Chapter 6: The Mysterious Stranger
Chapter 6: The Mysterious Stranger
Benjamin overheard the conversation and frowned slightly. His eyes turned to Elira, studying her expression. Was she just pretending to act indifferent to catch his attention?
Whatever game she was playing, it wouldn’t work. Not on him.
Through the entire class, Frank sat distracted. His mind replayed the moment his sister had grabbed that boy by the collar, forcing him to apologize in front of everyone. His fists had tightened with excitement just thinking about it.
After class, a few boys gathered around his desk. Their voices dripped with mockery.
“Frank, is that fat girl from Senior Class 3 really your sister? No wonder you never mention her.”
“If your sister eats that much, your family must be rich, right? Then why didn’t they fix your leg? Are your parents biased?”
Laughter erupted.
“I think she ate all the money for his treatment,” another boy sneered. “Just look at their clothes. They look dirt poor. She probably ate the whole family into poverty. Hahaha!”
Frank’s nails dug into his palm. His fists clenched so hard he nearly drew blood.
One boy leaned in, smirking. “Hey, how come you’re so smart and your sister’s so dumb? I heard she scores like five or ten points on her tests. I could beat that with my eyes closed!”
More laughter.
“Five or ten? If I dropped the answer sheet on the ground and stepped on it, I’d still get a better score than her!”
Frank shot up, his voice shaking. “My sister is not stupid!”
The boys froze for a second—then burst out laughing.
“Well, she’s not stupid,” one of them said, smirking. “She’s an idiot!”
Their laughter rang in his ears as they walked away. Frank sat back down, his face flushed. Was it anger… or humiliation?
\---
At the same time, Elira sat quietly at her desk, deep in thought.
She didn’t even have a phone. No money meant no control. And without control, she couldn’t do anything.
Her mind ran through ways to make money quickly—but almost every method she knew danced on the edge of legality.
She was still thinking when a sharp voice snapped her out of it.
“Elira?”
She didn’t move.
“Elira!”
The teacher’s voice cracked like a whip, filled with anger.
Some people, he thought, just refused to learn.
“Some students,” he said loudly, “even with poor family conditions, refuse to work hard. They waste their own lives and drag down the entire class. They’re pests.”
The classroom fell silent. Everyone stared at Elira. The teacher’s words were like arrows aimed at her.
Elira turned her head slowly. “Are you talking about me?”
The teacher sneered. “At least you’re self-aware. Come up here and solve this problem.” He tapped the blackboard with his chalk, then added sarcastically, “Forget it. Sit down. Your brain can’t handle it anyway.”
Whispers rippled through the class. Snickers followed.
Elira stood up.
“What are you doing?” the teacher barked. “Don’t embarrass yourself. Go back to your seat.”
“Let her,” a student called out with a smirk. “If she’s not afraid of looking stupid, why stop her?”
Everyone wanted to see her fail.
But Elira didn’t look at them. Calmly, she walked to the front, picked up the chalk, and began writing.
Her strokes were sharp, bold, and elegant. Her handwriting alone stunned the class—it was strong and beautiful, nothing like the weak girl they thought they knew.
Line by line, she solved the question with perfect clarity. The steps were simple, clean, and far easier to understand than the teacher’s long-winded method.
One by one, the whispers died.
By the time Elira dropped the chalk, the board was filled with flawless work. She turned to the teacher, her eyes cold.
“Since you’re a teacher,” she said quietly, “try to act like one.”
Gasps echoed through the room.
The teacher’s face burned red. His jaw clenched, but no words came out.
Finally, he muttered, “It’s just… luck.”
But everyone in the class knew it wasn’t luck.
\---
That evening, after self-study, Frank expected Elira to wait for him. But when he walked out, she was gone.
By the time she reached home, she saw him limping ahead, his shadow stretched under the dim streetlights.
Her chest tightened slightly. He had been called a cripple today—mocked the same way she had been mocked as a fat girl.
If only she had her silver needles. If only she had the money. She could fix his leg in one session.
Elira quickened her pace.
When Frank noticed her, he glanced back and then turned his head away, silent.
She didn’t mind. They had never been talkative siblings anyway.
As they walked, his voice broke the silence. “Are you… going to take the college entrance exam seriously this time?”
“Of course,” she said, her voice calm but sharp. When was phantom V ever at the bottom?
\---
At home, Elira changed clothes and headed out for her evening run.
“Wash the dishes first!” Elena’s sharp voice rang behind her.
Elira didn’t even turn her head. She walked out the door.
“You ungrateful girl!” Elena screamed, her curses chasing her into the night.
Frank quietly walked into the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves, and started washing the dishes.
Elenas angry grumbling filled the small house as Elira jogged into the cool night air.
She had been running morning and evening for days now, controlling her diet strictly. The results were already showing. Her face was slimmer, her chin sharper.
Her meal card was empty. She hadn’t eaten dinner—but she refused to ask Elena for money. She didn’t trust herself to stay calm under that woman’s constant nagging.
By the time Elira returned from her run and showered, her body ached pleasantly. She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about money again.
Then—her ears twitched.
A sound. Faint. Wrong.
Her instincts sharpened.
In a flash, she rolled out of bed and pressed herself against the wall.
Outside, in the darkness of the old residential alley, shadows moved.
A man was running—stumbling—his hand clutching his side. Blood glistened under the pale moonlight.
He crashed into the wall near her courtyard, panting hard.
Gunshot wound.
Behind him, distant footsteps. Fast. Precise. Soldiers.
Elira stepped out into the courtyard silently, the sweet scent of osmanthus heavy in the night air.
The man slumped against the wall, his face pale, his clothes soaked with blood. His breathing was ragged.
Suddenly, he sensed her. His head snapped up, eyes sharp even in pain.
When his gaze met hers, Elira froze for half a heartbeat.
That face… familiar.
Memory surged. She knew who he was.
She walked forward, her movements calm, deliberate.
The man tried to speak, his voice rough. “Go back inside… if you don’t want to die.”
Instead of leaving, Elira crouched down in front of him, her eyes glinting under the moonlight.
“Do you need help?”
His eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering through the pain. He hesitated, then nodded once—warily.
“You’re not dying yet,” she said flatly, glancing at the wound. “But if the bleeding doesn’t stop in thirty minutes, you will.”
Before he could respond, the sound of boots thundered closer.
The man tensed, his body coiling like a wounded beast.
Elira didn’t flinch. Calm as ever, she reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a pen, and rolled up his sleeve.
“What the hell are you—”
She ignored him. On his wrist, she scribbled a series of numbers.
Capping the pen, she shoved it back into his pocket and met his eyes.
“Go through here,” she said softly. “Exit from the back. If you live… send the money to that account.”
The man stared at her. He couldn’t tell if she was insane—or terrifyingly smart.
But there was no time. The footsteps were almost here.
He pushed himself up with a groan and stumbled into the courtyard.
Elira stood still, her expression unreadable.
And then—shadows emerged.
Men in black with guns in their hand arrived.