I didn't plan on returning to the library the next day.
But I did.
I told myself it was for optics. That being seen with "normal" students helped keep me off certain radars. That integrating with classmates, even on the surface, was part of the strategy.
But as I sat down across from Nolan and Evie—Mira already mid-rant about formatting errors—I felt something unfamiliar curl at the edge of my chest.
Not comfort.
Just… less cold.
"So, I cleaned up our section slides," Mira said, not looking up. "Color-coded. Bullet-pointed. User-friendly. You're welcome."
Evie hummed. "You forgot to cite one of the financial graphs."
"I did not."
"You did," Nolan confirmed, tilting his tablet.
Mira narrowed her eyes. "Et tu, hoodie?"
I listened, quiet, half-smiling behind my stillness.
For a few minutes, I forgot what I came here to do.
Eventually, the conversation slowed.
Mira leaned back in her chair and stretched.
That's when I noticed it.
The faint mark near her left wrist.
It looked old. Pale.
A burn scar.
Thin, linear—almost like it had been made with a heated wire or…
My stomach tightened.
"Where'd you get that?" I asked, too quietly.
She blinked. "What?"
I pointed. "Your wrist."
Her eyes darkened.
Evie looked away.
Nolan stiffened.
Mira's mouth opened, then closed again. When she spoke, her voice was sharper. But softer, too.
"Back when I was a freshman," she said, "I had… issues."
Silence settled.
"I was part of the chess club. One of the only girls, actually. Some upperclassmen thought it was funny to mess with me. Would 'accidentally' knock over boards, call me 'calculator face,' trap me in the supply closet after practice."
My pulse slowed. A cold weight sank in my gut.
"It escalated," she said, voice like glass cracking. "One of them had a lighter. I shoved him. He grabbed my wrist. Held it. Burned me. Said if I told anyone, I'd lose more than a game."
She didn't cry.
She didn't shake.
But I saw the fire in her jaw. The pain that hadn't faded, only hardened.
"Reese?" I asked, even though I already knew.
She didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
I felt something inside me twist.
It wasn't rage. That had long since calcified.
It was connection.
That terrible, dangerous thread.
We weren't just classmates.
We were survivors.
And I hated that I felt it.
Because now I couldn't see Mira as a piece on a board.
She was real.
She was hurt.
Like me.
"I'm sorry," I said.
The words tasted foreign.
Mira's eyes flicked up, surprised. "You don't strike me as the sorry type."
"I'm not. But for that… I am."
Silence again.
Then, she nodded. Just once.
Evie finally looked up from her sketchpad.
"I always thought you were scary," she said softly. "But you're just… holding your breath all the time."
I blinked.
Nolan nodded. "I thought the same."
I didn't know what to say.
So I didn't say anything.
After school, I didn't go to the gym.
Instead, I walked aimlessly.
Watched kids spill out of the building. Laughed with friends. Shared earbuds. Chased soccer balls.
Normal.
I hadn't been normal in decades.
Hadn't let myself feel anything close to kinship since I'd watched my brother die.
But now?
Three students—a sharp-tongued survivor, a quiet observer, and a girl who saw people in colors and shadows—had carved space in my life without asking.
And I wasn't sure if that made me weaker…
…or more dangerous.
That night, I lay awake thinking about Mira.
About what they did to her.
About the others still laughing in the hallways like they'd never left a scar.
And something inside me shifted.
This wasn't just revenge anymore.
It was justice.
And I wasn't alone.