Colette and I had just walked out of the infirmary, still carrying a box of meds—like two wannabe volunteers who failed at being human.

  The campus hallway was eerily quiet. Too quiet. And in this pce, silence usually meant something was about to be thrown. Or explode.

  THUD!

  Bingo.

  A rogue futsal ball smmed into Colette’s head. Hard. If her head had been a goalpost, it’d be 1–0 in favor of stupidity.

  She staggered but stayed on her feet.Two guys from the field ughed and waved at us like we were besties. The kind of people who graduate college not because they’re smart, but because their dad’s in a professor’s golf circle.

  "SORRY, MISS!"

  Colette picked up the ball. Her hand trembled, but her face? Calm. Bnk. Like the ball was just a falling leaf—not an object that had just tested her skull’s structural integrity.

  Then she threw it back.

  THUMP!

  Straight into one guy’s stomach. Beautiful. I could hear the sound of their egos cracking.

  “Next time, aim where it belongs. If you can even tell the difference.”

  Of course, they went silent. What could they possibly say? That a petite girl had just insulted their kicking accuracy and life direction at the same time?

  I stepped closer to Colette. There was mud and a hint of blood on her forehead. It might bruise. Or maybe not.

  “Ah. This must be the butterfly effect. The girl went off-script, and Raymond was supposed to block that ball for her. I wasn’t even supposed to intervene.”

  Colette stopped rubbing her forehead. Her left hand was trembling, but she kept up the cool act. Her eyes caught mine. Okay, maybe my expression was too suspicious. But instead of blushing or pretending to be tough—

  Of course not.

  "If you’re about to ask—no, it doesn’t hurt.”

  Naturally. Why admit it hurts when you could star in a painkiller ad with a tagline like No Drama, Just Damage Control?

  She walked on, slightly unsteady.

  “Don’t act like you care. I’m just hungry.”

  Normally, I’d wipe this incident clean. Reset the timeline. Keep reality tidy.But her?

  She made reality sit down and listen to her.

  And that... honestly, was annoying.Annoying because it was fascinating.

  “This girl isn’t just a glitch. She’s a deluxe-edition disturbance.”

  Colette stopped and looked at me. Her gaze was as sharp as the GPA stats of the dean’s favorite student. And before I could pretend to check my phone, she spoke:

  “Funny. You’re looking at me like a driver slowing down just to stare at a car crash. Not because you care. Just to see if the brains are still on the pavement.”

  Oh God. This girl doesn’t just know she’s being watched—she knows exactly why she’s being watched.

  “You from the infirmary? Or professor of ‘Fake Empathy 101’?”

  She took a step forward. Her eyes dared me to move. Her tone casual, but every sentence felt like it was ripped from a revenge monologue.

  “I wonder... would your face still look the same if I told you another story?”

  One more step. And I… stepped back.Yes. Me, an agent who can control reality, took a step back from a bleeding, sarcastic college girl.

  She stepped forward again.Her gaze fierce, but there was raw emotion hurled at me—no filter, no wrapping.

  “Back then, my debate rival mocked poor people like me in English to sound cssy. So I helped her go viral. Printed her quote and posted it in every girls’ bathroom. Full color.”

  A quick ugh. But she came closer, like a question that refuses to be answered in a textbook.

  “Then some art student trashed me on Instagram, saying I only survive on the campus’s pity. So... I edited her story, added a ‘please nurture me’ sticker. Three days viral. She took a month-long social media break. I call it: forced digital detox.”

  She stepped forward again until we were by the hallway wall.

  “I worked in the cafeteria. Cutting chilies since morning. I should’ve been paid daily. But a faculty kid said I didn’t clock in—though there wasn’t even a clock-in system. The pay meant for me nded in her account instead.”

  “So you quit?”

  Colette smirked and dropped the med box. Instinctively, I bent down to catch it—but right then, she extended her arm next to my head, stopping the fall.

  My body was frozen mid-bow, half-trapped.

  “No. I changed tactics. Slipped two spoonfuls of salt into her food. Said she was allergic to sodium. Missed css for a month. GPA dropped by 0.5.”

  “You’re a folk hero.”

  I’ve seen glitches. Ones who jump timelines, scream during econ exams.But this one?

  She’s like an indie revenge film—messy, but ambitious.

  “I’m more like a campus viginte. My uniform: hoodies. My weapons: sarcasm and expired instant noodles.”

  And unfortunately, I like bad movies that are way too confident.Show me how far you’ll take this.

  “Unique. For someone who tries so hard to look like she doesn’t need validation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ah. That hit a nerve. She let go of her arm, and I finally stood up straight. But there was a tiny twitch in her brow. Just a little. But enough to tell me: direct hit.

  “Just an observation. You fight injustice like a kid kicking a fridge—loud, forceful, but still eating from it afterward.”

  I stepped in, leaned a little closer, and smiled.

  “And you’re like the fridge. Cold, empty, and only useful when someone else is starving.”

  Oof. That was sharp—even for a girl who casually spikes someone’s lunch with salt.

  “I’m cold because I don’t have time for drama. You? You treat revenge like breakfast, lunch, and midnight snacks.”

