‘She’s terrifying.’
Passing by her in the hallway, I caught a glimpse of Shin Sena, and she truly radiated a menacing aura.
It wasn’t just a bad mood; it was an active, almost palpable force pushing people away.
She stomped through the corridor, each step heavy and deliberate, thudding against the linoleum with a dangerous rhythm.
Her shoulders were hunched, her hands clenched into fists, and her jaw was set in a hard, unyielding line, giving the clear impression that she’d bite anyone who dared to approach her.
Her eyes, narrowed and sharp, darted around, seeking out any perceived slight.
It was a clear, unspoken warning, a silent declaration of her volatile state, and indeed, no one dared to come close.
Students and teachers alike veered widely, giving her a wide berth.
Her presence alone seemed to create a wide, empty space around her, a bubble of simmering aggression that no one wished to burst.
The air around her felt heavy, thick with unspoken threats, and a strange tension seemed to settle over the entire floor as she passed.
The fact that Uncle Axe followed me wherever I went, ever since he was assigned as my bodyguard, meant that anyone harboring ill will towards me had almost no opportunity to approach me carelessly.
His imposing figure, a mountain of a man in a crisp black suit, was a constant shadow, a mere three steps behind me at all times.
He was like a walking, breathing ‘do not disturb’ sign, almost an extension of my own personal space that no one dared to invade.
He wasn’t overtly threatening, he never spoke to other students or made any overt gestures, but his sheer presence, the quiet vigilance in his eyes, acted as an incredibly effective deterrent, a visible barrier against any potential threats.
Students whispered about him, speculating endlessly – wondering if I was some kind of mob boss’s daughter, or perhaps a foreign dignitary, or even a runaway idol.
While the constant attention was undeniably embarrassing, it did keep the usual school mischief and casual bullying at bay, a small comfort in the face of the larger absurdity.
“I’m going to the restroom.”
I had to announce my destination every single time I left my seat, a new routine that felt both restrictive and oddly safe.
It was a strange dichotomy—losing a bit of my personal freedom for an overwhelming sense of security.
The words felt stilted, unnatural coming from my lips, but it was a necessary formality.
So, as soon as I stepped out of the classroom door, I immediately looked for Uncle Axe.
He was right where I expected him to be, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, a posture of quiet vigilance, almost like a statue carved from granite, observing everything without seeming to move.
At my words, he simply nodded his head, a silent acknowledgment, and followed quietly behind me, his footsteps barely audible despite his size.
As I walked down the corridor towards the restroom at the end, the usual chatter of students seemed to fade into a low hum as I passed, their gazes following us.
I thought I caught a snatch of conversation about me, a hushed mention of ‘the girl with the bodyguard’ or ‘that strange girl,’ but I ignored it, focusing instead on the smooth, polished floor tiles and quickened my pace, eager to get some fleeting privacy and escape the ever-present scrutiny.
Fortunately, the restroom was empty, a rare blessing at this time of day, a small victory in itself, so I could use it without feeling self-conscious.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh, almost sterile glow on the white tiles, making every surface gleam unnaturally.
I was just finishing up and about to wash my hands when, through the mirror reflecting the entrance, I saw someone enter the restroom.
My stomach fluttered with a premonition, a familiar dread creeping in, chilling me despite the warmth of the room.
I tried to dismiss it, to not pay it much mind, intent on washing my hands quickly and making a swift exit.
But then, a pair of slender legs, clad in the school uniform’s familiar plaid skirt, walked straight up beside me and stopped in front of the sink next to mine.
My heart sank, a heavy weight in my chest.
There was only one person whose legs looked like that, whose presence seemed to exude such thinly veiled hostility, who would deliberately follow me into a deserted restroom.
Slowly, I raised my head, bracing myself for the inevitable, confirming the person beside me through the mirror, and immediately turned off the faucet.
My eyes met hers in the reflection, a silent challenge passing between us.
Reflected in the mirror was Shin Sena, standing there with a sharp, menacing presence, her eyes fixed directly on mine, a cold, calculating glint in their depths.
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on her lips, a hint of cruel amusement.
“Isn’t this restroom a bit dirty?” she suddenly remarked, her voice dripping with an oily insinuation, a thinly veiled accusation, as if the cleanliness of the facilities was somehow my personal responsibility, a fault laid solely at my feet.
Her tone was sweet, almost sickly so, making the underlying malice even more apparent.
I was about to turn my body to leave, to escape the suffocating tension that had suddenly filled the small space, but Shin Sena opened her mouth with a completely out-of-the-blue comment, interrupting my planned retreat.
Her words hung in the air, oddly conversational yet undeniably laced with venom, like a sugar-coated poison.
I couldn’t exactly say, ‘So what?’ out loud, not without giving her the direct confrontation she seemed to be baiting me for.
That wasn’t my plan, not yet.
So I just stared at her, my expression as neutral as I could make it, my gaze unwavering, with a look that clearly asked, ‘What are you talking about?’
My silence seemed to irritate her, denying her the dramatic reaction she so clearly craved.
