The whispers followed Angel like shadows.
"Why is she walking like she's better than everyone?"
"She's too quiet—it's giving main character energy."
"I bet she thinks she's mysterious."
She heard every word. Felt every stare. But her expression didn't flicker. She'd learned to hold her face like a wall—firm, unreadable, unshaken.
Ms.Dean gave her a small, encouraging nod from down the hall. "You're doing great," she mouthed.
Angel gave a short nod back, then turned the corner and entered her first class.
The classroom buzzed with chatter as the teacher, a stern-looking woman named Mrs. Raymond, adjusted her glasses and looked up.
"We have a new student joining us today. Angel Dewson. I expect everyone to show her respect."
A few fake smiles. A few more stares.
Angel walked to the only empty seat in the middle of the room. Not front. Not back. Right where it was impossible to hide.
"Angel?" the teacher called. "We're on chapter three. Do you have your textbook?"
Angel calmly reached into her bag and pulled out her own copy—already marked with notes.
Mrs.Raymond raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Good."
From the seat beside her, a girl muttered under her breath, "Teacher's pet already?"
Angel ignored it.
Lunchtime came, and Angel stepped into the cafeteria like she'd stepped into a foreign battlefield. She walked past rows of students clustered in cliques—none of which had room for outsiders.
She didn't expect anyone to call her over.
She didn't want them to.
So, she chose a quiet spot at the end of a half-empty table and slowly unwrapped her packed lunch. A small flask of jollof rice and grilled chicken sat in front of her, untouched. Her appetite had abandoned her weeks ago. She took a bite anyway.
From across the room, Victor—the same boy who had laughed earlier—watched her.
"New girl's eating alone. No surprise."
Angel met his eyes for just a second. He smirked.
She looked away, unbothered.
As she stood by the sink after lunch, a senior girl passed by—tall, confident, with a patterned scarf tied neatly around her head. Feyi.
She slowed, eyes narrowing slightly when they caught Angel's face. Something flickered there.
"I know her," Hannah murmured to her friend.
"You mean the new girl?"
"I don't know. It's the name. Or her face. I've seen her somewhere... just can't place it."
As Hannah walked off, Angel rinsed her hands and caught her reflection in the mirror. The scar on her wrist peeked out again.
She quickly tugged her sleeve down and walked out.
The final bell rang, and Angel didn't wait around. She headed straight for the school gate, where a sleek black car waited, engine humming softly.
The driver—stern, silent, dressed in a dark uniform—opened the back door for her without a word. She slipped in and shut the door, folding her hands over her skirt.
As the car pulled away from the chaos of school, Angel stared out the window, watching the world blur past. Students walking in groups. Laughter. Noise. Life.
All of it out of reach.
She touched the black band around her wrist, rubbing it between her fingers like a reflex.
Andrew had given it to her.
Before the crash.
Before everything changed.
"You're quiet today," the driver finally said, glancing at her in the mirror.
Angel didn't answer. She wasn't in the mood to lie to someone else.
The car pulled into the driveway of their large, gated house. As she stepped out, a housekeeper rushed to greet her, but Angel gave a polite nod and walked past without a word.
Inside, the house was still and polished—like a museum of grief.
She paused at the hallway leading to Adadi's study.
The door was slightly open.
Captain Dewson sat behind his desk, dressed in full military fatigues. His study was neat and tactical—walls lined with medals, old mission maps, and carefully organized files. He stared at encrypted data on his laptop, deep in work—but not too deep to miss the sound of her steps.
He looked up as Angel appeared in the doorway.
"Angel."
She paused, standing straighter.
"Welcome home," he said, his voice softer than the uniform he wore.
"Thanks."
"How was school?"
Angel gave a small shrug. "It was okay."
Captain Dewson studied her carefully—her stiff shoulders, her clipped tone, the way her eyes didn't quite meet his. He knew she was lying.
But he didn't press.
"Good," he said gently. "I'm proud of you."
She nodded and turned to leave.
"Dinner's at seven."
"Okay," she replied, already halfway up the stairs.
In her room, Angel closed the door and exhaled.
Her hand moved automatically to the photo beneath her pillow—Andrew, smiling like nothing could go wrong.
She stared at it, then at herself in the mirror.
The scar on her wrist. The band on her arm. The silent ache in her chest.
"You would've hated today, Andrew she whispered. "Too many fake people. Too many fake smiles."
"But I didn't cry."
She touched the black band again and closed her eyes.
"You survived," she told her reflection. "Now act like it."
And for the first time that day, her shoulders dropped. Not in defeat—but in calm. The kind of calm before the next fight .