Expulsion from school was absolutely unbearable.
Irene had to rely on this identity to protect herself and to conduct business.
And Leighton, that old man, wasn’t joking—he would definitely do it.
She had no power or influence, so it was just a matter of one word from him.
But to protect herself while ignoring Sydney, letting her be dragged into the office… that was even less her style.
This gun had to be fired.
“Damn… I knew it. You’re not some ordinary nobody.
What, did he take photos of you too?”
Whitney’s expression gradually shifted from shock to pure excitement.
She licked her lips, eyeing Irene:
“Only someone like you is worth bullying…”
“What?”
Irene froze.
Photos?
“Oh, so it seems he’s not interested in your flat figure.
Seriously, you’re really clueless.
That old man has been lecherous for ages.
I was tricked by him once too… tch, you really didn’t know?
There must be dozens of students’ nude photos in his computer, either secretly taken or forced out of them.
He sold quite a lot.
Even some girls from Zisha are involved.”
Whitney grinned, miming a gun to her head, sticking out her tongue.
…
Beast.
Irene felt flames burn in her violet eyes.
So it was true… she already knew Leighton wasn’t a good person, but to be such a beast—this was rare.
She forced down the urge to kill.
It wasn’t worth going to prison over such garbage.
She still had friends, a lover, and family.
Not worth it… not worth it…
“If you’re scared, just pretend you never saw me.
And you’d better not let me hear any word about you, me, or this matter.
Otherwise… I’ll kill you.”
Irene had no intention of joking about this.
Her gaze returned to sharp seriousness.
Play was play, teasing was teasing, but if this wasn’t handled properly, it could affect far too many things—including hers and Rosakaya’s.
“Ha? Am I that untrustworthy in your eyes?”
Whitney dramatically covered her mouth, looking deeply hurt.
“…What do you think? Who was it that said they’d make me wish I was dead?”
Irene held her forehead.
Why was Whitney’s personality… so strange?
One moment she wanted to kill her, the next she was acting like nothing happened.
Whether she could be trusted—she really couldn’t tell.
But for now, Irene believed Whitney probably had no intention of betraying her.
After all, this matter involved her too.
If it was exposed, both would be punished, but keeping quiet meant almost no consequence.
Whitney was bad, but she wasn’t stupid.
Even if someday she really tried something, this wasn’t just leverage for Whitney to hold against her—it was also leverage for Irene to hold against Whitney.
In this city, the police were less useful than the flash of a blade on your hip when being robbed.
“Who can lose a fight without talking big afterwards?
If I don’t talk tough, how will my boys see me?
But honestly, I already felt it before—you, girl, you’re definitely not simple.
That speed, that ferocity when you fought me—you definitely have a story.”
Whitney lit another cigarette, her voice long and slow.
“Didn’t think our school tyrant was an M.
What, I resist you and you end up feeling something?”
Irene chuckled softly.
Sure enough, she had something that attracted Whitney… but that was enough.
She didn’t want any further connection.
“Screw you. At that time, I was truly angry.
Even now I am.
But today… I’m actually in a pretty good mood.
So let’s just call it even.”
Whitney flipped her the middle finger, her voice carrying a strange sort of sentiment:
“In Chernobog, trying to survive… is no simple thing…”
“They’re here.”
With Irene’s gesture for silence, the conversation ended abruptly.
The evening wind on the park’s eastern path was bone-chilling.
Bare branches clawed at the dusk sky.
The dim glow of the streetlamps was shattered into fragments.
The path was desolate; aside from the wind, only the distant murmur of the city could be heard.
Irene blended into the shadows like a ghost, hiding behind a thick oak tree.
Whitney crouched right next to her, behind a holly bush.
Her body trembled slightly from both the cold and excitement.
She clamped her hand tightly over her mouth, breathing as lightly as possible.
Beneath her purple eye shadow, her wide-open eyes were locked on the end of the path, unblinking.
Time crawled by, every second unbearably long.
At last, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the path… Principal Leighton.
He carried a black briefcase Irene had never seen before, his steps hurried, his expression restless.
