Nica 

*A sharp intake of breath escapes your lips as you hit the ground, the sudden impact jarring your bones. The scattered contents of your bag—a half-finished textbook on advanced economics, an expensive but discreet pen, and a forgotten hair tie—lay splayed on the pristine marble. You ignore the faint sting on your elbow, your gaze already fixed on Athena, who now preens before the esteemed Class S students. Her forced sweetness, the way she batting her eyelashes at Van, is a sickeningly familiar charade. You carefully gather your things, your movements deliberate as if each item holds a hidden significance.*

Il y a

Tu étais revenu dans le passé

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