Chapter 3

Brianna followed Chloe's gaze, looking me up and down with curled lips.

"Right? And she’s supposed to be our Class President. Hoarding every advantage for herself... disgusting."

Chloe chuckled softly. "Don't be so harsh."

The two giggled in the hallway—not loudly, but every word dripped with condescension.

I leaned against the railing, flipping through my literature flashcards, reciting quotes and rhetorical formulas in my head.

I couldn't be bothered to waste breath on them.

Seeing me ignore her, Chloe took two steps closer, dropping the fake sweetness.

"What's wrong, Avery? Cat got your tongue? Feeling guilty? Or are you scared I’m about to blow you out of the water?" She smirked. "If you're begging for a sip, I guess I could spare you a drop or two."

I snapped my flashcards shut and looked up at her calmly.

"If you two want to chat, take it somewhere else. I’m busy reviewing."

Chloe’s expression turned sour. She opened her mouth to snap back, but the proctor stepped out of the hall, speaking in a firm, authoritative tone:

"Doors are opening. Keep the noise down. Do not disturb other candidates."

Chloe and Brianna exchanged annoyed glances and shut their mouths.

I reopened my cards, moving on to the next set of formulas.

At eight-twenty, the entrance bell rang.

Metal detector checks, ID verification, seating assignments.

My desk was by the window in row three. Chloe sat dead center in row two, right in front of me. Brianna was tucked away in row five.

I set down my pencil case, laid my ID badge on the top right corner, took a deep, steadying breath, and closed my eyes.

When the proctors handed out the Literature exam booklets, my heart gave a slight flutter.

I cracked open the cover.

The first analytical passage... I remembered it.

The historical synthesis prompt... I remembered it.

Every single question, every line of text—it was burned into my memory.

In my previous life, I had slipped up on this exact test. I misread the thematic essay prompt and barely scraped an average score on the verbal section.

I wouldn't make that mistake again.

Gripping my pen, I began working methodically from the very first question, filling out the bubbles with icy precision.

Halfway through the testing block, I heard a restless rustling coming from row two.

I glanced up.

Chloe was squirming in her seat, one arm wrapped tightly around her stomach, her face chalk-white.

The proctor noticed the movement, walked over, and leaned down to whisper a question.

Chloe shook her head violently, her lips trembling as she muttered something—likely insisting she was fine and could push through.

The proctor hesitated, then walked back to the podium.

But Chloe was deteriorating fast. Her entire body began to shake visibly. Beads of sweat dripped down her forehead like rain, and the hand clutching her pen was trembling so hard that her handwriting turned into jagged, illegible scrawls.

Back in row five, Brianna wasn't doing any better. Her chair creaked relentlessly as she shifted back and forth, her breathing growing ragged and heavy.

The proctor marched back down the aisle, her voice louder this time. "Miss, are you okay?"

Chloe tried to speak. Her mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out—her vocal cords seemed locked in a spasm.

Then, her eyes rolled back, and she slumped sideways, sliding off her chair entirely.