I'm Not Like Them

Chapter 12

Rania’s fury was uncontained. She grabbed another by the collar, shoving her hard, then slapped the third across the face, the sound echoing down the corridor. Her movements were sharp, precise, almost mechanical, as though years of restrained rage had suddenly been unleashed.

The crowd’s cheers and shouts blurred together. Phones lifted, recording.

Then—“Enough!” Evan’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

He stood at the edge of the circle, breath caught, eyes wide. For the first time since meeting her, he saw her not as the composed, analytical student who answered his questions with measured calm—but as something else. Her anger was raw, primal, almost monstrous.

Avery and Chelsea rushed to her, panic on their faces. “What are we going to do?” Chelsea whispered urgently.

Evan said nothing. He couldn’t. He was staring, transfixed. At Rania—the girl who, in that moment, looked less like his brightest student and more like a storm barely contained in human form.

The students’ voices rose in a chaotic chorus—some gasping, some cheering, others whispering frantically as phones were tucked away the moment faculty footsteps echoed down the corridor. But Evan didn’t hear any of it.

His gaze was locked on Rania.

Her breathing was ragged, strands of hair falling across her face, her glasses slightly askew from the struggle. Yet her eyes burned—not wild, but calculated, like she had chosen every blow, every strike, with cold precision. There was no hysteria, no loss of control—only the terrifying clarity of someone who refused to be broken.

For the briefest moment, Evan forgot the students, forgot the scene around them. All he saw was her anger blazing into something he recognized far too well—something he had wrestled with in the quiet of his own mind. A monster, yes, but a familiar one.

Avery’s voice snapped him back. “Professor Laurent! Please—do something!”

Evan blinked, jaw tightening, but before he could speak further, another teacher arrived, cutting through the crowd with the sharp authority of heels striking the tiles. The incident dissolved into commands and dispersals, students scattering reluctantly, muttering as they went. Rania stood still, chest heaving, as if carved into the eye of a storm.

***

The dean’s office smelled faintly of old paper and polished wood. A wall clock ticked with deliberate slowness, amplifying the silence as Rania sat in a wooden chair opposite the desk. Her glasses were back on, her expression smooth, though a faint bruise darkened her knuckle.

The three women sat huddled together on another side of the office, sniffling and clutching tissues as though they were victims of some unspeakable cruelty. Their occasional glances toward Rania carried equal parts fear and satisfaction.

Evan stood beside the dean’s desk, posture stiff but voice measured. “Dean Alonzo, if I may—what happened was regrettable, yes. But context is crucial. Miss Veyra was provoked. Severely. Her peers insulted her character, her family, and physically assaulted her first.”

The dean, a graying man with weary eyes, folded his hands atop the desk. “Professor Laurent, I understand your concern. But violence—especially of this magnitude—cannot simply be overlooked. This is an academic institution, not a battleground.”

“Of course,” Evan replied, calm but insistent. His eyes flicked to Rania, who remained silent, her gaze fixed on a spot on the floor. “But she is not the aggressor in essence. If anyone reviews testimonies from the corridor, they’ll hear the same thing I did: she defended herself. It may not excuse the intensity, but it explains it.”

One of the women burst out, “Defended? She slammed me into the wall! Look at this bruise!” She thrust her arm forward dramatically.

Evan’s lips pressed into a thin line. He turned back to the dean. “Students should not be free to torment others without consequence. Rania reacted strongly, yes, but not without reason. Surely the institution can recognize provocation when it occurs.”

The dean leaned back in his chair, sighing. “It isn’t as simple as reason. Appearances matter, Professor. A violent outburst—no matter the cause—casts a shadow on her record, and on yours, if I may add. She is known to be… close to you in class.”

The words lingered like smoke. Evan stiffened, catching the insinuation, but he forced himself to remain composed. “My professional assessment of her remains objective, Dean. She is a bright student. Whatever happened today—this is not her norm. It is a fracture under pressure. What she needs isn’t condemnation. She needs guidance.”

The dean studied him for a long moment before his gaze shifted to Rania. “Miss Veyra, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Silence. Then, slowly, she lifted her head. Her eyes were calm again, but something unreadable flickered beneath them. “No,” she said flatly. “I don’t need to explain myself to people who already made their judgment.”

The dean frowned. Evan opened his mouth to interject, but the words caught in his throat. He realized, with a sudden unease, that Rania wasn’t seeking to be defended at all. She had chosen silence as her weapon, letting others flail against it.

And in that silence, Evan thought again of what he had seen in the corridor—her rage like a monster unfurling its wings.

He tightened his grip on the folder in his hand. He wasn’t sure if he was here to defend her, or to keep that monster from consuming them both.