The yellow streetlight cast his elongated shadow across the cold ground.
Irene’s eyes sharpened instantly, like a raptor before striking—cold and focused.
And a thought suddenly arose—
A briefcase?
Leighton never liked carrying anything.
A briefcase… she had never seen it before.
Paired with what Whitney had said…
Maybe… probably… possibly…
If there was doubt, don’t pull the trigger.
But Irene would not let this chance slip away.
Until she earned enough money, she would not allow anyone to interfere with her plans: study at school, earn money, and save up half a million.
Half a million felt impossibly out of reach.
But if it was the principal of Chernobog’s only elite academy…
Irene slowly drew the Makarov from her holster.
Her movements were steady, without the slightest tremor.
The cold steel pressed against her palm with its unique chill.
Her left hand braced the weapon firmly, her right index finger lightly resting against the trigger guard.
Whitney was nearly suffocating just watching.
She could see Irene’s taut profile, could see the faint white mist of breath under her cap, could see the unwavering focus through her sights.
In that moment, Irene was nothing like the lively, quiet girl she was in class.
She radiated a deadly, unnerving calm.
Whitney smiled faintly at Irene’s movements, her eyes glinting with a cold hunger that Irene never noticed.
Leighton remained oblivious, striding quickly in their direction.
The distance shrank rapidly—less than twenty meters.
Irene held her breath.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
Ten meters.
The air froze.
Leighton’s steps grew closer.
He even caught the faint whiff of cheap perfume lingering in the air.
A flicker of disgust crossed his uneasy face—probably thinking some foolish students were loitering here.
He had no idea that death waited just a few steps away, coiled in the shadows of the oak.
Five meters…
Three meters…
Whitney’s excitement turned into shock.
Why hadn’t Irene fired yet?
But then—bang!
A muffled gunshot ripped through the silence!
“Ahhh—!!”
Leighton screamed in agony.
Completely unprepared, his right knee exploded in a spray of blood and torn fabric.
He lost his balance instantly, crashing to the side with a scream.
The briefcase slipped from his hand, slamming onto the cold stone path.
Agony engulfed him.
Leighton clutched at his ruined leg, nerve-dead one second then burning with excruciating pain the next, thrashing and howling on the ground.
Snot and tears smeared across his face:
“My leg!
My leg!
Who?!
Help!!”
Irene’s figure slipped out from behind the tree like a phantom.
In one stride, she stood over Leighton.
The cold barrel of the Makarov pointed unflinchingly at his face, twisted by pain and terror.
Irene said nothing, just lowered the barrel slightly, aiming squarely at the hand clutching his bloody leg.
Leighton’s scream caught in his throat.
He stared at the hooded figure before him—her face hidden, her aura terrifying—equal parts fear and fury:
“Y-you, who are you?!
You dare—ahhh!!!”
Leighton roared with false bravado, trying to cover his terror with noise, straining to reach the briefcase just within arm’s length.
As expected… this thing was important.
Heaven-sent, even.
Her answer was the pull of a trigger.
Bang!
The second shot was heavier than the first.
It struck inches below his hand, nearly execution-style.
But Irene didn’t want to cause too big a scene.
The bullet only clipped the ground, scattering stones into his flesh.
No fatal injury, but pain beyond belief.
“Here!
Take it!
Don’t kill me… please…”
Leighton wept, his remaining hand trembling violently as he shoved the heavy black briefcase toward Irene.
His movements were drenched in sheer terror and desperation.
The case scraped across the bloodstained stone, stopping at Irene’s feet.
Without hesitation, Irene bent down, snatched it up.
The weight was cold in her grip.
She didn’t spare a glance for the wretch writhing like a worm on the ground.
She turned and left, swift and clean.
“Shit… wait for me!”
Whitney stumbled to follow Irene’s rapid retreat, her heart pounding so hard it felt ready to burst.
In the dim light, Irene’s figure vanished like a panther into the night, the bloodstained briefcase in hand, swallowed by the deeper shadows of the park.
Leighton’s desperate, hopeless wails clung to their backs like maggots to bone, echoing through the cold wind for a long, long time.