The third-floor women’s restroom was a box of harsh light and echoing silence — every surface too clean, too cold, the fluorescent bulbs above buzzing like anxious insects trapped in glass.

  Rain tracked in on students’ shoes had slicked the white tiles to a dull sheen.

  Seraphine slipped inside like a breath of air.

  No voices.

  No footsteps.

  No witnesses.

  Perfect.

  She ducked into the third stall and clicked the lock shut.

  Not because she needed privacy — she just wanted the world to be quiet for a moment.

  A moment to let the mask rest, to loosen the invisible muscles she held tight all day.

  She closed her eyes.

  In. Out. Stay still.

  Not relief. Not sadness.

  Just stillness.

  Then—

  The door crashed open.

  A backpack hit tile. Shoes skidded.

  Someone dragged themselves in, panting like they’d outrun something with teeth.

  Seraphine’s muscles coiled.

  The intruder didn’t hesitate, didn’t check stalls, didn’t even breathe properly.

  She stumbled into the first cubicle and slammed the door.

  A beat of silence.

  And then the crying began.

  Not the polite, quiet kind made for hugging friends and borrowed tissues.

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  Raw, animal sobs.

  Like pain ripping its way out through her throat.

  Seraphine stayed frozen.

  Not because she cared.

  Because she listened.

  The girl wept into her hands, gasped, cursed, fought for breath.

  Then water turned on — a burst so frantic it sounded like panic.

  A splash hit tile.

  A few droplets flicked across the floor.

  Something wet slid toward Seraphine’s shoe.

  Pink.

  Then darker.

  Blood diluted to blush — creeping under the divider like it had a destination.

  The girl hissed through clenched teeth, a mantra she was forcing herself to believe.

  “It’s okay… it’s okay… I’m okay…”

  Her voice shattered again.

  Seraphine stared at the spreading stain, expression smoothing into something unreadable.

  This wasn’t heartbreak.

  This wasn’t stress.

  This was aftermath.

  Trauma wearing a school uniform.

  The girl wasn’t talking to Seraphine.

  She wasn’t talking to anyone alive.

  “Just a year left.”

  “I just have to make it to graduation.”

  “He said it won’t happen again.”

  A wet splash — the clatter of metal — a razor or something like it hitting the tiles.

  “Why didn’t I scream…”

  “Why didn’t I fight…”

  “Why did he pick me…”

  Seraphine exhaled silently.

  Recognition.

  Not empathy.

  There are wounds too familiar to misunderstand.

  Then one sentence cleaved through the bathroom like a blade:

  “Dr. Alano said it was my fault.”

  Seraphine’s pulse didn’t quicken.

  It slowed.

  She saw the professor in her mind — the soft-spoken man teaching masked disorders, the stares he thought no one noticed, the hunger tinting his voice when he said her name.

  Some predators had claws.

  Others had tenure.

  Minutes passed — or maybe seconds.

  Eventually the water shut off, and the stall door creaked open.

  Seraphine leaned forward, watching through the narrow gap.

  A girl emerged — mascara streaked, eyes red, throat blotchy.

  A slash of blood swiped across the inside of her thigh — hastily wiped, badly hidden.

  She faced the mirror and recoiled from her own reflection.

  “I can’t report him,” she whispered.

  Then she left — shoulders curved inward, footsteps fading into the corridor’s endless noise.

  The bathroom door clicked shut.

  Silence swelled back in.

  Seraphine waited.

  Ten seconds.

  Twenty.

  Only then did she unhook her lock and step into the fluorescent glare.

  The air felt metallic — like blood no one wanted to acknowledge.

  She stood where the girl had stood and stared into her own reflection.

  The girl everyone saw: soft features, clean uniform, gentle eyes.

  But those eyes weren’t gentle now.

  A shadow settled behind them — something steady, cold, and razor-sharp.

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, straightened her blouse, smoothed the line of her skirt.

  A ritual of order.

  Not vanity.

  Readiness.

  She grabbed a paper towel and wiped the diluted blood near her foot.

  The stain faded instantly.

  But something inside her did not.

  Her lips barely moved as she breathed out a thought — not a wish, but a verdict.

  Some monsters didn’t deserve a year.

  Some didn’t deserve another day.

  She pushed the door open and stepped back into the noise-filled hallway — just another student moving through a normal Wednesday.

  But in the harsh light behind her, something invisible had been stripped off and left crumpled on the bathroom floor:

  The last thread of her restraint.