Zhou Xinyu was an absolute menace at the prestigious Shanghai University of International Business and Economics. Her name had become a whispered legend across campus, a cautionary tale passed between hushed conversations in library corners and crowded cafeterias. Even people from neighboring universities knew about her—the impossibly beautiful, impeccably dressed predator who moved through student life with the casual cruelty of a queen dismissing her subjects. She wasn’t just a bully; she was an institution of intimidation, with a rotating court of followers who hung on her every sarcastic word and executed her humiliations with gleeful precision.

You had heard the stories, collected like dark folklore. There was the sophomore from the business faculty who’d accidentally brushed against Xinyu’s designer bag in a crowded hallway; by the end of the week, edited videos of him stuttering through a presentation had circulated on every student chat group, set to circus music, with Xinyu’s laughing commentary dubbed over it. Then there was the girl from the literature department who’d dared to wear a similar dress to a campus event; Xinyu had orchestrated a “spilled” tray of sticky, bright orange soda down the front of it in the middle of the dining hall, then filmed the girl’s tearful retreat while sighing about “the tragedy of knock-offs.” Just last month, a quiet transfer student had made the mistake of accepting a date with a boy Xinyu had briefly glanced at; the boy found his locker filled with rotting fruit, and the girl received a dozen anonymous deliveries of self-help books on “knowing your place,” all ordered and paid for by Xinyu’s limitless credit card.

She was a traveling spectacle of polished danger—tall, chestnut hair gleaming under the campus lights, smoky eyes scanning crowds with predatory interest. If that gaze landed on you with any semblance of focus, your immediate future contracted into a single, terrible certainty: ruin. Your day would be shredded, your week poisoned, your month shadowed by the lingering sting of her attention.

And, in a grim parody of every cautionary tale, she faced no consequences. Her father, a high-ranking government official with connections that threaded through the city like underground roots, smoothed over every complaint, silenced every administrator who thought to intervene. The same power that shielded her from accountability also funded her lifestyle; shopping centers became extensions of her hunting grounds, where she could bankrupt a family-owned boutique with a whim or have a salesperson fired for a perceived slight with a single phone call.

You, however, had been fortunate—or cautious—enough to navigate the edges of her world without attracting her notice. In two years, you’d only seen her in the flesh twice, both times from a safe distance. Once, gliding through the main quad, a phalanx of equally polished girls parting the student sea before her like a luxury yacht cutting through water. Another time, lounging outside the upscale campus café, holding court while students gave her table a wide, nervous berth. You’d kept your head down, your schedule irregular, your presence quiet.

Until today.

The late afternoon sun cast long, skeletal shadows from the academic buildings as you made your way toward the gymnasium, a duffel bag slung over your shoulder. You weren’t a dedicated athlete, but the mindless rhythm of the treadmill sometimes helped silence the week’s anxieties. As you rounded the brick corner of the sports complex, aiming for the side entrance, a sound froze you mid-step—a low, melodic giggle, sharp with malice. It was followed by a chorus of higher, sycophantic snickers. Your blood went cold. You knew that laugh. Everyone did.

You pressed yourself against the rough brick, pulse hammering in your throat, and inched forward just enough to peer around the corner.

There, in the narrow, shaded alley between the gym and the maintenance shed, was Zhou Xinyu. She stood with her back mostly to you, a vision in a cream-colored cashmere sweater and tailored black trousers, her centermost hair falling perfectly down her back. Flanking her were two of her most constant shadows: the sharp-faced Yiren and the athletic Yizhuo, both wearing expressions of bored amusement. Crouched against the damp wall, soaked to the skin and shivering violently, was a girl you vaguely recognized from your economics seminar. A bright red plastic bucket lay discarded on the concrete beside her, a few last droplets of icy water still dripping from its rim.

“Well?” Xinyu’s voice was a lazy drawl, devoid of any real curiosity. “Cat got your tongue? Or did the water freeze your brain? I asked you a question. Are you going to apologize?”

The girl on the ground only trembled, her lips blue-tinged and pressed tightly together. Yizhuo sighed dramatically and nudged the girl’s shin with the toe of her pristine sneaker. “Hello? Earth to idiot. She’s waiting. Apologize for messing up her coffee order. ‘Extra hot’ doesn’t mean ‘lukewarm and pathetic,’ like you.”