Shin Sena let out a small, mocking laugh, a dry, humorless sound that scraped at my nerves, then fiddled idly with the cold metal faucet of the sink where I had just washed my hands, her fingers tracing the curve of the spout.
“I think it needs a good scrubbing with water,” she drawled, her gaze still fixed on me, a predatory glint in her eyes.
The implication was clear, a subtle threat masked by a mundane statement: I needed the scrubbing, the cleansing, the punishment.
And with that, Shin Sena turned on the water, a low hiss as it flowed from the faucet, and then, with a casual, almost effortless yank, she tore off the faucet.
The porcelain cracked audibly as it ripped from its base, a sharp, shocking sound in the quiet restroom.
The faucet, helpless against an Awakened person’s strength, was effortlessly ripped from its base, a testament to her latent, unchecked power, and water immediately burst forth from the broken pipe with surprising force.
It was a violent, uncontrolled spray, geysering upwards and outwards.
The sudden gush of water, pressurized and relentless, sprayed directly towards me, drenching my uniform in an instant.
My blouse clung to my skin, cold and heavy, my plaid skirt became a sodden, uncomfortable mess, and my black shoes squelched audibly with every slight shift of weight.
“What are you doing?!”
I exclaimed, my voice sharp with shock and a surge of pure, unadulterated anger, instinctively backing away from the icy, forceful spray.
This was beyond petty; this was intentional damage and assault, a clear escalation.
My carefully constructed composure was cracking.
I hastily snatched the torn-off faucet, which was still gushing water like a miniature fountain, and rushed back to the sink, desperately trying to re-attach it and stop the deluge, but the faucet simply wouldn’t fit back into place.
It was bent, irreparable, a useless piece of broken plumbing in my hands.
Water continued to spray, pooling rapidly on the pristine white tile floor, threatening to overflow.
My hair, soaked and heavy, hung down my face like wet seaweed, clinging unpleasantly to my cheeks and forehead, and water began to drip steadily from my body, forming ever-widening puddles around my feet.
I shivered, not just from the cold water, but from the sudden, chilling realization of her utter lack of restraint, her naked malice.
“Oh no, what should I do? I’d better go call a teacher.”
Shin Sena, who was watching me with a satisfied, almost gleeful smile, her eyes sparkling with malicious amusement, suddenly turned and grabbed a female student who was passing by outside the restroom door, unsuspecting.
She loudly exclaimed that there had been an ‘accident,’ her voice urgent and dramatically panicked, almost too convincing, telling the girl to go fetch a teacher immediately.
Then, with a practiced subtlety that showed a cruel forethought, she deliberately wet a small part of her own clothes with some of the gushing water, just enough to appear like an innocent bystander, a victim of the ‘accident,’ and calmly walked out of the restroom, leaving me alone in the spraying deluge, a triumphant smirk still playing on her lips.
The air around me felt thick with her absence, yet the consequences of her presence remained.
“No, why did that get pulled out?!”
Shin Sena was gone, her footsteps fading down the hall, and I was left alone, desperately trying to stop the gushing water with my bare hands, the cold spray soaking me even further, when I heard a teacher’s voice from outside, a voice tinged with surprise and irritation.
The faculty room wasn’t that far, a mere minute’s walk, but it felt like an eternity had passed since I had been waiting, soaking wet and shivering, probably because Shin Sena had taken her sweet time feigning innocence and creating a diversion.
My teeth began to chatter slightly, a small, involuntary tremor.
“Just keep holding that back! I’ll go call another teacher!” the teacher shouted, their voice already fading as they retreated, clearly overwhelmed and in a hurry to pass on the problem.
“What?! No, Teacher!”
I yelled back, my voice laced with disbelief and rising panic, but it was too late.
How can you just leave like this, abandoning me in a flooded restroom?!
What am I supposed to do now?
My inner voice screamed, a mixture of frustration and utter bewilderment.
The teacher saw me trying to block the gushing water, tossed out that single instruction, their voice clipped and impatient, and then walked right back out, abandoning me to the chaos.
They didn’t even spare a second glance.
As I turned my head to watch the teacher leave, a crucial gap opened in my feeble blockade, and the powerful jet of water, with nowhere else to go, slammed directly into my face, soaking me even further, blinding me momentarily with its force.
It wasn’t until another teacher, a frazzled-looking woman with a clipboard and a more sympathetic expression, finally arrived, clearly having been given a frantic report, that I was able to escape the flooded restroom, looking utterly miserable and like I’d just been pulled from a swimming pool.
“EEK! Dana! What happened to you?!”
Nabi exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock and concern, as I squelched into the classroom, leaving a trail of water behind me.
Other students gasped, their whispers instantly flaring up.
“The restroom faucet burst,” I replied, my voice flat, devoid of emotion, my teeth still chattering slightly from the cold.
“Come here! I have a towel!”
Nabi rushed over, her face a mask of worry, pulling me towards her, already holding out a fluffy towel.
She was always so quick to help.
Completely drenched from head to toe, my uniform clinging uncomfortably and feeling heavy, I returned to the classroom, where the startled students stared at me with wide, bewildered eyes, their curiosity mixed with pity.
