Later that afternoon, as Mira crossed the nearly empty stretch between buildings, something gnawed at the edge of her senses, an off-kilter feeling, like a chord struck slightly out of tune. The sun was still high, students milled about in the distance, but here, in this quieter pocket of campus, the air felt wrong.

  Then, movement. Two men stepped out from behind the stone column of a side corridor, their presence immediate, calculated. They didn’t wear student lanyards. They weren’t supposed to be here.

  Mira slowed instinctively, her breath catching. Before she could fully register what was happening, one of them closed the distance and grabbed her wrist—twisting, hard, until pain shot up her arm like fire. Her knees nearly buckled from the sharp sting, but she clenched her jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream.

  The man leaned in close, breath too calm for the violence in his grip.

  “You need to learn your place,” he said, every word dipped in contempt.

  Mira’s eyes locked onto his. Cold. Defiant.

  “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

  The second man stepped forward then, expression casual, lips curled in a smirk.

  “You keep pushing,” he said softly, “and someone you care about might get hurt. Do you really want to test how far this goes?”

  Her wrist burnt, but her eyes sparked with fire.

  “If anyone touches my friends,” she said, her voice low and razor-sharp, “you’ll wish you never stepped foot near me.”

  Both men paused.

  Their expressions changed. Then, just as quickly, they turned and disappeared down the corridor, vanishing into the crowd like shadows returning to darkness.

  Mira stood there, chest tight, wrist pulsing with pain, fury humming through every nerve.

  Her mind reeled.

  Seraphina.

  Those men.

  And Adrian.

  She wasn’t sure which name made her heart pound hardest.

  What the hell did she do? What the hell were these people thinking?

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  ?

  Mira made her way to the university clinic, her left wrist swollen and aching. She pulled out her phone and called Elias.

  He answered immediately. “Mira?”

  She took a steady breath. “I need you to come to the clinic.”

  Elias’s tone shifted, sharp, serious. “Are you hurt?”

  “Yes. But that’s not why I called.”

  “What happened?”

  Mira exhaled slowly. “I need evidence. And I need a real lawyer. I’m going to the hospital. And you’re coming with me.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Mira ended the call, gripping her phone tightly.

  Seraphina Duvall had made a big mistake.

  And Mira was about to make sure she paid for it.

  ?

  Mira sat at the edge of the bed of the clinic room, her injured wrist now wrapped in fresh bandages. The pain had dulled to a manageable throb, but the real ache ran deeper, in her pride, in her trust, in the illusion that this ordeal had ended.

  Elias stood across from her, silent for a moment. Then, he crossed the space between them and set the medical report carefully on the counter.

  “You did the right thing calling me,” he said, tone low and even. “But now we need to be meticulous.”

  Mira looked up, brows furrowed. “So what’s next?”

  “First,” he began, “we need to collect every piece of physical evidence while it's still fresh. The medical report is step one, it proves the injury exists, was recent, and was not self-inflicted.”

  He gestured to her wrist. “You’ll also need a second opinion from the hospital, ideally today. A more detailed scan and an official injury assessment to support this documentation.”

  Mira nodded slowly, listening.

  “Second,” Elias continued, “we gather visual evidence. Camille’s photos—taken right after it happened—will help. I’ll file a formal request to access the campus surveillance footage near where it occurred. Depending on campus policy, they might delay or deny it, so we’ll need a professor or legal advisor to cosign it.”

  “And if they refuse?” Mira asked.

  “We file a legal notice of incident. That forces a record to exist—even if they delay, they’ll be accountable.”

  He paused, then added, “But that also means making this official. Your name. A formal complaint. The university administration will get involved. Possibly the police.”

  Mira’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t flinch.

  “Third,” Elias said, voice quieter, “we anticipate the backlash. These men didn’t act alone. Someone sent them. If that person has influence, they’ll try to bury this or twist the story. You’ll need witnesses, Camille, Elara, anyone who saw your wrist after. And you’ll need to prepare for your credibility to be questioned.”

  Mira was silent for a moment. Then: “I don’t care.”

  Elias met her gaze, eyes hard. “Good. Then you’ll need a written statement from yourself, dated today, describing the encounter in full. No edits. No guessing. Just the facts as you remember them. I’ll help you phrase it properly.”

  She gave a slow nod. “What else?”

  “A hospital report. Photos. Security footage. Witness statements. Your written account. That’s the foundation. After that, we decide: file through the university first, or go to the police directly.”

  Mira drew a breath. “And if we do both?”

  “Then we hit them from two sides. If one tries to protect themselves, the other will be watching.”

  Silence stretched between them, weighted and electric.

  Then Mira stood.

  “I’m not scared,” she said.

  “I know,” Elias replied. “But now, they should be.”

  ?