Bully

According to the location she provided, her home was in the monastery inside the city, a place where Irene had never been.

The subway was under maintenance.

Stepping once again onto the cold and broken streets of Chernobog, she carried gifts for Sydney in her hands—several apples she had swiped from the boss, considered luxuries on the edge of the radiation zone, and a small bag of snacks.

She only hoped that the faithful were allowed to eat snacks…

The St. Maria Monastery that Sydney spoke of was located in the settlement at the center of the city.

This area was one of the symbols of the planned economy during the days of the former Red Empire: row upon row of prefab apartment blocks, standing like gray tombstones, packed so densely they made one suffocate.

The massive propaganda boards had long since faded and peeled, but traces of slogans about space station launches were still vaguely visible.

Now, only mottled stains and rebellious graffiti painted afterward remained.

Cold winds howled between the buildings, carrying waste paper and dust into the air, bringing with them a bone-piercing chill.

The air reeked of cheap alcohol, rotting garbage, and the indescribable stench left behind by overcrowded living.

It had once been a free residential district, housing for workers under the planned economy.

After the collapse of the Red Empire, law and order decayed, management worsened, and the place became a no-man’s land.

Irene didn’t know why a monastery would be built in such a place, but Sydney probably wasn’t lying.

The cold wind blew.

Winter was coming again.

But only after three months of school would true winter arrive.

The school itself was the safest place—no one but students could get in.

As long as she didn’t cause trouble, she could safely spend the next three months there.

Following the directions on her tablet’s map, Irene wandered through labyrinthine corridors and narrow, filthy back alleys.

The decay here was even worse than the orphanage.

Most windows were broken or boarded up with planks.

Just as she turned a corner piled with construction debris, approaching a relatively open but equally messy and run-down square, the sound of quarreling voices—tinged with sobs—along with mocking laughter from several women, carried clearly to her ears.

“Let go of me! You—you can’t do this! This is a holy relic given by the Lord!”

“The Lord? Hehe… little nun, can your Lord pay the protection fee?”

A sharp, mocking female voice rang out.

“Tch, who are you trying to fool? Look at this cheap chain—it’s probably from some street stall.”

Another voice chimed in.

“That’s right. Hand it over, then keep Whitney company for a little ‘prayer,’ and we’ll let you go today. How about it?”

Irene froze in her tracks.

That was Sydney’s voice!

And… Whitney?!

That scum!

Irene swiftly slipped behind the rusted shell of an abandoned truck, carefully peeking out.

In the middle of the small square, three young girls stood out from the environment, dressed flashier than the filthy surroundings, though their style was full of delinquent swagger.

At their head was a tall figure—Irene recognized her instantly.

Whitney.

Even in this gray and broken background, Whitney stood out.

She was nearly 1.75 meters tall, a height Irene had to look up to.

Her figure was athletic, carrying a faintly aggressive presence.

Her long hair was dyed a brilliant gold, the kind of “socialite blonde” that Rosa had also chosen in order to fit in better.

Now that she thought of it… she sure had a lot of blonde-haired friends.

Her features were sharp and striking, and she would have been beautiful—if not for the undisguised arrogance and cruelty in her expression that spoiled everything.

She wore tight black leather pants, a cropped leather jacket cut against school regulations, and beneath it a low-cut sequined top.

Several gaudy metal chains hung around her neck.

One foot rested arrogantly on a broken wooden crate, a slim woman’s cigarette dangling from her lips.

Her gaze, filled with malice, looked down at Sydney who was trapped in the center.

Sydney’s once-pure white habit was now smudged with dust and grime, making her appear especially pitiful.

It seemed she had just washed it before it was soiled again.

She clutched her chest tightly, gripping the metal crucifix as if her life depended on it.

Whitney’s two lackeys flanked her—one with short, dyed pink-purple hair, the other with a buzz cut and heavy smoky makeup.

They each held Sydney firmly by her thin arms.

Whitney blew out a smoke ring, smirking, and stretched out a finger tipped with black nail polish.

She hooked it under Sydney’s chin, forcing her to raise her head.

