Five of them—I was right—blocking the path between me and my locker. The ringleader is the blonde from earlier, the one who made snide comments about charity cases. Her friends flank her like lieutenants, all wearing matching expressions of righteous indignation.
How adorable.
They think they're intimidating.
None of them respond to my request.
They just stand there, glaring, as if the force of their collective hostility will somehow make me spontaneously combust.
One-two-three-four.
My fingers flex at my sides.
One-two-three-four.
I brush past them.
My shoulder connects with the blonde's arm—harder than necessary, a deliberate statement—as I move toward my locker. They let me through, apparently deciding that whatever confrontation they have planned can wait until I'm dressed.
Smart.
Naked people are unpredictable.
Too much vulnerability makes everyone uncomfortable.
My locker opens with a click.
Inside: my uniform, neatly folded. My bag, containing Ro and the few possessions I managed to salvage. My blades, waiting in their sheaths like old friends eager to say hello.
I start getting dressed.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Taking my time like I have all day, like there aren't five hostile Omegas standing behind me, like I can't feel their eyes boring into my back with the particular intensity of people working up the courage to start something.
Underwear first.
Simple black cotton—nothing fancy, nothing designed to impress. I step into them with careful precision, adjusting the waistband before reaching for my bra.
"Hurryup."
The blonde's voice is sharp.
Impatient.
I ignore her.
Fasten my bra.
Reach for my skirt.
"Did you hear me? I saidhurry up."
"I heard you."
I step into the skirt, pulling it up over my hips, zipping the side with meticulous care.
