Chapter 115
Raven
The bathroom door clicked shut behind me, sealing me in blessed solitude. I leaned against the pristine white sink, meeting my reflection's gaze with a smirk that would've made the Cheshire Cat proud.
Time to put on a show.
I pulled out my makeup bag—a recent acquisition that still felt foreign in my hands. The girl in the mirror stared back, Satan's Heart gleaming at her throat, purple-streaked hair falling in waves that somehow managed to look both dangerous and effortlessly chic. Not bad for someone who spent most of her previous life covered in blood and cordite.
The compact clicked open. I began with foundation, smooth strokes that felt almost meditative. Outside, Miles's nervous voice drifted through the door.
"Does this really... I mean, does standing here actually build courage?"
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Poor kid. He had no idea what he'd signed up for.
Leo's response came swift and gleeful. "You don't trust your master's methods? Dude, you're lucky she even gave you a chance. Half the school wants to apprentice under her after that whole彩弹 thing." He paused, and I could practically hear his grin. "Well, the half that isn't terrified of her, anyway."
Good boy, Leo. I swept blush across my cheekbones with practiced precision. Keep selling it.
He really was becoming quite the hype man. I'd have to reward that loyalty somehow—maybe let him hold my backup knife collection or something equally thrilling for a civilian.
The foundation settled perfectly. I reached for my eyeliner, the thin brush poised like a scalpel. Through the door, I heard it—rapid footsteps, the distinctive click of heels against linoleum. Female. Confident stride. Probably a senior.
Miles's voice rose, clear and unwavering despite the slight tremor underneath. "The Queen is currently using the facilities. Royal maintenance in progress. Please wait."
I nearly stabbed myself in the eye.
The footsteps stopped dead. Silence stretched for exactly two seconds—I counted—before a voice exploded with the fury of a thousand suns.
"What the fuck?!"
Oh, this is delicious.
I steadied my hand, drawing a perfect wing along my eyelid. The eyeliner glided like a blade through butter, sharp and controlled. Outside, Miles repeated his line, word for word, tone unchanged.
SMACK.
The sound of palm meeting cheek echoed through the bathroom like a gunshot. I paused mid-stroke, eyeliner hovering.
"Well then." I murmured to my reflection, keeping my voice low and amused. "That's one. Are you going to run now, little apprentice?"
But Miles's voice rang out again, steady as before. "The Queen is currently using the facilities. Royal maintenance in progress. Please wait."
My lips curved into a genuine smile. Well, well, well. I finished the second wing, matching it perfectly to the first. Looks like you're serious about this apprenticeship after all.
The girl's footsteps retreated, rapid and furious, muttering what sounded like "psycho" and "freak show" as she went.
I switched to mascara, coating my lashes with deliberate care. The routine was soothing in its own way—a different kind of precision than loading a magazine or picking a lock, but precision nonetheless.
More footsteps approached. Another confrontation. Another slap. Another retreat.
Then another.
And another.
I worked through my entire makeup routine to the percussion of Miles getting progressively more abused. Concealer. Contour. Highlighter. Each product applied while my apprentice took hit after hit and never wavered. By the time I reached lipstick—a deep red that matched the undertones of my hair—I'd counted seven distinct slaps.
Impressive, kid. Most people would've cracked by number three.
I was selecting between two shades of lip gloss when new footsteps approached. These were different—purposeful, adult, carrying the weight of authority and a serious grudge against students who made her life difficult.
My hand stilled on the lip gloss.
Oh.
"Oops," I said softly to my reflection, voice dripping with faux sympathy. "The real challenge just arrived."
Mrs. Jonson's voice cut through the hallway like a rusty saw through sheet metal. "Miles! Leo! What in God's name are you two doing?"
Leo's response was immediate and panicked. "Uh—wrong bathroom! My bad! Total accident! I'm just gonna—" His footsteps scrambled away like a rat abandoning a sinking ship.
Traitor. But I couldn't blame him. Self-preservation was a valid instinct.
Miles, however, held his ground. "The Queen is currently using the facilities. Royal maintenance in progress. Please wait."
The temperature in the hallway dropped approximately thirty degrees.
"I. Need. To. Use. The bathroom." Mrs. Jonson's voice rose with each word, hitting frequencies that probably disturbed dogs in a three-block radius. "Miles! What the hell are you playing at? I know your family has money, but that doesn't give you the right to—"
"Like I said." Miles's voice cut through her tirade, and I had to hand it to him—the kid had found his spine. "My Queen is currently using the facilities. If you need to... relieve yourself... perhaps you could find another location? This particular restroom is occupied."
I nearly dropped my lip gloss.
God damn. I capped the tube slowly, a genuine grin spreading across my face. He actually did it. The little psycho actually found his shamelessness.
Outside, the hallway had gone deadly quiet. I could picture it perfectly—Mrs. Jonson's face cycling through shades of purple, students gathering like sharks scenting blood in the water, phones probably already out and recording.
Welcome to the digital age, where your humiliation lives forever.
Mrs. Jonson's voice shook with barely controlled rage. "I'm giving you one chance, Miles. One. Either you move right now, or I'm calling your parents and having you expelled for—"
"You could always wet yourself." Miles's voice was calm, almost conversational. Like he was suggesting she try a different brand of coffee. "But today? Nobody—and I mean nobody—is getting through this door."
Holy shit.
I heard Mrs. Jonson's sharp intake of breath, the rustling of fabric as she raised her hand. Time to make my entrance.
I pushed the door open with lazy confidence, stepping into the hallway like I owned it—because, let's be honest, at this point I basically did.
"Oh! Mrs. Jonson!" I let my voice carry, light and cheerful and completely unbothered by the crowd of students now forming a semicircle around us. "What a pleasant surprise! Were you looking for me? Please, come in, come in!"
Miles spun around, his face lighting up like Christmas morning. "Master! Is it time?"
Mrs. Jonson stood frozen, her hand still raised mid-slap, face cycling through an impressive rainbow of emotions. Shock. Recognition. Fury. Fear. More fury. Then a sort of resigned exhaustion that suggested she was reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment.
"Raven." Her voice came out strangled. "Of course. Of course it's... you."
"Did you need something?" I tilted my head, all innocent concern. "You look upset. Bathroom emergency?" I stepped aside, gesturing to the door with a theatrical sweep. "Please, don't let my apprentice stop you. He's just... dedicated to his training."
The word 'apprentice' hung in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Mrs. Jonson's eye twitched. She glared at Miles, then at me, then back at Miles. Her hand slowly lowered. "Your... apprentice."
"Well, he was auditing." I examined my nails—perfectly manicured, courtesy of my fifteen minutes of peaceful primping. "But yes. Why are you giving him such a hard time? The poor boy is just following instructions."
Mrs. Jonson opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound came out. She looked like a fish drowning in air.
Finally, she exhaled sharply through her nose. "Fine. For you, Raven, I'll let it go. Once."
She shouldered past us into the bathroom. The door clicked shut.