Sonia's mother burst out of the bathroom in a short blouse and jeans, her long, wet hair dripping across her face as she threw handfuls of Sonia's clothes into a bag.
"What are you doing, honey?" her husband asked, his voice trembling.
"We need to send Sonia to my mother in the village," she snapped without looking up.
"But Mum," Sonia protested, clutching the hem of her shirt, "I'm supposed to start my new school on Monday—"
"Young lady, you shut up there!" her mother barked, spinning on her. "You knew this all along and you kept quiet? You should have said something when I was asking nicely."
Another deafening bang slammed against the door, so hard it rattled the hinges. Sonia's mother exchanged a panicked look with her husband. The mobs outside already knew they were inside.
Without another word, she seized Sonia's wrist and dragged her down the hallway, beckoning frantically for her husband to follow. Their whispers turned into frantic gestures as they reached Sonia's room. She clambered onto a chair, pushed at the ceiling, and the hidden hatch opened with a groan.
"Quickly, Sonia, climb up!" she hissed. Sonia scrambled inside as her father helped her up. Then he climbed in after her, his legs trembling from adrenaline. Her mother followed last, pulling the hatch shut just as the door downstairs splintered inward.
They crawled into darkness , and to their shock, it opened into a small, secret room. Even Sonia's father stared around in disbelief.
Below, the mob stormed the house, tearing it apart, overturning furniture and shattering glass. But when their search turned up nothing, angry shouts faded, and one by one they retreated.
Minutes later, Sonia and her parents crept back down. Her parents' faces were pale, desperate, as they begged her to leave for the village. But Sonia's jaw tightened.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "I'll go to my new school. Even if it kills me."
They stared at her in silence. They had no choice but to leave her to her decision, though their eyes revealed their hearts hadn't.
The following morning, Sonia dressed quietly for school. Her mother had hardly said a word since dawn, her father only giving her a long, uncertain look before she left the house. She tightened the strap of her worn schoolbag and began the long walk to her new school , the one that was supposed to be a fresh inception.
But the moment she stepped through the school gates, whispers rippled through the crowd like wildfire. Thousand head turned and millions of fingers pointed at her. The air was heavy with mockery.
"Isn't that the girl who killed her friend?" someone hissed.
"Yeah. That's her. The murderer."
"I wish thunder would strike that witch! She still has the guts to show up here?"
"She must think this school is for trash like her," another girl sneered, flipping her glossy hair as her friends giggled.
Sonia froze mid-step, her throat tightening. The laughter stung more than the words. Every face seemed to carry the same expression of disgust, fear, curiosity. She felt her body grow heavy, her legs refusing to move, just rooted to a spot.
For a moment, she wondered if she should have gone to her grandmother's village instead. It would have been easier to hide there. Away from their eyes, away from the whispers. But that would also mean giving up on everything she had dreamt of.
She stood still, staring blankly at the school buildings gleaming under the morning sun. Around her were noises, but inside her, silence. The kind of silence that sips into the bone marrow where pain erodes guilt.
The school didn't care about rumours. Once your name appeared on the admission list of Litton High, it meant you belonged there. At least, on paper. Gossip was beneath their concern. Unless a court order or police stamp proved you guilty, your place was untouchable.
Sonia walked through the school's glass corridor, her shadow moving beside her in the polished surface. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and heavily of luxury perfume. She was expecting the luxury anyways.Her wrecked shoes clicked against the marble floor . Dull, lonely sounds swallowed by the morning chatter and whispers of students.
Her heart hammered as she reached her classroom. The silver plaque on the door read Class 2-B. She took a deep breath, adjusted her habitual navy-blue blazer, and stepped in.
The room was bright, the sunlight spilling through tall windows draped with white blinds. There must have been twenty students, maybe more. Near the front, a group of girls sat in perfect posture, their hair glossy and styled, mirrors and lip tints spread across their desks like miniature vanity tables. Their laughter was soft, but sharp enough to cut.
At the back, boys lounged carelessly, their uniform jackets undone, shirts half tucked in, revealing flashes of tattoos along their wrists and collarbones.
Their hairstyles defied every rule in the handbook, yet no teacher seemed brave enough to correct them. A cigarette packet lies in front of them and each boy had a girl beside him , long nails, rolled-up skirts, crimson lips. They were the untouchables of Litton High. The kind students whispered about but never confronted.
The air inside was cold and heavy, the hum of air conditioners mixing with perfume, cologne, and tension from their whispers. Sonia could feel every gaze turn toward her — assessing, judging, amused.
"Isn't that the girl from the news?" someone whispered behind a manicured hand.
"Yeah. The transfer student who killed her best friend."
"She looks so ordinary. Creepy, right?"
"More like a psychopath "
Sonia's grip tightened on her bag. Her fingers felt numb. She wanted to speak . To tell them they were wrong but her voice box refused to open. Instead, she walked silently to an empty seat by the window, each step echoing louder than it should.
And as she sat down, Sonia realized — this wasn't just a new beginning. It was a battlefield dressed in uniforms.