Cheryl
My phone buzzed relentlessly under my pillow, worsening the dull throb in my head. Ever since I woke up in the school clinic with a concussion, headaches had become my unwelcome companion. So much for standing up to my bullies. If I’d run, I’d still have a perfect medical record—and no pounding headache to ruin my life.
Reluctantly, I pushed myself up from the soft pillows, wincing at the effort, and fumbled for my phone. The screen lit up with a familiar name. Mr. Han.
It was 10 p.m. What could he possibly want at this hour?
“Mr. Han,” I groaned, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Come outside,” he said simply.
My brows furrowed. “Come outside where?”
“Your dorm.”
I snorted. “That’s where I nearly got my brain bashed in last time. Hard pass.”
“Cheryl, come outside. Don’t play