The air conditioner, usually a welcome relief, now made me shiver even more.
Nabi, rushing over with a fluffy towel and a change of gym clothes she’d somehow materialized from her locker, led me to a restroom on another floor, a less frequented one, to avoid more prying eyes.
As we walked, the damp fabric chafed against my skin, but my mind was no longer focused on my discomfort.
It was consumed with thoughts of how to deal with Shin Sena.
A plan, cold and precise, began to form, solidifying with every squelching step.
It was obvious that talking to a teacher wouldn’t get Shin Sena properly punished.
Her family’s influence was too strong, too pervasive, like a suffocating blanket covering every attempt at justice.
She had already used her Awakened abilities to threaten and even physically attack a classmate (me!) inside school grounds, yet she had consistently avoided serious repercussions due to her family’s formidable backing.
It was a blatant abuse of power, a frustrating reality of this world that grated on my nerves, a constant reminder of how unfair things could be.
Would such a girl really be disciplined, beyond a mere slap on the wrist, for merely pulling out a faucet?
No matter how I thought about it, running through every possible scenario in my mind, it was clear she’d only get a warning at most, if anything.
The injustice of it fueled my resolve, hardening my determination.
This couldn’t continue.
‘Just how powerful is her family that she can swagger around like this, doing whatever she pleases without a single thought for the consequences or a shred of fear?’
I seethed internally, the question a burning ember in my mind.
The thought was a constant irritant, a thorn in my side.
Even as I changed into my dry gym clothes in the relative privacy of the cleaner restroom, my brow remained furrowed in displeasure, the deep lines refusing to relax.
The memory of the cold water, the shattered tile, and Shin Sena’s mocking smile replayed in my mind, vivid and infuriating.
This was no longer just about her dislike for me; it was about her flagrant disregard for rules and for other people.
After that incident, Shin Sena’s petty harassment continued, a relentless drip of annoyance.
During gym class, she would take advantage of the empty classroom to raid my locker, making me attend lessons without textbooks – forcing me to awkwardly share with a classmate, drawing unwanted attention.
She’d also fill my desk drawer with garbage – truly low-class, childish bullying tactics that spoke more of her immaturity and desperation for a reaction than any real threat.
My anger gauge was slowly but steadily rising, each small act of malice adding another drop to the overflowing well of my patience.
My patience was wearing thin.
Then came lunchtime, which I met with a simmering frustration, the last incident still fresh in my mind.
On my way to the bustling cafeteria, I glanced at Uncle Axe, who was walking right beside me, providing security as always.
With him here, and so many students and teachers in the bustling, noisy cafeteria, she surely wouldn’t try anything, right?
I thought, perhaps too naively, letting my guard down slightly.
My internal calculations suggested she’d be deterred by the sheer number of witnesses, that she wouldn’t risk such public humiliation. I was wrong.
“Oh dear, that’s all that’s left.”
When it was my turn in the cafeteria line, the main dish, a delicious-smelling pork cutlet, had run out.
My stomach grumbled in disappointment, having anticipated the meal.
Uncle Axe, who was standing right behind me, patiently waiting to receive his own food, inadvertently stopped in his tracks, his large frame momentarily blocking the line.
“Just a moment. I’ve finished making more,” the cafeteria lady, a plump woman with a kind smile, said to Uncle Axe, having turned to check on the nearly ready pork cutlets sizzling on a tray behind her.
“It’s fine,” Uncle Axe rumbled, his usual stoicism unwavering, clearly prioritizing my continued movement over his own meal.
Holding my tray, which was now noticeably empty of the desired main dish, Uncle Axe tried to follow behind me, ready to resume his bodyguard duties despite his empty tray.
He was a creature of habit and duty.
“No, what kind of work can a big man like you do just eating that much? I said wait a little!”
The cafeteria lady was truly formidable.
Her voice, unwavering and surprisingly loud even with a gangster in front of her, rose as she chided him like a disobedient student.
She clearly wasn’t intimidated by his imposing presence, a testament to her years of managing hungry teenagers.
I nodded once, indicating that it was fine for him to go get the pork cutlet, silently urging him to stay and wait.
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded back, understanding, and I then headed towards the table my friends had already secured, the clatter of trays and chatter of students filling the air, a cacophony of lunchtime.
I hadn’t walked far, perhaps only a few steps, through the crowded tables, when I felt it.
The back of my gym clothes, which I had just changed into because they were wet from the restroom incident, was suddenly drenched with hot soup.
A wave of intense heat spread across my back, followed immediately by a burning sensation, stinging my skin.
“Ah, hot!”
I yelped, a startled cry escaping my lips as the scalding liquid seeped through the fabric.
Caught off guard, my body flinched violently, jerking forward as the hot soup splashed onto me.
The shock of the heat and the unexpected impact made me gasp, my breath catching in my throat.
I could already feel the sticky dampness spreading, the tell-tale smell of the cafeteria’s kimchi soup rising around me.
She is so awfully childish 🫩🫩 it’s pathetic honestly