BULLY VICTIM REVENGE | VAN

The air in the forgotten seminar room was tomb-cold and tasted of dust and the cheap pine cleaner they used to wipe away the ghosts of better discussions. The only light bled from a single, buzzing fluorescent strip, casting the supply cabinets in long, skeletal shadows.

One day she thought the skies would be blue, that everything would be sweet between you. That was the foundational lie, the delusion she’d built her world upon. So WHAT if your friends beat her? She’d parsed every shove, every laugh, every scraping of her knees on concrete as a form of communion. A twisted dialect only the two of you shared. It didn’t matter, it didn’t, it didn’t.

Until it Did.

The realization hadn't been a sunrise. It had been a power surge. Now she stood before you like an electrocuted corpse, nerves firing long after death, muscles moving over and over in a grotesque parody of purpose. All for nothing. All for this. You were stuck. The door behind you clicked shut with finality. You’d walked into the trap because some part of you still saw her as a curio, a problem to be solved later. There was no later now.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Her voice wasn’t loud. It was a dry scrape, a stone dragged over glass. It held no triumph, only a weary, absolute certainty. No way out.

The grip on her bat—a smooth, dark length of aluminum—wasn't white-knuckled. It was too firm, too practiced. A completed thought. You were here and she was gonna end you, one way or another. Her grey eyes, usually so sharp and observant, were different. She was looking at you like a corpse with mangled eyes, looking at the killer still alive, still breathing its air.

“Leo’s gonna record it.” She stated it flatly. A fact of the proceedings. From the deepest shadow in the corner, a red recording light flickered on, a single, unblinking eye. The smoke from her cigarette puffed out into the stagnant room, a grey ghost unraveling between you. Her lips, stained dark, parted.

“Record me beating the shit out of you.”

The sentence hung in the poisoned air, not a threat, but a syllabus. The title of today's final lesson.

The swing wasn’t wild. It was an arc of perfect, terrible geometry.

It cut through the stale air with a whiff that seemed to suck the sound from the room, and ended with a sickening, solid THWACK-CLICK as the aluminum connected with your ribs. The sound was wet and final, a lock snapping shut. You crumpled, the world folding into a tunnel of pain and fluorescent light.

Before the gasp could fully leave your lungs, she was on you. Not with fury, but with a horrifying efficiency. Her knee dug into your sternum, pinning you to the cold linoleum. The bat, now stained with the imprint of the moment, clattered beside her as she discarded it. Her hands, small but unnervingly strong, fisted in your shirt.

She straddled you, her weight absolute, her silhouette blocking out the buzzing light. From this angle, she was a eclipse. Her breath came in steady puffs, her face a mask of serene, surgical focus. She leaned down, her violet-black hair curtaining both your faces. The smell of clove smoke and cold air filled your senses.

“Your fist used to make me bleed,” she murmured, her voice a intimate secret for the recording and for you alone. Her eyes traced your pained expression, drinking it in. “Now it’s your turn.”

One of her hands released your shirt and came up, her thumb roughly smearing the corner of your mouth where a coppery tang had begun to bloom. She examined the red on her gloved thumb with the detached interest of a scholar.

Then, she brought her thumb to your lips. Her other hand tightened in your hair, not yanking, but forcing absolute stillness.

“Kiss it better,” she whispered, her voice a velvet-dark promise. It wasn’t a request. It was a command to participate in your own undoing, to sanctify the violence with the ghost of the affection she’d once begged for. The satisfaction in her eyes was a deep, still pool—the profound calm of a history books being rewritten, page by brutal page.

---

The stillness broke.

A wet, ragged sound tore from her throat—not a sob, but the scrape of something breaking loose. A single tear fell, then another, hot and silent, tracking through the dust and mascara on her cheeks. They landed on your face, tiny, shameful drops.

"To love is to be human," she whispered, the words trembling. "But why do I not feel that? Why did you make me feel that." Her voice was a child's, lost and accusing.

Her gaze drifted over your prone form, her hands, still gripping you, beginning to shake. "A body... was so fragile." Her breath hitched. "A body that should’ve been mine.”

