THE HUNTER .

Class has started.

Technically.

Dr. Vaughan is up front, talking about narrative theory or something about how postmodern texts deconstruct traditional binaries or whatever the hell, but it might as well be static buzzing in my skull.

My body's here. But my mind?

My mind is spinning like it's caught in a goddamn centrifuge.

I stare blankly at the board.

White light. Words. Her voice echoing around the room like it's bouncing off fish tanks.

But all I can hear is one thing:

That's my project.

I didn't write it.

But that's my project.

My fingers curl tight on the edge of my desk. I feel my pulse thumping at the base of my throat, a sick rhythm.

Like my body knows I should be panicking even though I already am.

Did I… write it?

Maybe I did.

Maybe last night, somewhere between the brain meltdown and the full-body crash, I actually wrote it. Maybe I blacked out, like some literary drunk, pounded out a masterpiece and passed out face-down in my sheets without remembering.

My eyes flick toward the window. The sun outside is soft, light filtering through dust and glass like nothing's wrong.

But something is so fucking wrong.

If I wrote that project, then why don't I remember anything? Not even a scrap? Not a single word? I remember crying to Boo Boo, talking about Shakespeare and cats and how I'm jealous of a pet for not having deadlines.

But the document?

It was blank.

Except for the words "fuck it."

I wrote that. I remember writing that.

That's not a goddamn A-high project.

I glance sideways at my friends.

Ruby is giving me side-eyes like I'm about to ascend to divinity.

Shaiza is still trying to process the betrayal of me keeping a secret genius project from her.

Ifrah's chewing her pen like she's reading conspiracy theories in real time.

I look away. Can't deal with their faces right now. My own brain is enough of a war zone.

Okay. Think.

Let's be rational. Logical. Let's do the math.

I didn't submit the project.

I passed out.

I woke up late.

I ran to class like a headless chicken.

There was no last-minute moment of clarity.

No divine inspiration.

No upload.

No fucking submission.

So.

Who the fuck did it?

Who could have done it?

Not my mom. She doesn't even know what course I take. She still asks me if I'm studying accounting.

Not Ahil. He can barely spell "project." He still uses Comic Sans.

Not Boo Boo. Unless my cat figured out how to unlock my laptop and write about feminist grief in Elizabethan literature, we can scratch him off the list.

So who?

Who?

Ruby?

No. She's smart, but she was up texting me about her own project stress. She couldn't have done mine too.

Shaiza?

She threatened to punch me for not starting the project two days ago. If she secretly wrote and submitted one in my name, she would've slapped the pride into me by now.

Ifrah?

I mean… maybe. But no. Even she looked like someone stuffed a firecracker in her brain when the name popped on the screen.

So if not them…

Then what the fuck is left?

The professor?

Oh my fucking god.

What if Dr. Vaughan—hear me out—actually lost her mind and wrote some random project herself at 3 a.m. and was like "You know who this sounds like? Arshila."

Is that insane?

Yes.

Is it impossible?

…Also yes.

But what else makes sense?

I sink lower into my chair, one hand pressed against my forehead like I can press the headache back in.

None of this adds up.

There's no explanation. No logic. No reason.

It's like reality glitched, and the Matrix spat me out as some overachiever version of myself who has her shit together and writes literary gold in her sleep.

Which I don't.

I do not write gold. I write sarcasm. I write chaos. I write mess.

Even if that is my tone, even if those words sounded like me, it still doesn't explain how it landed in Dr. Vaughan's inbox at 3:04 a.m. when I was unconscious in a puddle of failure and cat hair.

What.

The actual.

Fuck.

I turn my head slightly toward the window again, squinting into the light like it's going to answer me.

I think I'm going crazy.

Like real, full-blown, spiraling-down-the-staircase-of-sanity crazy.

And the worst part?

It's working.

People are clapping. I'm getting praise. I'm not dead. My grades aren't bleeding out in a ditch.

But it's not me.

Or…

Is it?

And if it's not me—

Then who the fuck is behind this?

Because one thing I've learned the hard way?

Nothing in this world comes without a cost.

And if someone went through my laptop, wrote a fucking project in my name, submitted it at 3 a.m., and didn't say a word about it…

Then that means I owe them.

And I don't even know who the hell they are.

Why the fuck do I always think someone's out here doing everything for me?

Like I'm the protagonist of some twisted fairy tale, and the world is bending its rules just to hand me little miracles on a fucking platter?

