Chapter 3: Old Wounds, New Fears

"What are you pretending for, Jamie?"

The class queen sneered, her words cold as ice.

"Don’t think you’re safe from me just because we’re here."

"Did you forget when I locked you in the janitor’s closet and made everyone laugh at you?"

Her words cut deep, and for a second, I could smell the musty, chemical stink of that closet. My stomach twisted, the shame as sharp as ever—even after dying.

Ever since school started, the class queen had hated me.

She’d stuffed bugs in my backpack, accused me of stealing, even turned the whole class against me.

Back then, I would’ve given her the points—anything to avoid her wrath.

But now, everything was too strange. I couldn’t risk it.

Everyone else glared at me. I dropped my gaze and stayed quiet.

The class queen kicked me a few more times to vent her anger.

I curled up, clutching my stomach, cold sweat soaking my forehead, nearly blacking out.

I could feel splinters digging into my knees, each kick making the world spin. The taste of fear—sharp, metallic—coated my tongue.

Only then did the class officer step in:

"For one person to lend 5 points, that’s too risky. Why don’t we each lend 1 point instead?"

The class queen paused, shot me a venomous glare, and called out,

"Whoever lends me points now, I’ll pay you back double."

In the end, the class queen collected 10 points from the group.

She spent 15 on the beauty mark, another 5 for a ticket into the club—emptying her account.

Her plan went off without a hitch.

That night, at the club, she hit the dance floor and stunned everyone. Just as planned, she dipped her head and let the heir see the beauty mark.

The young heir, clearly impressed, clapped and took her home to his mansion.

Meanwhile, the rest of us—rocking thrift store outfits—were stuck outside, blocked by bouncers.

We could only text the class queen in the group chat.

The club throbbed with bass, sweat, and perfume mixing in the air. Outside, the line snaked past a food truck selling chili dogs. My phone buzzed nonstop—group chat exploding with gifs, memes, and the kind of trash talk that always got out of hand.

The class officer started a group called [Class 14 Safe Return Home].

The class queen spammed updates:

[Just met the guy—got 5 points! The heir is ridiculously hot.]

[Poured him a drink, earned 10 more points.]

[He touched my beauty mark—another 10 points!]

[Everyone who lent me points: paid back double!]

She even @’d me:

[@Jamie, feeling regret yet? LOL.]

The classmates gushed with envy:

[Class queen’s got the raid bonus in the bag.]

[Ugh, why can’t I fall for a dreamy rich guy too?]

But minutes later, everything flipped. The class queen sent a voice message—her scream twisted with agony:

[Ah ah ah ah—]

The sound ripped through the group chat like a live wire. My fingers shook as I gripped my phone, the darkness of the alley pressing in.