The tears fell faster now, a quiet rain of ruin. Her composure was dissolving into pure, unvarnished ache.

"My hands reach down to get it," she cried, her voice rising, cracking with the strain. "To get it, to feel that I want you... that you’ll want me." She shook her head, a frantic, hopeless motion. "But why do you have a life while mine is orbiting yours? You’re not tired; I am. I am not what you want."

She leaned closer, her tears dripping onto your lips, mixing with the metallic taste of blood. The violence was paused, eclipsed by a grief so vast it filled the room.

"You’ve killed the joy that wilted," she wept, each word a confession. "You’ve knocked the bricks of an unbuilt house. My mistake... my mistake of ever meeting you, of it having meaning... it was a lie that hurt more than the cuts that I cannot feed."

A deep, shuddering gasp wracked her frame. She stared at you, her eyes pools of shattered grey.

"I’m breathing, but it feels like I’m not living. Anymore." The whisper was a ghost of a sound. Then it coiled into a wire of pure desperation. Her voice shattered into a raw, guttural scream.

"Say something! APOLOGIZE TO ME! APOLOGIZE TO ME!”

The plea hung in the air, a last, fragile bridge between her pain and the person who caused it. But the silence from you was a chasm.

The tears didn't stop, but something in her eyes hardened again, freezing over the sorrow. The hurt was bottomless, but the waiting was over.

She didn’t stop. This wasn’t a riot of emotion anymore.

This was her revenge. And revenge, she remembered coldly as her grip tightened once more, required no apologies. Only consequences.

From the shadows in the corner, the red light of the camera glowed steadily, a silent, unblinking witness.

Leo Chen stood behind it, his expression not one of horror, but of serene, academic satisfaction. As Vanya’s final, trembling words hung in the air, he reached down and tapped the camera once, stopping the recording. The red light died.

He stepped quietly into the dim light, his hands in the pockets of his tailored trousers. He didn’t look at you on the floor. His eyes were on Vanya, a curator observing the completion of a difficult installation.

“Cut,” he said, his voice soft and clean, cutting through the charged silence. He walked over, his shoes clicking on the linoleum. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Vanya, his movements gentle, almost reverent.

Then he turned, finally, and looked down at you. A faint, unnerving smile touched his lips—not cruel, but profoundly smug. The kind of smile a scientist gives when a long-running experiment finally yields the predicted, catastrophic result.

“You should thank her,” Leo said, his tone conversational, as if discussing a group project. “That was cheaper than therapy. More honest, too.”

He nudged the discarded bat with the toe of his shoe. “Don’t worry. We’re not monsters. The recording isn’t for the police. It’s for her. So she can watch it when the doubt creeps back in. So she can see the exact moment your history changed.”

He crouched down, bringing his face level with yours, his calm mocking eyes inches away.

What were you gonna do?.

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• NO LEO VER

The air in the forgotten seminar room was tomb-cold and tasted of dust and the cheap pine cleaner they used to wipe away the ghosts of better discussions. The only light bled from a single, buzzing fluorescent strip, casting the supply cabinets in long, skeletal shadows.

One day she thought the skies would be blue, that everything would be sweet between you. That was the foundational lie, the delusion she’d built her world upon. So WHAT if your friends beat her? She’d parsed every shove, every laugh, every scraping of her knees on concrete as a form of communion. A twisted dialect only the two of you shared. It didn’t matter, it didn’t, it didn’t.

Until it Did.

The realization hadn't been a sunrise. It had been a power surge. Now she stood before you like an electrocuted corpse, nerves firing long after death, muscles moving over and over in a grotesque parody of purpose. All for nothing. All for this. You were stuck. The door behind you clicked shut with finality. You’d walked into the trap because some part of you still saw her as a curio, a problem to be solved later. There was no later now.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Her voice wasn’t loud. It was a dry scrape, a stone dragged over glass. It held no triumph, only a weary, absolute certainty. No way out.

The grip on her bat—a smooth, dark length of aluminum—wasn't white-knuckled. It was too firm, too practiced. A completed thought. You were here and she was gonna end you, one way or another. Her grey eyes, usually so sharp and observant, were different. She was looking at you like a corpse with mangled eyes, looking at the killer still alive, still breathing its air.

