It was an ordinary afternoon on campus—until Seraphina cornered Mira near the library.

  The moment Mira saw that expression—cold, calculating, mildly condescending—she already knew this wasn’t going to be a friendly conversation.

  Seraphina crossed her arms. “You should stay away from Adrian Vale.”

  Mira blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing, but Adrian is not someone you can just… attach yourself to.” Seraphina’s eyes narrowed.

  Mira stared for a second. Then—

  She laughed.

  “Wait, wait.” Mira held up a hand. “Adrian Vale has a fan club?”

  Seraphina’s eye twitched. “Obviously. People actually admire him.”

  Mira shook her head in disbelief. “That’s… honestly understandable. But don’t you think this is a little childish? We’re not in high school. This is one of the top universities. Do you even have time for this ridiculous love scandal?”

  Seraphina’s glare sharpened. “This isn’t childish. You’re getting involved in things you don’t understand.”

  Mira sighed, crossing her arms. “If you have a problem, go talk to him. Unless… does he not even know who you are?”

  For the first time, Seraphina’s expression faltered.

  Mira hummed. “Oh. That’s interesting.”

  Seraphina’s hands clenched into fists. “You’ll regret this.”

  With that, she turned and walked away, heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

  Mira exhaled.

  “…That was weird.”

  She shook her head and headed to class, already pushing the encounter to the back of her mind.

  ?

  It started small. A neon sticky note on the side pocket of Mira’s bag—pink, smudged with what looked like lip gloss, stuck just above the embroidered patch of a mushroom she'd sewn herself last year during the club market.

  Oops! Try not to trip again, mushroom girl :)

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Mira was not the type to startle easily, and everyone knew it. She was already something of a legend in class—fearless in debates, the kind who didn’t flinch even when professors challenged her project on air pollution policy in front of foreign delegates.

  So she did what Mira Larkspur would do.

  She took out her phone, snapped a photo of the note with steady hands, then peeled it off with the care of someone handling fungus samples in a field lab. Someone had snapped a photo earlier that week—Mira walking across campus, salamander in hand, her posture steady, her face unreadable, silver hair catching the light like frost. The photo was low-resolution but unmistakable.

  The caption read:

  Salamander Queen making her royal rounds. Who gave her the crown?

  It spread. Edits were added—little doodles, mushrooms in the corner, a vine wrapped around her name in the comments. The tone was mocking. Her water bottle disappeared during a short break. It wasn’t valuable—just a scratched-up one with a moss green cap, old stickers peeling at the edges. She found it hours later, flattened and taped to the campus Lost & Found board. A new note was attached:

  Something slimy met its end. Hope the Queen’s okay :)

  That night, a new post appeared on the campus forum under Mira’s verified student ID.

  “To whoever’s been leaving notes, crushing bottles, and spreading anonymous photos:

  Everything has been recorded. Unless you’re a professional criminal or James Bond himself—able to leave no trace—you might want to rethink playing games with me. Your fingerprints are saved. Every item has been documented, catalogued, and timestamped.

  This isn’t a warning.

  It’s a notice.

  I will submit all materials to the appropriate authorities.

  And I won’t let it go.

  Sleep well.”

  It wasn’t just the content that made people pause—it was the tone. Mira didn’t sound angry. She sounded prepared.

  And whoever thought she'd be scared, they'd realized that they'd picked the wrong girl to provoke.

  ?

  But the game didn’t stop there. The next day, she found a bunch of blackmail notes stuffed into her campus mailbox.

  Ridiculous, childish threats.

  Mira stared at it for a long moment, then let out a slow breath.

  “Seriously?”

  Now, she was annoyed. Mira pulled the blackmail letters from her campus mailbox, flipping through them with mild irritation. Empty threats. Childish nonsense.ather th

  She sighed, pulled out her phone, and dialled.

  Camille picked up almost immediately. “Mira? What’s up?”

  “There’s a story for you.”

  Camille’s voice perked up in an instant. “Oh? Do tell.”

  Mira held up one of the letters. “Not yet. First, we need evidence. Meet me at my mailbox.”

  Camille didn’t even hesitate. “On my way.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Camille arrived, phone and camera in hand. Her usual teasing smirk faded when she saw the sheer number of letters.

  “Well. Damn.” She pulled out a pair of gloves before handling the papers. “Somebody’s really threatened by you.”

  Mira crossed her arms. “Or really stupid.”

  Camille carefully took high-resolution photos, documenting each letter before packing them into a folder. “I’ll make copies and log everything. You’ll need this if it escalates.”

  Mira nodded. “Good. Because something tells me this isn’t over.”

  And she was right.