By the fifth day, the attention had changed texture.
It wasn't curiosity anymore.
It was expectation.
People expected Aylia Zehir to speak now. To perform. To justify why her name had begun circulating in rooms she didn't sit in and conversations she wasn't part of. Her presence had become a question mark everyone felt entitled to answer.
I'd made her visible.
I hadn't considered what visibility costs someone who never asked for it.
The realization surfaced briefly—sharp, inconvenient—then sank beneath something colder.
Control always came with collateral.
The thought didn't stop me.
The first sign of trouble came in calculus.
Assigned seating. Whiteboard squeaking. The low hum of a class that never quite woke up. Everyone half-asleep, half-irritated at being forced to think before noon.
Aylia sat two rows ahead of me, center column, notebook already open. Her handwriting was precise, margins perfectly aligned, like order was something she imposed on the world rather than expected from it. Her posture was rigid—not stiff, but held. As if she was keeping herself upright by force of will alone.
I noticed the whispering before she did.
It started near the windows. A murmur. A breath of amusement. Then another voice joined in. Then another.
Someone laughed.
Soft. Careless.
Aylia's pen paused mid-word.
She didn't turn around. Didn't look toward the sound. She just stopped—listening.
Good instincts.
Most people reacted too quickly. She measured first.
My gaze tracked backward.
Alicia Vigere.
Perfect hair. Perfect posture. Perfect reputation. The kind of girl who didn't need to raise her voice because attention bent toward her naturally. She sat surrounded by her orbit—girls who mirrored her expressions, boys who leaned closer than necessary—chin tilted slightly as she whispered.
Her eyes weren't subtle.
They were fixed on Aylia's back.
Alicia had history with me.
More accurately—she had claim.
Not the kind spoken aloud. The kind assumed. Established through proximity, expectation, and the unspoken agreement that people like us didn't stray without reason.
The teacher cleared his throat and began the lesson. Chalk scraped. Numbers filled the board.
The whispers faded.
The looks didn't.
Aylia felt them. I could tell by the smallest shift in her shoulders, the way her spine straightened just a fraction more. Like she was bracing against something invisible pressing inward.
I could've stopped it then.
A glance in Alicia's direction. A raised brow. A warning without words.
She would've backed off.
I didn't.
I wanted to see what Aylia would do.
That was the moment.
The line.
And I crossed it without hesitation.
Between classes, the hallways buzzed louder than usual.
Lockers slammed. Shoes scuffed. Voices overlapped in a constant, restless echo. Alicia moved through it efficiently—like she was conducting something only she could hear. She intercepted conversations just before Aylia reached them. Positioned herself where Aylia would have to pass. Dropped comments wrapped in faux concern, the kind that spread faster than insults ever could.
"She doesn't even realize she's trying."
"That's what makes it embarrassing."
"She thinks she's different."
"You don't end up on Xavier Atlas's radar by accident."
"He doesn't go after someone unless there's a reason."
"No one does."
That one followed me.
Aylia kept her head down, steps quickening, one hand locked around the strap of her bag like it was anchoring her. Her shoulders stayed squared, but there was tension there now—something coiled and restrained.
She passed me in the hallway.
Didn't look up.
Didn't slow down.
That was new.
That irritated me more than it should have.
Lunch was worse.
The cafeteria thrummed with anticipation—the kind that sharpened when something ugly was about to unfold. It wasn't loud yet. It didn't need to be. Attention had a way of tightening the air all on its own.
I spotted Aylia immediately.
Same seat by the windows. Alone. Sunlight cutting across the table, illuminating a tray she'd barely touched. Food arranged neatly but ignored, like it didn't matter enough to disturb whatever she was holding together.
Alicia noticed her too.
She rose deliberately, tray balanced perfectly, movements unhurried. Her friends watched her like an audience waiting for a cue.
I stayed seated.
I knew exactly what was about to happen.
Alicia stopped at Aylia's table.
"Mind?" she asked lightly, already pulling the chair back.
Aylia looked up. Confusion flickered—brief and human—before settling into caution. "Yes."
Alicia smiled wider. "Good. I hate awkward silences."
She sat anyway.
The scrape of the chair cut through the cafeteria.
Conversations softened. Stalled. Heads angled just enough to pretend they weren't watching.
"I just wanted to introduce myself," Alicia said, folding her hands on the table. Her tone was polite. Almost kind. "It must be exhausting—being new. Trying to figure out where you fit."
Aylia didn't answer.
She picked up her fork. Paused. Set it down again.
Alicia leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough to feel intimate. "Especially when you don't."
"I'm just having lunch," Aylia said evenly.
No tremor. No edge.
Alicia laughed softly. "That's what everyone says right before they make a mistake."
Her gaze flicked—deliberately—across the room.
"Besides," she added, sweet as poison, "you're not really alone, are you?"
Aylia's grip tightened on the edge of the tray.
"With Xavier watching you?" Alicia continued. "People are starting to get ideas."
That did it.
Aylia's gaze flicked to me.
I didn't move.
Didn't intervene.
Didn't look away either.
Something shifted in her expression—not fear, not embarrassment.
Disappointment.
It landed heavier than either would have.
Alicia followed her gaze and smiled, satisfied. "See? You're already a topic."
Aylia stood.
Slow. Controlled. Like she refused to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her rush.
"I don't know what your problem is," she said calmly, "but it has nothing to do with me."
Alicia tilted her head. "Everything has to do with you now."
Aylia picked up her tray and walked away.
The room exhaled.
I stood.
The sound of the chair scraping back cut clean through the cafeteria.
Alicia's smile faltered as I approached.
"You're done," I said flatly.
"With her?" Alicia scoffed. "Or pretending you don't enjoy this?"
I leaned closer, keeping my voice low. "You embarrassed her."
"You let it happen."
She wasn't wrong.
"I won't again."
Alicia laughed softly, sharp-edged. "You think you're protecting her?"
"I think you're replaceable."
That landed.
Her expression hardened—something cold and calculating replacing the sweetness.
"This isn't over," she said.
I knew.
By the end of the day, Aylia's locker had been tampered with.
Books missing. Notes scribbled over. Pages bent, corners torn. Whispers followed her like a second shadow—quiet enough to deny, loud enough to feel.
I heard about all of it.
I did nothing.
That night, Alicia found me by my car.
"You like control," she said, like it wasn't an accusation—like it was a compliment.
"You're pushing it."
She leaned against the hood anyway. "You turned her into a spectacle."
"You escalated."
"You initiated," she corrected. "So let's formalize it."
I looked at her.
"A bet," Alicia said. "You think she can handle this. I think she breaks."
"And you get?" I asked.
"My place back," she said smoothly. "And proof you're not going soft."
Soft.
The word scraped.
"And if I win?"
Her smile sharpened. "Whatever you want."
Across the lot, Aylia exited the building alone. Shoulders squared. Walking like she refused to be chased, refused to look back.
Something tightened in my chest.
Not concern.
Control.
"That's not kindness," Alicia said quietly. "That's interest."
I looked away.
"We'll talk."
She smiled. "I knew you would."
As Aylia disappeared down the path, I understood something else—something worse.
I wasn't watching to see if she'd break.
I was watching to see how long she'd last.
And I didn't stop myself.