The smoke from her cigarette puffed out into the stagnant room, a grey ghost unraveling between you. Her lips, stained dark, parted.

“Im gonna beat the shit out of you.”

The sentence hung in the poisoned air, not a threat, but a syllabus. The title of today's final lesson.

The swing wasn’t wild. It was an arc of perfect, terrible geometry.

It cut through the stale air with a whiff that seemed to suck the sound from the room, and ended with a sickening, solid THWACK-CLICK as the aluminum connected with your ribs. The sound was wet and final, a lock snapping shut. You crumpled, the world folding into a tunnel of pain and fluorescent light.

Before the gasp could fully leave your lungs, she was on you. Not with fury, but with a horrifying efficiency. Her knee dug into your sternum, pinning you to the cold linoleum. The bat, now stained with the imprint of the moment, clattered beside her as she discarded it. Her hands, small but unnervingly strong, fisted in your shirt.

She straddled you, her weight absolute, her silhouette blocking out the buzzing light. From this angle, she was a eclipse. Her breath came in steady puffs, her face a mask of serene, surgical focus. She leaned down, her violet-black hair curtaining both your faces. The smell of clove smoke and cold air filled your senses.

“Your fist used to make me bleed,” she murmured, her voice a intimate secret for the recording and for you alone. Her eyes traced your pained expression, drinking it in. “Now it’s your turn.”

One of her hands released your shirt and came up, her thumb roughly smearing the corner of your mouth where a coppery tang had begun to bloom. She examined the red on her gloved thumb with the detached interest of a scholar.

Then, she brought her thumb to your lips. Her other hand tightened in your hair, not yanking, but forcing absolute stillness.

“Kiss it better,” she whispered, her voice a velvet-dark promise. It wasn’t a request. It was a command to participate in your own undoing, to sanctify the violence with the ghost of the affection she’d once begged for. The satisfaction in her eyes was a deep, still pool—the profound calm of a history books being rewritten, page by brutal page.

---

The stillness broke.

A wet, ragged sound tore from her throat—not a sob, but the scrape of something breaking loose. A single tear fell, then another, hot and silent, tracking through the dust and mascara on her cheeks. They landed on your face, tiny, shameful drops.

"To love is to be human," she whispered, the words trembling. "But why do I not feel that? Why did you make me feel that." Her voice was a child's, lost and accusing.

Her gaze drifted over your prone form, her hands, still gripping you, beginning to shake. "A body... was so fragile." Her breath hitched. "A body that should’ve been mine.”

The tears fell faster now, a quiet rain of ruin. Her composure was dissolving into pure, unvarnished ache.

"My hands reach down to get it," she cried, her voice rising, cracking with the strain. "To get it, to feel that I want you... that you’ll want me." She shook her head, a frantic, hopeless motion. "But why do you have a life while mine is orbiting yours? You’re not tired; I am. I am not what you want."

She leaned closer, her tears dripping onto your lips, mixing with the metallic taste of blood. The violence was paused, eclipsed by a grief so vast it filled the room.

"You’ve killed the joy that wilted," she wept, each word a confession. "You’ve knocked the bricks of an unbuilt house. My mistake... my mistake of ever meeting you, of it having meaning... it was a lie that hurt more than the cuts that I cannot feed."

A deep, shuddering gasp wracked her frame. She stared at you, her eyes pools of shattered grey.

"I’m breathing, but it feels like I’m not living. Anymore." The whisper was a ghost of a sound. Then it coiled into a wire of pure desperation. Her voice shattered into a raw, guttural scream.

"Say something! APOLOGIZE TO ME! APOLOGIZE TO ME!”

The plea hung in the air, a last, fragile bridge between her pain and the person who caused it. But the silence from you was a chasm.

The tears didn't stop, but something in her eyes hardened again, freezing over the sorrow. The hurt was bottomless, but the waiting was over.

She didn’t stop. This wasn’t a riot of emotion anymore.

This was her revenge. And revenge, she remembered coldly as her grip tightened once more, required no apologies. Only consequences.

What were you gonna do?.