My dad was a police officer, and he died in the line of duty three years ago, making me the child of a martyr.

I don’t like that title. Every time it’s mentioned, it reminds me that my dad is gone.

But there’s no denying that the school does treat me with a little more leniency because of it.

At the very least, when everyone competes for a position and the competition is close, with no clear winner, my chances are higher.

So, a while ago, the one and only spot that could send someone to Ashworth University fell to me.

It should’ve been a good thing.

If only that spot wasn’t already considered a given by someone else.

Corbin has a cousin named Nathan Sterling, and he’d already claimed that spot as his own. He’d made sure everything was arranged and was practically certain of his success, bragging about it in front of others.

But then the spot went to me, and Nathan lost face in front of everyone.

Nathan’s a proud guy, and when he found out that I got the spot, he came to me in advance, offering a condescending demand for me to give it up.

I refused.

I’ve always outperformed him academically, so there’s no way I would steal his spot. Why should I give up such an important opportunity?

Nathan, being petty, was absolutely furious when I turned him down.

Before leaving, he spat out a nasty threat, promising that he would make me "give up" the spot.

He didn’t specify how, but he sure made it sound like I’d regret it.

Soon enough, rumors about me spread all over the campus forum.

Not long after, Corbin and his group cornered me in a hallway and gave me a beating.

I painfully picked up my phone from the floor, brushing off the dust. Even so, I could still see the long crack stretching across the screen.

The screen suddenly lit up, and it was a message from my boyfriend.

— “Ivy, why aren’t you replying?”

— “Do you think I’m annoying?”

— “Cat crying.jpg”

...

The feelings of hurt and frustration came rushing in, as if I couldn’t hold them back anymore. The need to talk was overwhelming, and I wanted to pour everything out to my boyfriend, hoping to find some comfort from him.

But I hesitated.

I didn’t want him to worry.

And besides, I thought I could handle this on my own.

So my finger hovered over the screen for a long time.

Eventually, I deleted the message I’d started to write and rewrote it before sending it.

It was Ivy, not Zhi Zhi: "It’s just a little issue at school, don’t worry, I can handle it myself."

...Talking to a teacher might at least stop them, I thought naively.

Just as I was lost in thought, another message came through, this time a voice message.

My hand trembled, and I accidentally tapped on it.

— “If anything happens, remember you can always talk to me.”

A smiling voice echoed from my phone.

Some people prefer voice messages for chatting, while others like to text.

My boyfriend was one of those who preferred typing, and so was I.

That’s why he rarely sent me voice messages. But his voice was undeniably pleasant to listen to.

Whenever I heard it, I’d always space out for a moment.

But this time was different.

...The words that usually comforted me suddenly overlapped with Corbin’s cold, indifferent voice in my mind, and for a brief moment, I actually thought they sounded eerily similar, like... like they were the same person.

That thought struck me like a cold wave, making me break out in a cold sweat.

...How strange. People with similar voices aren’t uncommon, but why would I think something so unsettling? It must have been the shadow Corbin cast on me today.

— “Ivy? What’s wrong?”

Once I came back to my senses, I realized I had overreacted, but still instinctively, I changed the subject.

“You mentioned your little brother was being bullied last time. Did that get sorted out?”

Last time, he jokingly told me how his cousin had his things taken at school and came crying to him for help.

I never asked how old his cousin was. I just assumed, based on his story, that he was a young boy, maybe seven or eight.

When I asked, my boyfriend, who usually loved sharing his life with me, paused for a rare moment.

But then he quickly masked it.

— “That girl didn’t agree to my request,” he said casually.

— “But it’s not a big deal.”

— “I sent her a picture, and I’m sure she’ll change her mind once she sees it.”

He was trying to win that little girl over with a photo, so those two could make up, right?

The frustration I had felt earlier began to lift, and I even found myself lost in thought for a while.

But for some reason, the more I thought, the more I felt a chill running down my spine, as though there were a snake hiding behind me, just waiting for the right moment to strike.

I finally understood what Corbin meant by those last words before he left.

