St. Maria Rosa High School. To study within its sacred walls was to be considered elite—whether because of family name or sheer intelligence. To graduate here was to be "made."
But in a mixed school, privilege breeds cruelty. The wealthy lorded over the scholars—the orphans, the slum kids, the contest winners. Some pranks were harmless traditions: chalk dust on doors, itchy powder in uniforms, missing chairs, salty desserts. Annoying, yes, but tolerated, even laughed off.
Yet beneath the surface were darker things—incidents hushed up so well that even the victims' families never knew. Only the bullies themselves were aware, and they guarded those secrets like treasure. The teachers never noticed. No witnesses ever spoke. No whispers slipped past the walls of privilege that shielded the powerful.
So whose fault is it when a victim is broken in silence? When she never even cried out to her dearest friend for help?
That question tormented Adrianna as tears streamed down her face. She sat in the private hospital room where Samantha—her Samantha—lay attached to tubes and machines. Samantha, the orphan her family had taken in, was timid and quiet but unfailingly kind. Always helping, never asking. Always smiling, until she wasn't.
Adrianna's sobs turned into ragged cries. Her heart twisted with guilt. How had she missed the signs?
Three months ago, when they first entered St. Maria Rosa, Samantha's light had started to dim. She stopped talking, stopped laughing. Their daily after-school chats disappeared, replaced by excuses—tutoring, cleaning, watering plants. Adrianna never questioned it. She trusted her too much.
She believed Samantha when she said she was dieting, even as her weight melted away.
She believed her when she blamed her clumsiness for the bruises on her arms and legs.
She believed her when she said she'd lost her phone, though it left her unreachable.
She believed her when she wore long sleeves in summer, claiming she was cold.
She even believed her on that last day, when Samantha said she was just going to the clinic…
Adrianna broke down, choking on her grief. Her thoughts screamed, but one truth burned clear: someone—maybe more than one—had done this.
Her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood. Someone had to pay.
*********
Meanwhile, unknown to Adrianna, Samantha had already died the moment her head struck the ground. She died smiling—comforted by the thought that she hadn't burdened her best friend with her pain. That Adrianna was safe.
It should have ended there. A tragic story of a girl who slipped away in silence, her death forever wrapped in mystery, mourned only by the few who truly knew her.
But Fate had other plans.
On that fateful day, as chaos erupted around her broken body, a sliver of golden light—brighter than the sun—descended. It seeped into her corpse, unnoticed by the panicked crowd. The light sank deeper, invading every cell, breathing life where there should have been none.
Shattered bone knit back together. Splintered ribs curved whole again. Punctured lungs swelled with new breath.
The body jerked once. Twice. Students screamed, teachers cried for help, phones lit up with frantic calls to doctors, guards, the police—anyone who could stop this nightmare. No one noticed what was happening right in front of them.
The corpse convulsed, expelling sweat, tears, saliva, mucus—waste built up from thirteen fragile years. As if cleansing itself. As if preparing the vessel for someone else. For something else. A temple remade.
Minutes later, the body stilled. By then the sirens were near, the crowd surging, the air thick with fear. The girl on the ground breathed shallowly, her wounds still raw but her form whole enough to pass as living. Whole enough to deceive.
Inside, the new occupant slept, waiting.
Waiting to wake to a life that was no longer Samantha's.