My Valentine's Virus

Level 4: Zone_Warden

The typical nerves of stage fright don't hinder me as much as they used to. I've honed my skills in addressing and manipulating an audience of this magnitude since I was a kid.

Opal Mayor, my father's friend and headmaster of this school, hands me her mic. I keep my gaze forward in my stride, holding my breath so as not to inhale her dusted magnolia perfume.

I begin my speech with a sarcastic tone. "Greetings, my fellow script kittens."

I stalk the stage, and my eyes fall on a young woman with unkempt dark hair snuggled in a black cardigan covered in lint, who sauntered in at the last minute.

After my speech left the audience frothing, I presume my hidden message to Abigail in the crowd hit from my timed message.

I'm not sure what I expected. Maybe a nerdy-looking girl fleeing from the auditorium in tears, standing up to reveal herself in a martyr-like fashion, or something between the two. Right on cue, I observe the one I suspect in the shadows of the crowd, peeking at her phone.

This is her. I know it is.

My prey gifts me a reply from a hidden number in my presentation. A satisfied grin stretches over my face when I stride off the platform.

Applause follows as I head to my dressing room. She reclaims her microphone, avoiding the headmaster's glare, and I glance at Princess's reply on my watch.

Unknown: You'll find, I'm not so easy to impress, Xalton.

The girl's got nerves built from steel. Her reply spreads through my mind like a virus. I'm in her goddamn home base drinking tea, and all I get is a line translating to "try harder, butt munch."

I need to make my intentions clear. I plan on hurting her—torture her for thinking she has the mettle to contest me.

Concentrated fury turns time as I change attire. I face the wall-length mirror, barely able to recognize myself in the shadows of my hood.

I'll be the last face she sees before taking her life. I grab the switchblade from the compartment at my waist and test the blade's point with a finger.

Blood pebbles from the immediate prick, and I retract the edge, return it, and zip up my jacket.

I'm used to ruining lives from the comfort of my home, but what difference would it make if I ended one in person? I don't care what shedding her blood turns me into—she made me this way, and there's not much stopping me from executing her.

Descending the steps, I navigate the shadows of the audience for a better view of my little rival amidst the sea of bobbing heads. The moron remains in the dusk of the auditorium.

That spark of superiority emanating from her is so thick that no one else can possess it—the same intangible scent that wafts off my computer screen whenever she logs in. But she can't hide behind it here anymore. We've spared online like a pair of conceited thirteen-year-olds. But this is reality, Princess, and I hold reign here, too.

The headmaster drills on about the school's illustrious history, and I sit two rows behind her in the thick darkness.

Her little classmates in front of me attempt to provoke her about her appearance and... aroma. I inhale the orange juice and bacon scent even from way over here, and a smile tugs on the corner of my lips. It's not a bad smell per se, just unexpected.

Some of the comments I overhear are harsh, and these Chanel-raised brats aren't the type to hold back their punches.

I don't have sympathy for her, but I don't have a desire to join in either. I lean to get a better look at her since... I'm curious to know what she looks like in person. I study how she reacts from her backside. The blanket of darkness doesn't help one bit, but I can examine each micro-expression during the ceremony.