By the time I had gathered myself and limped back into the classroom, still battered and bruised, several students stepped in front of me, trying to shield my view. Meanwhile, the student at the podium was frantically attempting to turn off the multimedia screen.

But I still saw it.

On the large display, someone had uploaded a nude photo of me and projected it onto the classroom screen, shamelessly flaunting it in front of my classmates, who sat there, uncomfortably close to me.

Even worse, someone had scrawled "Ivy, slut" on the blackboard next to it.

In that moment, I felt the blood rush from my head, as though it had all reversed course.

I turned my gaze stiffly toward my desk, holding on to a false hope. What was once a neat and orderly workspace was now a mess. Someone had scribbled all over it with a black pen—sleazy pick-up lines, crude insults, degrading comments... just vile, disgusting words.

The class erupted in laughter.

They eyed me with scornful, mocking, and dismissive expressions, while outside the open classroom door, I could hear people snickering, heads peeking in, passing judgment.

They said:

"Who would’ve thought? Ivy looks so cold and aloof, but she’s out here playing the field like that!"

They said:

"Good girl, huh? You know what I mean."

...

Those words reached my ears.

At that moment, my palms grew cold, and my entire body tensed.

I stood there, numb, as I listened to their cruel mocking.

Then, a sudden bang broke the tension, silencing the room for a brief moment.

Yvonne Mercer, who had always despised me, kicked over a desk and stood in front of me, halting the escalating chaos.

She lifted her elegant neck, looking around with a look of utter revulsion on her flawless face.

"Are you all out of your minds? Whether those photos are real or not, what does that have to do with Ivy? She’s the victim here! Did she want the photos to be shown to everyone? You should be blaming the ones who spread it, not running your filthy mouths here," she snapped.

A few voices grumbled in displeasure, murmuring from the back:

"What’s with the fake sympathy? Who doesn’t know she’s out there selling herself?"

"And why the act? Everyone knows how much you hate Ivy. Now you're suddenly playing the good Samaritan?"

"She’s been exposed, and you’re probably enjoying it deep down."

"Honestly, she just—"

Bang!

"Ahh!"

Before he could finish, Yvonne grabbed the guy by the hair and slammed his head hard onto the desk.

"You say she’s selling herself? Well, is that your expertise?" she hissed.

"What's wrong? You’ve been doing it too? Is that how you know so much?"

The guy couldn’t fight back, only enduring the humiliation, repeatedly having his head slammed into the desk, before meekly muttering, "You hate Ivy, don’t you? Why are you sticking up for her?"

Yvonne’s laughter was laced with fury.

"I might hate her, but I’d never use something this disgusting to ruin a girl’s life."

"You’ve known her for three years, haven’t you? Still don’t know what kind of person she is?"

She lifted her head and scanned the room.

"If you’re so ashamed of her, you can call the cops. Go tell her parents, but stop acting all high and mighty over there!"

"Is it fun bullying a victim like this? Does it make you feel good?"

A faint voice came from the corner.

"Whether Ivy did these things or not, you have no right to humiliate her like this."

Another voice followed.

"Do you not have mothers? Can’t you see Ivy’s the victim here? If your mom went through something like this, would you be blaming her for it, or would you go after the real culprits instead?"

One by one, people began to speak up.

A group of girls gathered around me, gently wiping the dirt off my face with tissues, fixing my disheveled hair, holding on to whatever fragile shred of dignity I had left.

Yvonne took off her school jacket and draped it over my shoulders, grasping my icy hand.

"It’ll be okay, Ivy."

"Look."

She pointed to a corner.

I blinked away the tears and followed the direction of her finger.

A group of girls stood together, holding wet cloths in their hands, wiping away the filth, erasing the disgusting stains from my desk.

"This will be fixed," she said softly.

In that moment, I felt like I could breathe again.

But then, the door to the classroom suddenly swung open. The class president, drenched in sweat, grasped the doorframe, panting for air.

"Ivy, forget about this school mess for now. Someone sent those things to your mom. She fainted on the spot and was rushed to the hospital. You need to go to her right away."

A loud crash echoed in my ears, and it felt as though the whole world had come crashing down.