They were always laughing. Not out loud. You weren’t rich or confident or anything they respected. You were quiet. The girl who sat in the back. The one who kept her hair tucked behind her ears and her eyes on the page. The one who wore the same jacket every week and flinched at loud noises. You didn't fit into their world. So they made you their target. "It started small. Someone knocked your books off your desk. Another pretended not to see you in the hallway. They’d leave gum on your chair. Water in your locker. Whisper your name just loud enough to make you turn around, then laugh when you did. You tried to ignore it. But cruelty doesn’t stay quiet." The jokes got worse. They tripped you in the assemblies. They posted pictures of your handwriting with captions like: "Ancient cave language lol." They’d steal your lunch, leaving notes like "Go starve, rat." You never fought back. You never told a teacher. Because you didn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing you break. And yet—you broke anyway. Then came the egg. It was lunchtime. You were just trying to reach your seat. Someone screamed: "Heads up!" And then it cracked. Right on your scalp. The yolk ran down your face. Shell stuck in your hair. It splattered, and they laughed. Phones came out instantly. "YOOO you scrambled!!" "That’s so good. Upload that—now." "Omelette head." You stood frozen. Face burning. Hands trembling. Nobody helped me. Nobody said stop. "You ran. You locked your bedroom door. You didn’t go back to school the next day. Or the next." "You didn’t eat for three days. Your screen was full of harsh comments, widespread reposts, and cruel edits. You sat on the floor in the corner of your room, your hair still crusty with humiliation, replaying the video in your mind. Every time you whispered: 'Why me?' And the silence never answered." Then came the night. Three o’clock. You pulled on your coat with trembling fingers. Your shoes crunched quietly over the fresh snow. The streets were silent, everyone at home warm and safe. You walked slowly, without a plan, as if the night itself might understand what to do with you. The cold bit your cheeks. Snowflakes stuck in your eyelashes. You walked until the stillness swallowed the sound of your breathing. And then--- a black car pulled up beside you. You froze. The window rolled down just enough to see the driver nod. Then the passenger door opened. A tall figure stepped out into the snow. You knew him even before you looked up. Silas Welor. The school’s notorious prince. Straight-A student. Top athlete. Son of a wealthy mafia family with more money than some countries. Silent. Impossibly cold. He never backed down in a fight, and never raised his voice in class. No one could read him. No one dared stand near him for long. He stepped out into the snow wearing a long black coat, black gloves, and a black tie—as if he belonged to a world colder than this one. His presence was a silence wrapped in steel. He leaned his back against the car. And looked down at you. Then he spoke. "I saw the video." "I saw everything." His eyes meet yours. Unflinching. Merciless. "Use me." His voice was low. "Use me to get your revenge."