What's wrong with you, Arshila?

I pinch the bridge of my nose, pressing my thumb into the headache blooming behind my eyes.

No one cares about your damn project. No one gives enough of a shit to break into your laptop at 3 A.M. and ghostwrite an A-high assignment just to impress Dr. Vaughan.

The dean thing? Okay. That might've been someone. Probably Cassandra. She hates me. She wants me publicly executed. That tracks.

But this?

This project?

That's not Cassandra. If she's plotting my murder, she's not gonna save me from academic death on the side. That's counterproductive even for a blonde sociopath with a Porsche and a superiority complex.

So then—who?

No one.

No one fucking cares about me that much. No one even knew I hadn't submitted the damn project, aside from my friends—and trust me, they're too dramatic to pull off a secret stunt like this.

Why the hell am I always trying to build mystery boxes around every tiny thing that happens to me?

Why is my brain like "Ooh, secret savior," instead of "Bitch, maybe your tired ass sleepwalked and wrote 2000 words in lucid Shakespearean madness"?

I sigh through my nose, hating how real that sounds.

Maybe I'm going insane.

Maybe I've gone full crazy.

The logical part of me wants to dissect this, map it out, draw conclusions like a functioning adult.

The other half?

The sleep-deprived, emotionally constipated, caffeine-dependent part of me?

Just mutters: You need to fucking exercise. That's your problem. You sit too much. Your brain is rotting like expired cheese.

Yeah. That's it.

More sit-ups = more sanity.

More yoga = less paranoia.

Maybe if I stretch my legs, my neurons will align like Shakespeare's and I'll start writing sonnets instead of spiraling down mental rabbit holes at the speed of light.

God.

The bell rings.

I flinch. The sharp clang drags me out of my existential crisis and slams me face-first into the present. Papers shuffle. Students groan. Chairs scrape the floor like an orchestra of chaos. I look up—and that's when I see her.

Dr. Vaughan.

Smiling at me.

Smiling at me.

A soft little nod. One of those tight-lipped expressions professors give when they're weirdly proud of you but also suspicious you're lying. It's kind. But loaded.

I force a smile back. Awkward. Stiff.

My face doesn't even know how to form gratitude when my soul is having an identity crisis.

And just when I think maybe I can slither out of this class unnoticed—

"YOU. FUCKING. LIAR."

Shaiza grabs the back of my neck like she's about to perform an exorcism.

I jerk forward with a yelp, choking on air. "What the hell—"

"You said you didn't submit it!" she hisses, her eyes wide, hair flying as Ruby and Ifrah turn to gape at me.

"I— I didn't!" I whisper-scream, trying to shove her off. "I swear—"

"Bullshit!" Ruby smacks my shoulder with her notebook. "You said 'I'm doomed' like twelve fucking times. You had a whole meltdown."

"Yeah," Ifrah nods, dead serious. "We mourned you. We said prayers. I literally thought Dr. Vaughan was gonna peel your skin off in front of the projector. And now you get a goddamn standing ovation??"

"I didn't submit it!" I whisper louder, panic climbing. "I passed out, I swear! I woke up late, ran like a lunatic—I thought I was going to get executed. I didn't even open the damn document after Friday."

They all stare at me.

Dead silent.

Then—

Shaiza squints. "So… what? It just magically submitted itself? You got a ghostwriter now?"

"Maybe you've got a sugar daddy," Ruby adds helpfully. "An academic one. Who likes smart girls. And foot pics."

"Jesus Christ," I groan, dragging both hands over my face. "I'm not lying, okay? I don't know how it got submitted. I didn't do it. But it's there. And I'm fucking losing it trying to figure it out."

Ifrah crosses her arms. "You're either a pathological liar or you're cursed by a literary demon who wants you to pass."

"I'm betting on the demon," Shaiza mutters. "Because there's no way you did that project and forgot. You cried. Real tears. You threatened to move to a forest and live with wolves."

"I meant that," I hiss.

They keep staring.

I keep sinking.

My heart still hasn't returned to normal. And now, I'm not just confused—I'm terrified. Because if I didn't do it… then who did?

And more importantly—

Why the fuck did they go through my things to do it for me?

Something's wrong.

And I can't tell if it's a blessing or a fucking warning.

My phone buzzez 

I tap the notification with my thumb, expecting something normal. Something annoying. Something Shadin.

