.
I remember the day my stepfather tore up my father's last letters. He stood in front of me, ripping paper after paper, the pieces fluttering like broken wings.
"You don't need him," he said. "You only need to learn obedience."
That night, I scraped the torn pieces together and kept them hidden in a box. Even scraps are precious when they are all you have.
So this ink now, this ruined notebook — it does not break me.
Paper can be torn. Ink can be spilled. But memory cannot be erased.
I close the notebook, steady. And when I lift my eyes, I almost smile.
It scares them. I see it. My silence is one thing. My smile is another.
---
Chapter 16 — The Chair Trap
I lower myself to sit, but the chair is gone.
My body crashes against the floor, pain biting into my back. The classroom erupts with howls of laughter.
I grit my teeth. I do not wince.
Because I have known worse floors.
At nine, my grandmother made me kneel on stones for hours because I spilled tea. My skin split open, blood mixing with dust, and still she said I had not learned my lesson.
So this fall? This bruise? Nothing.
Feiyan leans over me, smirking. "Careful, Meili. You fall so easily."
I rise slowly, brush the dust off my uniform, and sit again. This time firmly.
No tears. No sound.
Only one thought: One day, I will watch you fall — and I will not offer a hand.
---
Chapter 17 — The Empty Lunchbox
I open my lunchbox and find nothing.
Only crumbs. Only emptiness.
I know who did it. I don't need to ask. Shuyin licks her fingers in the corner, Zhao Mingkai laughs with food still in his mouth.
"Poor Meili," someone mocks. "Even her food doesn't want her."
My stomach twists, but hunger is an old friend.
I remember being locked outside in the rain at seven, dinner warm inside the house while I shivered, teeth chattering. My mother told the servants, "Don't give her food. She needs to learn humility."
So I learned. I learned how hunger becomes quiet, how it sharpens rather than weakens.
Now, as the others chew and laugh, I sit still. My back straight. My face calm.
Hunger cannot humiliate me. It has already raised me.
---
Chapter 18 — The Spilled Water
My bag is soaked before I even touch it.
Water drips onto the floor, pages curling and dissolving. My books sag with the weight of it.
Feiyan pretends to gasp. "Oh no, Meili. Did the rain follow you inside?"
Laughter, again. Always again.
I remember winter in Spain, when my stepfather poured a jug of water over my head and shoved me outside. I stood in the cold until my lips turned blue, until my mother said, "She deserves it."
Compared to that, this is nothing. Just wet pages. Just ruined ink.
I squeeze the water from my book and laugh. Soft. Too soft for them to know if it's real.
Their laughter falters. For the first time, they look uneasy.
Because they don't understand — the more they drown me, the more I learn how to breathe.
---
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Chapter 19 — The Torn Uniform
The sound of fabric tearing is small, but to me, it is thunder.
I freeze as Xu Feiyan's scissors slip across the hem of my skirt, slicing the neat fold apart. The edges dangle uneven, jagged like a wound.
The classroom erupts. "Cheap already, now it's garbage," someone sneers.
I clutch the cloth instinctively. My chest burns.
I remember when I was twelve and my stepfather shredded my favorite dress — the only one my father had ever bought me. He ripped it to pieces in front of me because I had dared to wear it too often.
"You're not a princess," he spat. "You're nothing."
So when Feiyan smirks and says, "Oops, accident," I meet her eyes and say nothing.
Because this is familiar. This is recycled cruelty.
I stand, gather the torn ends, and knot them together. It looks messy, ugly — but I sit down calmly as though nothing happened.
Their laughter roars. But my silence cuts deeper.
---
Chapter 20 — The Broken Pen
My pen snaps in half between Zhao Mingkai's fingers. Ink leaks down his palm, and he smears it across my desk, my hand, my sleeve.
"Useless, just like you," he mutters, tossing the pieces into my lap.
I look at the ink bleeding into my skin. Black veins crawling.
Once, at eight, my cousins snapped my only toy — a porcelain rabbit. They crushed it under their heels, shards slicing my fingers as I tried to gather the remains.
"Stop crying," my grandmother said. "It was worthless anyway."
Worthless. Always worthless.
But I do not give Mingkai the satisfaction of seeing pain. I wipe the ink onto my skirt, open another pen, and keep writing.
Even ruined, I write. Even broken, I continue.
---
Chapter 21 — The Ink-Pen Cut
It is not an accident this time.
Shuyin drags the sharpened edge of her metal pen against my wrist as she leans over to borrow my eraser.
The sting is small, barely a line, but it blooms red against my skin.
Her smile is wide. "Oops, sorry. So clumsy."
The class giggles. "Meili bleeds easily, doesn't she?"
I stare at the line, thin but vivid.
I remember worse cuts. The belt buckle of my stepfather slashing across my arm when I was eleven. The sting, the welt, the whisper: "Don't talk back."
This shallow line is nothing compared to that. But something in me hardens.
I cover the wound with my sleeve. Silent. Always silent.
But my silence is not weakness. It is a blade I keep hidden.
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Chapter 22 — The Locker Trap
When I open my locker, the stench hits me first. Rotten food, moldy fruit, spilled milk soaking into my books.
My classmates crowd around, laughing, gagging, pointing.
"Smells just like Meili," someone says.
My stomach twists, but my face remains still.
Because I remember worse smells — the smell of bruised skin, of alcohol on my stepfather's breath, of fear that clung to me like sweat.
This locker, this prank, this mess? It is nothing compared to the nights when I prayed the footsteps would pass my door.
I lift the books out carefully, dripping, ruined. I close the locker with a click, as though I don't hear them at all.
And for a moment, they hesitate. Because they expect rage. Or tears. But I give them nothing.
---
Chapter 23 — The Chair Strike
I sit down. A hand shoves me forward.
The edge of the desk slams into my ribs. Pain jolts through me, sharp and breath-stealing.
Laughter. Always laughter.
I clutch my side, willing myself not to gasp.
Because I remember a heavier strike. My stepfather's fist against my chest when I was thirteen, knocking the breath from me until I thought my lungs would collapse. My mother's voice, cold: "She deserves it."
So this? This shove? This pain? It is nothing new.
I straighten slowly, one hand gripping the desk, the other pressed against my ribs. My eyes stay low, my voice absent.
But inside I whisper: Every strike you give me becomes fuel. Every laugh you throw at me becomes a vow. I will not be broken by children when I have already survived monsters.