St. Andrew's Prep was a castle built on old money and new insecurities. The iron gates loomed over the driveway, separating the elite from the rest of the world.
Arleen stood at the entrance.
She wore the school uniform-a plaid skirt and a navy blazer-but hers was different. It was bought second-hand, the fabric slightly faded, the hem fraying. Her shoes were scuffed loafers from a discount store.
She felt the upgrade from the System. Her posture was naturally straighter. Her senses were dialed up. She could hear the whisper of tires on asphalt, smell the expensive perfume of the girl walking ten feet ahead of her.
She walked onto the campus.
It was like parting the Red Sea, if the sea was made of disdain.
Students stopped talking as she passed. Eyes followed her. Whispers hissed like steam escaping a pipe.
"Is that the zombie?"
"I heard she died in a trailer park."
"She smells like bleach."
"Why is she even back?"
Arleen ignored them. She walked with a rhythm that was efficient, conserving energy.
She entered the main building. The hallway was lined with lockers that cost more than her mother's car.
She reached her classroom. Honors History.
She pushed the door open.
The room went silent.
Her desk, in the back row, was a shrine to hatred. It was covered in trash. Banana peels, crumpled papers, empty soda cans. Someone had written "WHITE TRASH" in permanent marker across the wood.
Mrs. Tate was at the whiteboard. She turned around, her glasses slipping down her nose. She looked at Arleen with a mixture of surprise and annoyance.
"Miss Brewer," Mrs. Tate said, her tone dripping with condescension. "You're late. And frankly, I didn't expect to see you... at all."
Arleen didn't apologize. She walked to her desk.
She looked at the mess.
In her past life, she would have burned the building down. In Arleen's past life, she would have cried and cleaned it up while everyone laughed.
She did neither.
She swept her arm across the desk in one fluid motion.
The trash flew off, clattering loudly onto the floor. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Mrs. Tate gasped. "Arleen! Pick that up this instant!"
Arleen looked at the teacher. "It's not mine."
She sat down. She opened her textbook.
"I said pick it up!" Mrs. Tate marched toward her.
System Task: Establish Dominance. Reward: Intellect Boost.
Arleen looked up. "I am here to learn, Mrs. Tate. Are you here to teach, or to act as a janitor?"
The class inhaled sharply. No one spoke to Mrs. Tate like that.
Before the teacher could explode, the door opened again.
Bryce Vaughn walked in.
He was the quintessential golden boy. Captain of the football team. Son of a senator. He filled the doorway, his varsity jacket straining at the shoulders.
He saw Arleen. A cruel grin spread across his face.
He walked over to her desk. He didn't sit in his own seat. He stood over her, blocking the light.
"Well, well," Bryce said. "The corpse walks."
He put his foot on the bottom rung of her chair and leaned in. "Did your mom have to sell herself to pay for your hospital bill, Brewer?"
The laughter from the class was tentative but present.
Arleen didn't look up from her book. "Remove your foot."
Bryce laughed. "Or what? You gonna have another heart attack?"
He kicked the chair. Hard.
It jarred her spine.
Arleen closed the book. Slowly.
She looked up at him.
Her eyes were dark voids. There was no fear in them. There was no anger. There was only the calculation of a predator looking at a prey animal that didn't know it was already dead.
"I asked you nicely," she said softly.
Bryce faltered. For a second, the primal part of his brain-the part that evolved to spot tigers in the grass-screamed at him to run. Her stillness was unnatural.
But his pride was louder.
He reached out to grab her blazer lapel. "Listen here, you little-"
The bell rang.
It was a shrill, jarring sound that broke the tension.
Mrs. Tate cleared her throat, eager to regain control. "Everyone in your seats! Pop quiz. Now."
Bryce sneered, pulling his hand back. "Lunch, Brewer. You and me. Dead meat."
He walked away.
Arleen picked up her pen.
Task Accepted.
She looked at the quiz paper Mrs. Tate slammed onto her desk. The questions were trivial. Dates. Battles. Treaties.
She filled them out. Her hand moved with machine-like precision. Her memory, enhanced by the System, pulled pages from textbooks she had glanced at only once.
She finished in five minutes.
She sat back, waiting for the bell. Waiting for lunch.
Waiting for the hunt.