Instead—

Shadin: How's your cheek?

My breath snags mid-throat.

My fingers curl a little tighter around the phone.

That message—it's too specific. Too fucking intentional. 

I stare at it for a second too long.

Then I type back:

Me: Where are you?

It says he's typing.

Then—

Shadin: Home.

What the fuck?

Me: Don't you have class today?

Shadin: Nope. Skipping. Was bored.

Bored. Right. Of course. The prince of no-fucks-given.

Shadin: Do you miss me?

I don't even hesitate.

Me: Fuck you.

Shadin: When?

I make an audible noise.

A short, frustrated little growl escapes my mouth before I even realize it. I shoot back the middle finger emoji, jam the phone into my bag, and slam the flap shut like it just tried to bite me.

Lunch break hits like a relief I didn't ask for.

We head to the cafeteria. Loud. Bright. Smelling like questionable meat and burnt coffee. I stick to the corner table by the window while Ruby and Ifrah dart off to the food line, arguing over fries and low-carb betrayal.

I sink into the seat, elbow propped against the edge, chin in my palm.

There are boys everywhere.

Every table has some variation of masculinity on display—guys laughing too loudly, flexing arms under too-tight sleeves, pretending to read notes they definitely didn't write.

And not a single one of them looks like him.

Not even fucking close.

I don't even know him.

And yet.

My brain's been fucking hijacked. Ever since the moment on the street. The wind. The helmet. That fucking hair flip. That slow blink like a goddamn predator sizing me up and deciding I wasn't worth chewing.

He made my whole body pause without saying a word.

And now?

Now I'm sitting here surrounded by living, breathing guys with their real, imperfect faces and none of them feel real. Not the way he did. That biker looked like he was carved out of sin and nightmares and every forbidden fantasy stitched together.

And he made my stupid heart want to fucking smile.

I blink hard.

No.

Nope.

Snap the fuck out of it.

"Okay, what the hell?" Shaiza blurts beside me.

I look up. She's watching Ruby and Ifrah—who are speed-walking back to the table with full trays and faces like ghosts.

"Why are you guys walking like you just saw a demon in the soup?" Shaiza asks.

Ruby doesn't sit. She throws the tray down like it offended her and stares at us.

Then, dead serious, voice low: "Cassandra Monroe got kicked out."

My brain blanks.

I blink.

"What?" I say, voice flat.

"She got fucking expelled," Ifrah says, eyes wide. "Gone. Just like that. Her name's off the student portal. Her ID's locked out. Someone saw her crying while her driver packed her stuff into the trunk like—holy shit."

Shaiza chokes on her juice. "Wait, what?"

"No jokes," Ruby says, breathless. "She's gone. And—get this—her dad's business? Bankrupt. It's all over Twitter."

I sit up straighter, the cafeteria noise fading under a low thrum of shock crawling up my spine.

Expelled.

Gone.

Fucking ruined.

My fingers tighten against the edge of the table. "Wait wait wait," I say slowly. "You're telling me Cassandra Monroe—the department's darling bitch, the queen of high heels and condescension—got expelled while we're still breathing on this campus after what happened Friday?"

"She got slapped," Shaiza says slowly, "twice. In front of the whole class. Professor watching. Dean summoned."

"And we didn't even get a warning," Ruby whispers, blinking like her soul's detached. "But she got expelled."

"The math isn't mathing," Ifrah says.

My throat's dry. A pressure swells in my chest—confusion mixed with adrenaline.

Why her?

Why not us?

We were the ones in the dean's office. We were the ones who started the war. I slapped her so hard her left eyelash migrated. Twice.

So why… her?

Why now?

Why this?

Nothing makes sense anymore.

And the feeling creeping under my skin?

It's not guilt.

It's suspicion.

We sit there like a bunch of high-functioning, mildly traumatized idiots, shoving fries into our mouths as if carbs could fix existential dread.

Shaiza's legs are drawn up onto the cafeteria bench like she's preparing to launch herself into another dimension. Ruby's halfway through a strawberry milkshake, but her brain's clearly still glitching. Ifrah looks like she's on the verge of either meditating or combusting.

And me?

I'm just staring at my damn tray like it'll start explaining this mess to me. Like maybe the nuggets know something I don't.

Because Cassandra Monroe—the crown jewel of fake perfection, the poster child for rich bitch privilege—is gone.

Kicked out.

Expelled.

Just like that.

