They build lives. They build bloodlines. And that’s what I’m here to poison. Not with a vial or chemicals. Not in a way that makes me sloppy.
I’m going to taint them the only way that lasts. I’m going to make sure their names curdle in people’s mouths.
I’ve spent two years gathering what I need. Two years of plotting and planning my revenge. Quietly. Alone. Because no-one could ever understand my need to expose the truth.
I’ve walked into libraries and asked sweet questions. I’ve flirted with alumni assistants who love feeling important. I’ve pretended to be dumb so men would explain things to me. I’ve sat in diners at 2AM with a notebook and hands that never stop shaking, writing down every detail until my wrist cramps.
I have enough dirt to bury them six times over. But dirt is still too gentle. Dirt implies rest. I want destruction. I want an eternal stain. I want history rewritten with a black marker so thick it bleeds through the page.
I want their empires—family companies, political careers, foundations, scholarships with their names stitched onto them—to buckle. I want them to start losing what they take for granted: access. The power. The ability to move through the world without facing one damn consequence.
I want their children—if they have them someday—to carry a last name that makes teachers pause at roll call.
I want them to be remembered for generations as exactly what they are. Evil.
I pull on my hoodie and tuck my hair under it. I don’t need to look pretty. Pretty gets you killed. It gets you chosen. Prettymakes you a target in a room full of men who think the word “no” is foreplay.
I’d rather be invisible. Invisible is freedom.
I leave the dorm room with my bag slung across my shoulder and my posture loose, like I’m just another student going to class, annoyed about the lockdown.
The hallway smells like stale deodorant, causing me to almost gag.
Downstairs, the lobby is crowded with resident advisors and security guards pretending they’re doing something meaningful. A few camera crews linger at the edge of campus, blocked by security.
They want a story. Soon, they’ll get one.
I cut across the grass toward the administration building.
Because I want to watch. I need to know what’s happening at all times.
I stop beneath the oak at the edge of the quad, its branches thick enough to hide me from casual glances. From here, I can see everything without being seen. Students drift past, pretending this is just another afternoon. When we all know this is anything but.
A black car waits at the curb, its engine running. I see the driver through the window; he doesn’t look like campus security, even though his eyes dart back and forth across the quad like he’s guarding more than a vehicle.
The doors of the building open.
A man steps out first, buttoning his suit jacket with one hand. The movement is smooth, practiced. He’s done this a thousand times. He doesn’t look rushed. He doesn’t carry the same brittle panic etched across the dean’s face.
Dean Stockton spills out behind him, talking too fast, words tumbling over each other. His skin has that damp sheen men get when control is slipping through their fingers. He gestures as hespeaks, like volume and action might fix whatever broke last night.
Trailing them is a line of men in suits, briefcases gripped tight. Advisory board, maybe. Crisis committee. The titles change, but the species doesn’t. They move as one, drawn by damage, clustering around it instinctively.
After what happened last night, the university is in crisis mode. You can feel it in the way they’ve all been summoned. When something goes wrong here, they multiply.
The man in the suit doesn’t slow. He barely acknowledges the dean at all. His attention drifts instead—to the quad, the walkways, the students crossing in loose clusters. His eyes don’t skim; they catalogue.
I feel it then. That prickle between my shoulders. The sense of being watched, preyed upon.
What are you looking for?
The man is young. Close enough to student age that he could blend in if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. There’s nothing tentative about him. No uncertainty. He wears authority like it was tailored into the fabric of his suit.
The dean keeps talking. Gesturing now. Pleading.
The man nods once, distracted. Hands slide into his pockets. He turns his head and says something—quiet, clipped, emotionless.
The dean stops mid-sentence.
