The storm was spreading faster than I imagined.
In just a week, #NepoKids had grown from a whisper to a wildfire. News anchors cautiously debated the "troubling online trend." Celebrities fumbled when asked about it. Students who used to scroll in silence now shared screenshots of ministers' children driving imported cars while their own families begged for jobs.
Every repost, every like, was fuel.
And I was the arsonist no one could see.
But the fire was only smoke without a spark to burn close to home. If I wanted Minah to feel the suffocating heat, I needed to pull the strings inside the school itself.
At lunch, chatter filled the cafeteria. Usually, conversations froze when Minah entered, but not today.
"Did you see that car she came in? Must cost more than my house.""No, seriously, it's all over Twitter. Someone dug up her dad's imported fleet.""They're saying the taxes for those cars alone could pay fifty scholarships."
I didn't need to spread these lines; they carried themselves. All I did was post the right photo at the right time—Minah stepping out of her father's black sedan yesterday morning. Blurred, grainy, believable.
Her face burned red as she walked past, tray in hand. She forced a smile, sitting down with her circle, but her hands shook when she lifted her chopsticks.
I watched from two tables away, invisible in plain sight.
The first phase had worked: isolate her.
The second phase would corner her.
That evening, I opened my anonymous account again. Fingers hovered over the keyboard, considering. Posting evidence was easy, but the next step needed to sting differently. Not just expose her privilege—make her taste the helplessness my sister felt.
I created a new hashtag: #ClassroomCrown.
A mocking title. A game.
The rule was simple: students submit anonymous confessions about how the "classroom queen" abused her power. The more humiliating the stories, the more the hashtag grew.
And I had plenty of fuel to start the fire.
I uploaded the first "confession":
"She once locked a girl in the bathroom for hours, just because she didn't like the way she looked at her."
It was true. My sister had told me once, voice trembling, before she stopped talking altogether.
Another post followed."She makes teachers bend the rules. Try crossing her—you'll see your grades crumble."
Within minutes, the thread was alive. Other students, anonymous or brave, added more. Some exaggerated. Some invented. But truth or lie didn't matter anymore—the idea was planted.
The next day, Minah stormed into class, late, hair unkempt, her eyes sharp as blades.
"Who's doing this?" she hissed, slamming her bag down.
No one answered. Some looked away. Others smirked.
It was working.
She wasn't feared anymore. She was mocked.
That night, alone in my room, I checked the trending feed again. #NepoKids still burned nationally. But #ClassroomCrown was climbing locally—students across schools were picking it up, tagging their own tormentors.
It was no longer just about her.
It was becoming a movement.
But movements are dangerous. Uncontrolled, they can spin out of hand. And in the chaos, anyone could get caught in the flames—including me.
That's why the next step couldn't just be online.
It had to be personal.
I printed something from my laptop, slid it into an envelope, and sealed it shut.
Tomorrow, I would place it directly into Minah's locker.
Inside was a single photograph.
Not of her.
Of my sister.
Smiling, days before she died.
With one line written across the bottom:
"You remember her, don't you?"