Chapter 2
Lina's POV
I had thought Blair's pranks would end there, but the afternoon's events told me they were far from over.
I was irritated by the school uniform clinging to my skin, so I walked into the restroom wanting to dry my hair.
But just as I pushed open the door, a hand from behind suddenly shoved me inside.
I stumbled, my hands bracing against the sink to steady myself, then turned around.
Blair had followed in with those two others.
The door closed behind them with a dull thud.
"Now there's no one here." Blair locked the door, held the key up in front of me, then slowly tucked it into her bra.
She tilted her head to look at me, like a cat watching a mouse already cornered against the wall. "Let's have a good talk."
I didn't retreat—or rather, I had nowhere to retreat to.
"What do you want to talk about?" I spoke, my voice not loud, but very calm.
Blair froze for a moment. Perhaps she hadn't expected me to actually speak, and not to beg for mercy.
"About you." She took a step closer.
"Do you know what kind of backgrounds the people in this school have? My father is one of New York's biggest real estate developers. She—"
Blair pointed at the tall, thin girl. "Her family controls the East Coast shipping lines. Her family—"
Then she pointed at the short, chubby one. "Her grandfather is a federal judge."
She stopped in front of me, less than half a step away.
I could smell the perfume on her body—strong, sickeningly sweet, like a rotting flower.
"And you? What are you? An orphan who crawled out of some gutter, stuffed in here by Luca Moretti—"
I clearly felt a subtle tremor in her tone when she said that name, like fear mixed with excitement.
"—for who knows what reason. You have no surname, no family, no money, nothing. What makes you worthy of sitting in the same classroom as us?"
I didn't answer.
"What makes you look at us with those eyes?" Blair's voice suddenly rose. "Do you know how disgusting your gaze is? As if everything we say means less than shit to you. What the hell are you?"
Blair reached out and poked my shoulder.
"Speak."
I didn't move.
She poked again, harder. "I told you to speak!"
Then she made the biggest mistake of the evening.
She raised her hand to slap my face.
I caught that hand in mid-air.
My reaction was far faster than hers.
This wasn't something I could control—fifteen years of muscle memory was carved into my bones.
The instant Blair raised her hand, my brain automatically calculated her trajectory, speed, and landing point.
My right hand precisely gripped her wrist, my thumb pressing on her radial artery, the other four fingers clasping her forearm.
Blair's eyes widened in disbelief.
I only needed to apply a bit more pressure and her wrist bone would break.
I knew exactly where that threshold was, just like I knew the boiling point of water, the muzzle velocity of bullets, the half-life of poisons.
These numbers were carved into my body, clearer than any mathematical formula.
But I didn't apply pressure.
I released my grip.
Not because I was afraid of her—killing her would be effortless—but because I had promised Luca I would endure.
On the day he sent me to school, we stood at the school gate. He turned his head to look at me. "You're an ordinary student now. Don't use your old skills."
"What if someone bullies me?" I asked.
He smiled slightly. That smile was so faint I almost thought it was an illusion. "Then endure it."
"To what extent?"
"Until you can't endure anymore."
I didn't understand why he said that at the time. Now I understood.
He was testing me—testing whether an assassin could suppress her instincts, testing whether I truly wanted to live a "normal person's life."
If I couldn't even tolerate this humiliation, then I would forever be just a beast in human skin.
So I released my grip.
But Blair didn't know what my releasing meant.
She only knew her wrist hurt where I'd grabbed it, hurt enough that tears almost fell.
Shame and rage simultaneously flooded her face, twisting Blair's features into an ugly expression.
"You—you dare to touch me?"
Blair retreated two steps and gave her two followers a look. "Lock her in there!"
What happened next occurred very quickly.
The tall-thin and short-fat both lunged at me, each grabbing one of my arms, dragging me toward the innermost stall.
I didn't resist.
If I wanted to resist, the two of them together wouldn't be worth one of my fingers, but I didn't resist.
I let myself be dragged in, let them press down on my shoulders to sit on the toilet lid, watched that plastic door close in front of me.
Then came the sound of running water.
They filled containers with water and poured them down from above the stall.
Once, twice, three times.
Cold water soaked through my hair, clothes, skin, so cold my whole body trembled.
But I made no sound.
"You just stay there and reflect, orphan."
Blair's voice came from outside the door, carrying laughter.
The door opened and closed, the lock clicking shut.
Finally, complete silence.
I sat on the toilet lid, soaking wet, hair plastered to my face, water droplets falling from my chin.
In the restroom there was only the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of my own breathing.
I looked down at my hands.
These hands tonight could have broken her wrist bone, shattered her nose bridge, gripped her throat until her eyes rolled back.
But I didn't.
I released my grip, like releasing an already loaded gun.
Should I feel proud of myself?
I didn't know.
I just felt cold, cold seeping out from my bone marrow.
Those things pressed deepest in my memory began to gradually loosen.
I remembered the winter in St. Petersburg, snow on the training ground past our ankles. Dmitri made us stand bare-chested in the snow—whoever shivered first had to run an extra ten kilometers.
I couldn't shiver. I never shivered.
But at this moment, in this warm restroom tiled with white ceramic, I shook like an autumn leaf.
I remembered when I was six, the first time Dmitri locked me in solitary confinement. No light, no window, just four cement walls and an iron door.
He said outside the door: "When you learn not to cry, I'll let you out." I stayed inside for two days and two nights. I finally learned not to cry.
I remembered my first mission at twelve, the blade slicing across that man's throat, blood spraying on my face, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
I returned to the rally point. Dmitri handed me a glass of vodka and said: "By the tenth time you won't shake." He was right. By the tenth time, I truly felt nothing.
But now, sitting soaking wet in this university restroom stall, that cage in my heart that locked away emotions suddenly showed cracks.
Not sadness, not anger. Something more primitive, more dangerous.
I knew I needed to push it back down, so I closed my eyes and started counting.
From one to one hundred, from one hundred to one thousand.
I don't know how long passed before footsteps came from outside the door—hurried yet cautious footsteps.
"Is someone in there?" It was an unfamiliar female voice.
"Yes," I said.
My voice was a bit hoarse from the cold, so I cleared my throat.
"They locked you in? Wait, I'll go find someone to open the door."
"No need." I stood up, took a step back, lifted my right foot, and kicked hard at the lock's position.
The entire plastic door flew out, crashed into the tile wall opposite, and broke in half.
Outside the door stood a short-haired girl, looking at me in shock, the key in her hand falling to the floor.
I stepped over the broken door panel, walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and washed my face.
In the mirror I looked utterly disheveled—soaking wet hair plastered to my face, school uniform wrinkled into a heap, my lips frozen pale, only my eyes still bright.
"Are... are you okay?" The short-haired girl picked up the key and asked cautiously.
"I'm fine." I turned off the faucet and picked up paper towels to wipe my face. "Thank you."
"They often bully people," she lowered her voice. "Blair Winston, her father is—"
"I know who her father is." I threw the paper towel in the trash, picked up my bag and headed out. "It doesn't matter."
"Do you... want to tell a teacher?"
I glanced at her.
That glance was probably too cold, because she took half a step back.
"No need," I said.
"Thank you," I added.
I walked out of the restroom. The hallway was nearly empty.
Sunset shone through the windows, dyeing the entire corridor orange-red.
I walked through the light, my soaking clothes still dripping water, leaving a trail of faint marks on the floor.