A choked, wet sob escaped the girl. “I’m… I’m s-s-sorry…”

Xinyu let out a soft, dismissive puff of air. “You should be.” She didn’t sound angry. She sounded… disappointed. As if the girl’s terror was a subpar performance. Then, with a fluid, almost graceful movement, she sank into a low squat, bringing her face level with the girl’s. She reached out, her long, elegant fingers cold against the girl’s wet cheek, and gave it two light, condescending pats. “Remember this feeling. Remember your place. It’s several floors below dirt.”

As she straightened up, her smoky eyes lifted—not with intent, but a casual, sweeping glance around the alley. They passed over the dumpster, the cracked pavement, and landed directly on the sliver of your face peeking from around the corner.

Time seemed to crystallize. You jerked back, pressing your spine into the unforgiving brick, a silent prayer screaming in your mind. She didn’t see me. She couldn’t have. It was too fast. You held your breath, ears straining. For a few agonizing seconds, there was only the distant hum of traffic and the frantic beat of your own heart.

Gathering every shred of courage, you leaned forward again, just enough for one eye to clear the edge.

Empty alley. The soaked girl was gone, presumably fled. The red bucket remained. And standing directly in front of you, having closed the distance with silent, predatory speed, were Xinyu, Yiren, and Yizhuo.

Xinyu’s full, pink lips curved into a smile that didn’t touch her cold, assessing eyes. “Enjoying the show, little watcher?”

Your body locked solid, a statue of pure dread.

She laughed then, a bright, tinkling sound that was somehow more frightening than any shout. “Get them, girls.”

It happened too fast to process. Yiren and Yizhuo moved with practiced efficiency, each grabbing one of your arms in a vise-like grip. Your duffel bag thudded to the ground. As you instinctively opened your mouth to cry out, a third figure—Xiaoting, you realized dimly, another member of her inner circle—materialized from a cluster of ornamental bushes. She slipped behind you, and a hand smelling of expensive lotion clamped firmly over your lips, muffling your panic into a helpless groan.

Xinyu took a slow, deliberate step closer, until she was looking down at you. Her gaze was analytical, as if you were a curious insect she’d just pinned to a board. “Let’s find somewhere more private for our new friend,” she announced, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. “The storage closet in the gym should do.”

You were dragged, feet stumbling, through the gym’s side entrance. The vast space echoed with your own muffled struggles—the polished basketball court empty, the bleachers retracted, the only light filtering through high, dusty windows. The girls’ strength was surprising and implacable. You were hauled past stacks of mats and racks of balls toward an unmarked door. Xinyu produced a small key from her pocket, unlocked it with a click that echoed in the quiet, and the door swung inward to reveal a deep closet smelling of mildew, rubber, and dust.

You were propelled inside, your shoes scuffing against the concrete floor. As you fought to regain your balance, Xinyu glided in after you. Her posse retreated. Xiaoting accepted the key from Xinyu’s outstretched hand, her expression blank. Then the door began to swing shut, plunging the room into near-total darkness, broken only by a thin line of light under the door.

“Remember, girls,” Xinyu’s voice rang out, clear and commanding. “Don’t you dare unlock this door until I call for you.”

A synchronized chorus of “Yes, Xinyu,” filtered through the heavy wood before the lock engaged with a final, sickening thunk.

Silence descended, thick and suffocating. You could hear your own ragged breathing, could smell the faint, floral scent of Xinyu’s perfume cutting through the closet’s stale air. As your eyes adjusted, you could make out her silhouette leaning against a shelf stacked with volleyball nets, her form a darker shadow in the gloom.

She let the silence stretch, let the reality of your entrapment sink into your bones. Then she shifted, and you could sense her head tilting as she looked toward where you crouched on the floor.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she chided softly, the sound slithering through the dark. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that watching is rude? It’s… prohibited.”

A floorboard creaked as she took a step forward. Then another. She was stalking you in the confined space, a panther in a cashmere sweater.

“So,” she mused, her voice a low, intimate purr that vibrated in the cramped darkness. “Here we are. All alone. Now… what ever should I do with you?”

Write your own message.