  “Because this world serves injustice in small portions. So yeah—I take extra chili.”

  “At the cost of your GPA and reputation? That’s not rebellion. That’s… content.”

  “Funny, coming from someone who’s been watching me like a YouTube reaction channel.”

  If she ever entered a debate contest, the judges would either fall in love or file trauma reports.

  “You’re smart, but completely off-course. Like a broken GPS with a British accent.”

  “And you talk like spam notifications—loud and annoying.”

  Sadly, I did click. Repeatedly.

  There was a pause. Her eyes shifted slightly. Her brow furrowed for a split second. Not hurt—but calcuting:Should I be mad, or is this just another useless debate?

  She chose not to continue.

  “Junior… you’ve officially pissed me off. But don’t worry—I’m not the type to scream or throw chairs.”

  I forgot some people don’t give up when they lose an argument. They evolve. Literally.

  That small girl gave a sly smile.

  “Because the debate segment’s over. Wanna move to the next one?”

  For a second, I thought she was joking. Two seconds ter, I realized—the pstic chair in the corner had just become a prop in a very real, very personal theater of vengeance.

  “Stay right there,” she said, voice half-pyful, half-commanding.

  I watched her waddle like an angry duck, worried I might move.

  Without warning, she dragged the pstic chair across the floor and pced it in front of me.

  I stared, cautious. There was mischief flickering in her eyes.

  When she climbed up on it, that’s when I realized: I was already in her stage py, whether I liked it or not.

  One foot nearly slipped, but she banced quickly. She leaned in. One hand pressed to the wall.And then…

  Kabedon.

  There are many things that can trigger panic. Getting caught red-handed. Being touched unexpectedly.Or being kabedon’d by a 150 cm girl on a cheap pstic chair with disturbingly confident eyes.

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  Colette stood on her tiptoes, expression dead serious.

  “Shush. This is a psychological dominance stance.”

  I snorted. “You’re still shorter.”

  “Physical height isn’t everything. Mental pressure is far more effective.”

  She puckered her lips like a professor giving a lecture.

  “Is the chair part of the mental pressure?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Ssssh. Focus on the moral pressure I’m applying.”

  I paused, looked her dead in the eye.

  “Is the chair part of the morality?”

  “Told you—don’t ruin the moment. If you tell anyone about this, I’ll spread rumors you have a fetish for bandages and broken-legged boys.”

  Silence.

  A few seconds too long to still be funny.

  “I’ll consider protecting my reputation,” I finally said.

  Colette climbed down like a tiny general who’d just won World War III. Her smug expression made me want to sign her up for a national narcissist competition.

  “If I got a little serious, you’d be mine tonight,” she said, giving my shirt a light pat.

  I snorted.

  “Pretty sure your confidence is bigger than your chest.”

  She paused for a beat. Her eyes narrowed. Her smile widened.

  “You’re mean,” she cooed, fake sweet. “And here I thought your body looked like a sinful adult snack.”

  What?

  My body? Seductive?

  I’d never really cared about appearances. My build was for efficiency, not aesthetics.But… yeah. Fair skin,180 cm tall, curves in the right pces, generous chest—probably enough to be a national cuddle mascot.

  I looked at Colette—this short girl in an oversized hoodie with the body of a budget lunchbox.

  “Well,” I muttered just loud enough, “if I’m an adult snack, you’re a kindergarten bento box. Small, lots of stuff inside. Unfortunately, sometimes it’s just chili sauce and soy.”

  She choked on air.

  “Chili and soy?!”

  “I’m just being realistic,” I shrugged. “You’re charming like a discounted mug—cute, but suspiciously functional.”

  The girl suddenly staggered.

  “Junior… you’re really cruel—”

  Her voice trailed off, then cut completely as her head rested against my chest. Her breathing was heavy. Her eyes half-lidded.

  “Are you okay?” I asked—my tone, for some reason, softening.

  “Just… a bit tired.”

  My hand instinctively brushed her face, tucking strands of hair aside to check the spot where the ball had hit. The bruise was swelling—blue, puffy, and clearly painful.

  Maybe the world had truly lost its moral compass—letting the heroine get seriously injured by something as dumb as a campus futsal ball.

  Then again, maybe this was karma for rejecting the script.Or a bonus—for being too damn interesting.

  GRRUUKK—

  A loud stomach growl broke the moment. A soundtrack straight from a tragicomedy.

  “I’m hungry. But I have no money.”

  Ha. Called it. It wasn’t the ball. Or the argument.It was a stomach protest. Full-blown strike.

  She gave a weak grin.

  “See? The world is cruel. Even my stomach knows comedic timing.”

  She paused. Looked up at me. Then leaned in again.

  “By the way… your chest is huge. What cup size is this?”

  Dear God. In the middle of injuries, hunger, and social injustice—this girl still had time for that kind of comment.

  And worse?I… didn’t back away.

  “How about we eat first. My treat. You can pay me back ter.”

  My hand was still on her head.

  For the first time since becoming an agent, I didn’t know whether to reset reality—or just let it be.