They met after school, not by accident.
The old music room—unused, dust-heavy, its windows cracked just enough to let the late light bleed in.
The air smelled like wood and silence. No footsteps passed this far down the hall.
Amanda arrived first.
She stood near the window, arms folded loosely, posture calm but alert. The sunlight caught in her blonde hair, softening her features—but her eyes stayed sharp, calculating.
She had always been like that. Pretty enough to be underestimated. Smart enough to let people do it.
The door opened.
Marvello stepped in and closed it behind her—slowly, deliberately. The click of the lock echoed too loudly.
Amanda turned.
For a second, neither spoke.
Marvello's bruise was still faintly visible. She hadn't covered it. Her shoulders were relaxed, but her jaw was tight, lips pressed together like she was holding something back—not fear, but restraint.
"You chose this room," Marvello said.
Amanda nodded. "No cameras. No traffic."
Marvello walked closer. Each step was unhurried, controlled. Her eyes never left Amanda's face.
"You shouldn't have come if you weren't sure," Marvello said quietly.
Amanda's lips curved—not a smile, but recognition. "I was sure when I was twelve."
That landed.
Marvello stopped an arm's length away. Her eyes flickered, just briefly.
"Twelve right?," she repeated. "When we learned listening was safer than crying."
Amanda exhaled slowly. "When we learned they never thought children remembered."
''They forget''
The silence thickened.
Marvello turned away, pacing once—hands clasped behind her back, nails digging lightly into her palms. When she spoke again, her voice was lower.
"They think I want blood," she said. "They think anger makes people reckless."
Amanda stepped closer. "It makes them reckless."
Marvello looked back at her then. Her lips lifted slightly.
"They don't deserve death," Marvello said. "That would end it too quickly."
Amanda nodded. Her voice was calm, almost gentle. "They deserve to live knowing every door is closing."
Marvello's eyes sharpened. "They deserve to be watched."
Amanda continued, steady. "Questioned."
"Stripped of excuses," Marvello added.
"Exposed," Amanda finished.
Their voices didn't rise. They didn't rush. Every word was placed carefully, like pieces on a board.
Amanda reached into her bag and pulled out a thin folder—not thick, but deliberate. She didn't hand it over yet.
"Nairo thinks he can control you," she said. "He thinks money is leverage."
Marvello scoffed softly. "Money is just a trail."
Amanda finally extended the folder. "And trails can be followed."
Marvello took it. Her fingers brushed Amanda's—cool, steady. She opened it just enough to glance inside. Names. Dates. Fragments. Enough to hurt.
She closed it again.
"When this starts," Marvello said, her voice almost a whisper, "there's no stepping back."
Amanda lifted her chin. "I didn't come here to step back."
Marvello studied her face—really studied it. The calm mouth. The steady eyes. The absence of doubt.
Then Marvello extended her hand.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
Just… certain.
Amanda looked at it for half a second.
Then she took it.
Their handshake was firm. Intentional. Neither flinched.
Something passed between them—old pain, shared memory, a promise sharpened into resolve.
Outside the room, a group of students passed by.
One of them shivered.
Another glanced at the door without knowing why.
Inside, Marvello spoke, her lips barely moving. "No deaths."
Amanda nodded. "Only pressure."
"Truth," Marvello said.
"Time," Amanda replied.
"And cages made of evidence," Marvello finished.
Amanda's mouth curved into a small, dangerous smile. "Jail," she said softly. "Where they can't buy silence."
They released each other's hands.
But the pact remained.
When Marvello turned to leave, she paused at the door.
"They ruined our childhoods," she said. "They don't get to ruin our future."
Amanda's voice followed her, calm and unwavering.
"They won't."
The door opened.
The hallway noise rushed back in.
But something had changed.
And even without knowing why,people felt it.
Because two girls had just agreed on something far worse than revenge.
They had agreed on justice that takes its time.
The library was nearly empty again.
Late this time.
Lights dimmed low between the shelves, casting long shadows that swallowed corners whole. The air smelled faintly of old paper and dust, like a place meant to keep secrets.
Amanda leaned against one of the tall shelves, one ankle crossed over the other, posture loose—almost lazy. She scrolled on her phone like she had all the time in the world.
She heard him before she saw him.
Fast steps.Too fast.
Nairo rounded the shelf sharply and stopped when he saw her.
"So," he said, voice tight, "this is where you hide now?"
Amanda didn't look up. "Hide?" she echoed mildly. "You found me pretty easily."
That annoyed him.
"You think this is funny," he snapped.
She finally lifted her eyes.
Slow.Unbothered.
"I think you're predictable," she said. "There's a difference."
He stepped closer, looming. "You lied to Dad."
Amanda smiled. "Obviously."
"You said you missed me."
She laughed.
Not loud.Not hysterical.
Just a soft, breathy laugh that curled at the edges like it was genuinely amusing.
"Oh, Nairo," she said, shaking her head. "Why would I miss someone who panics this easily?"
His hand shot out, slamming against the shelf beside her head. Books rattled, a few slipping out of place.
"You've always been a problem," he said through clenched teeth. "Ever since you were a kid."
Amanda didn't move away.
She leaned in instead—just enough to close the distance herself.
"You mean when I didn't sign?" she asked calmly. "When I didn't help you steal what wasn't yours?"
His eyes darkened.
"You almost cost us everything."
She shrugged. "You still got it. Just not cleanly."
His hand grabbed her wrist—tight, controlling, meant to scare.
Amanda looked down at it.
Then back up at him.
And laughed again.
This time sharper.
"Is this it?" she asked. "This is what you do when you're losing?"
His grip tightened.
"You think Marvello will protect you?" he hissed. "She was weak back then. She still is."
Amanda's smile widened.
"She signed because she was scared," Amanda said softly. "I didn't. That's why you hate me more."
That landed.
His breath stuttered.
She tilted her head, eyes bright now—not afraid, not angry.
Entertained.
"You know what's funny?" she continued. "You still think force works. That if you scare people enough, they'll give you what you want."
He shoved her back a step.
Not enough to knock her down.Enough to assert control.
Her back hit the shelf lightly.
She didn't gasp.
Didn't flinch.
She looked up at him and smiled like she'd just won a bet.
"You're desperate," she said. "I can hear it in your breathing."
"Shut up," he snapped.
"You're scared," she went on calmly. "Because now there are two of us who remember."
His hand fell away from her wrist.
That hesitation was everything.
Amanda straightened slowly, rolling her wrist once, then smoothing her sleeve like the contact hadn't mattered.
"You won't touch me again," she said quietly.
He scoffed. "You think you're untouchable?"
"No," Amanda replied, eyes steady. "I think you're running out of options."
Footsteps echoed faintly somewhere beyond the shelves.
Nairo stepped back, anger flashing hot and uncontrolled now.
"This isn't over," he said.
Amanda smiled—bright, sharp, deliberate.
"I know," she said. "That's why I'm enjoying this."
He turned and stormed off, knocking a chair aside on his way out.
Amanda waited until he was gone.
Then she laughed again—soft, satisfied.
She picked up her phone, typing one message.
He's slipping.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket and walked out of the library like nothing had happened.
Behind her, the shelves stood crooked where Nairo had hit them.