So this... was Reyna.
The new girl. Two weeks in. Already a legend.
I'd expected someone louder. Maybe a little unhinged. Like, "stab-you-with-a-pencil" chaotic. Instead, she was quiet. Not shy quiet—more like "I've-seen-things-and-I-don't-care-if-you-live" quiet.
She sat on the edge of the cot, back straight, hands folded like she was waiting for a verdict. Her eyes scanned the room like she was calculating exits. Or weaknesses.
I cleared my throat. "Hey. You're Reyna, right?"
She looked at me. No smile. No nod. Just a stare that made me question every life choice.
"Yes."
Okay. So she talks. Cool. Progress.
I tried again. "Heard you transferred from... somewhere?"
"Does it matter?"
Right. Of course not. Why would it?
I glanced at the nurse's desk. Empty. Great. She must have left. Just me and the human embodiment of a cold case file.
"You're bleeding," she said, eyes flicking to my hand.
"Oh. Yeah. School fight."
"Sloppy."
I blinked. "It's just a—"
"Pain is information. You ignored it."
She stood, walked past me, and paused at the door.
"People die like that."
Then she left.
So yeah. Reyna wasn't what I expected.
She was... efficient.
Like a scalpel.
And I think I need a new school. But alas, my parents think I'll 'grow here'.
I stared at the door long after she left.
Not because I was stunned.
Okay, yes—because I was stunned.
Who says stuff like that? "People die like that"?
I came in for a bleeding lip, not a TED Talk on mortality.
I looked down at my hand, still spotted from the other kid's blood and some my own.
Still bleeding.
Still stupid.
Reyna was like a walking plot twist. Cold, precise, and somehow scarier than the actual injury.
She didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
She diagnosed my soul faster than the nurse diagnosed my rash last week.
I mean, who is like that?
She's been here two weeks and already talks like she's narrating a crime documentary.
I grabbed a bandage and slapped it on like it owed me money.
Note to self: never ask Reyna for small talk. Also, maybe don't bleed near her again.
The nurse comes back a minute later, carrying a clipboard and the energy of someone who's been overworked since 1997.
"Alright, who's bleeding and who's brooding?" she asked, not looking up.
I raised my hand. "Bleeding. Split lip. Very tragic."
She glanced around. "Where's the other girl? Reyna?"
I gestured vaguely toward the door. "She left. Said something ominous and vanished. Like a morally ambiguous fog."
The nurse frowned. "She's supposed to stay for observation."
I shrugged. "She observed me. Judged me. Possibly cursed me. Then left."
The nurse sighed, scribbled something on her clipboard—probably "student mildly cursed"—and muttered, "That girl gives me the creeps."
I nodded. "Same. But in a 'might save your life or end it' kind of way."
She gave me a bandage and a lollipop.
I took both.
Because honestly, I deserved a treat after surviving Reyna.
I stepped out of the infirmary with a bandaged hand, a lollipop, and a lingering sense of existential dread. Thanks, Reyna.
The hallway was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you wonder if you're in a horror movie or just really unpopular.
I started the long walk back to my room. Boarding school architecture is basically designed to make you reflect on your life choices. Endless corridors, flickering lights, and the occasional motivational poster that feels like a threat.
"Success is a journey!"
Yeah, well, so is surviving Reyna.
I passed the trophy case. It stared at me with the same disappointment my math teacher does. Turned a corner. Dodged a rogue frisbee. Nearly tripped over someone's abandoned backpack. Classic Tuesday.
By the time I reached my dorm, I'd mentally replayed Reyna's words at least six times.
"Pain is information."
"People die like that."
Cool cool cool. Totally normal things to say in a school setting.
I unlocked my door, flopped onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Note to self:
Avoid bleeding.
Avoid mysterious girls.
Avoid thinking too hard about mysterious girls who talk like assassins.
Also, maybe ask for a transfer.
Or a priest.
And there was Sam.
My roommate.
The human embodiment of a thunderstorm.
Jet black hair, sharp green eyes, and the kind of presence that made you feel like you were constantly being judged by a vampire who reads Nietzsche for fun.
He was sitting at his desk, sketching something that looked suspiciously like a raven eating a clock.
Didn't look up. Didn't say hi.
Classic Sam.
"Hey," I said, collapsing onto my bed.
"You look like you saw a ghost," he replied, still drawing.
"Worse. I saw Reyna."
"Ah." He paused. "Did she speak?"
"Yes."
"Did she threaten you?"
"Not directly. But I think my split lip is now a metaphor for mortality."
"Sounds about right."
Sam was the kind of guy who wore black even in summer, drank his coffee black, and probably had a playlist called Existential Crisis Vol. 3.
He once told me emotions were "distractions."
I once saw him cry during a documentary about wolves.
So, you know. Layers.
Living with Sam was like rooming with a haunted library. Quiet, intense, and occasionally full of cryptic wisdom.
And now, with Reyna in the mix, I was starting to wonder if this school was secretly a training ground for emotionally complex assassins.
"Did she look alright, like was she really pale or anything-" He breaks off looking unsure.
Damn, she even made Sam speechless. This girl's good- and creepy.