And me? Still here. Still breathing campus air. Still not rotting in detention or getting public-flogged by faculty.

For slapping her.

Twice.

In front of a professor.

Before the weekend even ended.

"What the actual fuck is happening," I mumble into my sandwich, barely tasting it. "Did I die and enter some alternate reality where karma works on express delivery?"

Ruby nods like her brain is buffering. "Maybe we did die. That would explain a lot."

"She got expelled," Shaiza repeats, like if she says it enough, the universe might hand her a logical explanation. "Like, not suspended. Not given a last warning. Expelled. Her entire family name just—poof."

"And her dad's business went bankrupt," Ifrah says, pointing her spoon like it's evidence. "The news dropped it like a casual weather report. We hear it from the students.

Shaiza lets out a dry laugh. "I bet Cassandra's somewhere screaming into her Prada bag right now."

"I just…" I drag my fingers through my hair and let my head drop onto the table for a second. "Why the fuck am I still enrolled? We were all in the dean's office. I slapped her. Repeatedly. No matter how psychotic she is, there's no fucking way I should still be breathing student air."

"Maybe they reviewed the security footage?" Ifrah offers with a shrug. "And saw how she started it? Maybe the dean realized she was a menace?"

"Maybe she has ten other victims lined up and we just exposed her," Ruby adds, her voice gaining a bit of hope. "Maybe this was the final straw, and we just happened to be the lucky bitches holding it."

Shaiza squints. "Why are we stressing about Cassandra again? Isn't this… good? Like, bitchy Barbie's gone. Shouldn't we be throwing confetti and drinking overpriced smoothies to celebrate?"

I raise my head slowly. "Because this doesn't make sense. This isn't how life works. I fuck up, I get fucked over. That's the natural law of the goddamn universe."

"She's right," Ruby mutters. "We break rules, we get detention. We breathe wrong, we get glared at by the admin lady who looks like a resurrected mummy."

"Why the sudden loophole?" I ask. "Why the fuck did I get a free pass when she got obliterated?"

Ifrah leans in, dropping her voice. "Maybe the faculty finally got the full story. Maybe someone spoke up. Maybe the professors got sick of her designer tantrums. I mean, the girl once demanded a seating arrangement change because her 'left profile looked better on this side."

Shaiza shudders. "God, I hated her so much."

"She called me 'farm girl' because I wore boots once," Ifrah mutters. "In winter."

"And I thought having a pimple was bad," Ruby adds. "That girl turned existing into a psychological test."

I glance around the cafeteria. Students are laughing, eating, scrolling their phones like nothing in the universe has shifted. Like a student didn't just get obliterated from the registry and her family tossed into financial hell overnight.

But maybe… maybe that's the point.

Maybe things do just happen. Maybe there's no higher mystery here, no mastermind plotting revenge, no invisible hand steering my stupid life into chaos.

Maybe Cassandra's fall was just karma on steroids. And maybe… maybe I don't have to solve this. Maybe I can just eat my fries and let the world burn in peace for once.

I exhale slowly. "Fine. You guys win. We won't obsess over it. Maybe it's not about us. Maybe it's about her finally being exposed for the rabid hyena she is."

"If she shows up in a trench coat holding a knife in the rain one day," Ruby says, licking whipped cream off her finger, "I'm blaming all of you."

Shaiza chuckles. "Same."

Ifrah raises her soda like a toast. "To surviving Friday. To escaping Cassandra. And to not being expelled for once."

We all clink imaginary glasses.

And for the first time since the weekend started, I actually feel… okay.

Like maybe I'm not about to get hit by a karma bus.

Like maybe—just maybe—I can survive whatever the fuck this week throws at me next.

(But still… I keep one eye on the cafeteria door.

Just in case.)

---_____________

Hey, chaos crew 

If you've made it this far, you already know—this chapter was unhinged. I did not mean for things to escalate from "I'm failing" to "Applauded by the professor I feared most"... but here we are.

What is happening to Arshila? Who submitted that project? And why is Cassandra Monroe falling from her ivory tower so fast it's suspicious?

If you're screaming, confused, or lowkey obsessed, good.

That's the point.

 Drop a comment.

 Click that follow button if you're into dark humor, girl rage, and slow-burn chaos with hotter-than-hell mystery boys.

Add to your library or collection. It helps a lot.

Let's unravel this disaster together.

And trust me—

this is just the beginning.

—Bamby