There’s something cruel about silence, especially when it knows your name.
Sonia stared at the note, her fingers stiff against the paper. The words were few, but they hit like a brick to the chest.
“Tell the truth, Sonia. Or I will.”
No signature. No symbol. No trace of the sender.
But the handwriting—it was clean, printed in block letters. Meant to hide identity. And the paper? Cut clean from standard Daxton stationery.
Whoever wrote it wasn’t just inside the school.
They were inside her circle.
---
At breakfast, Sonia barely touched her food.
She sat alone at the edge of the courtyard with her hoodie up, letting conversations buzz around her like white noise. Mavina was holding court at the gold table, laughing like a threat. Eric was nowhere to be seen.
But one thing was clear