“Look at this little face. Crying so pitifully… tsk, tsk. A holy nun? Who do you think you’re fooling? I heard your little monastery…”

Her finger slid down Sydney’s cheek, heading straight for the crucifix clenched to her chest.

Irene recognized her at once.

Whitney was the notorious bully of their school, feared by many.

Her family had some money and influence—her father was rumored to be a district police chief.

With that backing, she’d gathered a gang of delinquents and targeted weaker or poorer students.

Irene had crossed paths with her a few times.

Whitney mocked her for pretending to be aloof, for being an orphan.

But back then, Irene had been too focused on earning money and paying debts to care.

She usually ignored it or slipped away.

She never expected to run into her here.

And worse, she knew Sydney?

Whitney’s finger was about to touch the crucifix.

Sydney’s eyes filled with despair, struggling desperately.

“Don’t touch it! Please…”

“Shut up!”

Whitney scowled impatiently, raising her hand as if to slap Sydney.

Bastard…

I’m going to die anyway.

Irene’s eyes flashed cold.

Normally, she might weigh the pros and cons, find a subtler way to deal with this.

But now—she no longer cared.

She pulled her cap lower, shadows covering half her face, and moved like a wraith along the wall.

Silent, fast, a streak of darkness.

Her target—Whitney.

Whitney’s attention was entirely on Sydney.

Her two lackeys were still smirking.

Only when Irene was nearly upon them did the pink-haired girl notice.

She screamed:

“Whitney! Behind you!”

Whitney spun around, pupils shrinking.

But Irene was already in motion.

Her body rose into the air, momentum carrying her.

Her right leg swept sideways with brutal force, aimed at the leg Whitney had resting on the crate.

Wham!

A heavy impact followed by a shriek of pain.

Whitney felt as if her knee had been smashed by a hammer, agony tearing through her joint.

Her balance collapsed.

The foot that bore her weight gave way.

Crash!

She toppled awkwardly from the crate, slamming into the dusty ground, her cigarette flying from her lips.

“You b*tch! You’re dead!”

The buzz-cut lackey reacted first, cursing as she released Sydney and swung a fist toward Irene.

Irene landed firmly, her stance steady.

She didn’t even look at the wild punch.

Her body shifted sideways, her left hand catching the girl’s wrist precisely.

She yanked it backward and in the same instant drove her knee upward.

Thud!

Her knee smashed into the girl’s stomach.

The lackey’s eyes bulged, her body curling like a shrimp as she fell to her knees, gagging in pain.

The pink-haired girl screamed, panic overwhelming her.

She forgot all about fighting and tried to back away.

But Irene wouldn’t allow it.

After disabling the buzz-cut, she stepped forward.

Her right hand clenched into a fist and stabbed into the hollow just beneath the girl’s collarbone.

“Ahhh!”

The pink-haired lackey shrieked as pain and numbness spread through her body.

She collapsed bonelessly onto the ground.

From beginning to end, less than ten seconds had passed.

Three bullies—all defeated.

Irene stood there, surprised at the strength coursing through her.

So this is what it feels like to be superhuman?

She had fought before, yes—but usually as the one getting beaten.

Her body had always been too weak, and she’d never had any real training.

Even Rosa could wrestle her down with sheer determination.

But with this kind of power…

A new thought flickered in her mind.

The square was silent now.

Only the cold wind echoed, and the groans of the three bullies.

Sydney stood frozen, tears still glistening on her face, clutching the crucifix tightly.

Her wide eyes stared in disbelief at Irene—who looked like a war goddess descended.

She recognized her, of course.

But this cold, merciless fighter before her seemed nothing like the shy, kind girl who had once rescued her from the ruins… only to be easily captured by bad men.

Irene stood steady, breath misting faintly, her violet eyes scanning over the groaning girls on the ground.

Finally, they locked on Whitney, who was struggling to rise.

Whitney clutched her ruined knee, her face smeared with dirt, her once-groomed hair in tangles.

When she looked up and recognized the face under the shadowed cap, shock overtook her pain.

“I—Irene?! It’s you?! How dare you—”

Her voice twisted with pain and fury.

But then it turned into a dark, mocking laugh.

“Well, well… you’re quite the slut. Even managed to seduce the new little nun. How desperate are you, huh?”