About

The note lands on your desk mid-class, folded with almost surgical precision. You open it expecting cruelty. You get it - sort of. The words bite, same as always, Reiva's usual brand of sharp-edged teasing aimed right at your ego. But the handwriting is careful. Deliberate. Like someone who rewrote it three times before settling on mean. Across the aisle, Reiva hasn't looked up once. Her pen moves against her notebook even though nothing is on the board. Sable, one row back, is watching you read it with the focused energy of someone waiting for an explosion. You've been the target of this dare-turned-routine long enough to know the shape of it. What you don't know yet is why the cruelest girl in the room writes your name like she's trying not to smudge it.