The Student Government interviews were held in the three-hundred-seat lecture hall. I was hiding in the very last row, trying to blend into the shadows, when the president called me up to the stage. “I hear you have severe social anxiety,” he said, his voice echoing as he tapped the microphone with a smirk. “Perfect. Tell us your most shameful secret right now. Entertain us, and you’re in.” The crowd erupted into laughter. I stood under the harsh glare of the spotlight, my face burning so hot it physically ached. But it wasn’t out of embarrassment. It was because the curse I had spent nineteen years trying to contain was about to spill over. “My secret…” I whispered into the microphone, my chest tightening. “Is that I’m a human confessional. When my face turns red, whoever I look at has to confess their absolute worst, dirtiest secret.” Wilbert, the president, was the first to clap, laughing mockingly. “Creative. Nice storytelling skills.” Five seconds later, his smile vanished. He gripped the edges of the wooden podium, his body trembling violently. His mouth forced itself open, stretching unnaturally. “My admission essay—I plagiarized it from my roommate! Then I framed him for cheating so he’d get expelled instead of me!” The laughter of three hundred students died in an instant. A suffocating silence fell over the hall. I slowly turned my head toward the vice president sitting next to him. “Your turn.” … The vice president’s name was Chase Harrington. A junior, captain of the debate team, and arguably more powerful than the president himself. His father was the Executive Vice Chancellor of Oakridge University. When I looked at him, he was still grinning—that condescending, pitying smile that wealthy, untouchable boys give to people they consider beneath them. He thought this was all some elaborate, cheap magic trick. “That was quite the performance, Hazel,” Chase said, leaning back in his leather chair and crossing his arms. “But I’d advise you to stop while you’re ahead. Wilbert just has a big mouth and a guilty conscience. You didn’t do anything.” On the stage, Wilbert—the proud student body president—was currently collapsed on the floor. He had both hands clamped over his mouth, drool slipping past his fingers, his eyes wide with a raw, visceral terror. Like a man who had just been skinned alive in public. “I didn’t… why did I say that…” None of the three hundred people in the audience looked at him. Every single eye was locked on me. I could feel the temperature in my cheeks rising, a deep, hot crimson spreading across my skin. Chase should have run. He had the instincts of a debater; he should have recognized the shift in the room. But arrogance makes people foolish. He stood up, swaggering toward me. “You don’t actually believe you have some kind of superpower, do you?” He reached out, intending to pat my shoulder. “You’re just a—” His hand froze mid-air. I lifted my head, meeting his gaze dead-on. From where I stood, I saw his Adam’s apple bob convulsively. His lips began to twitch, pulling back over his teeth. “Don’t look at me,” he whispered, taking a panicked step back. “Don’t…” Then his voice changed, stripping away all of his practiced poise. “Our freshman year, at the welcome gala, Fiona Davis rejected me when I asked her out.” He gasped, trying to clamp his jaw shut, but the words tore through his throat anyway. “I created an anonymous account on the campus forum and leaked her private photos. Everyone thought she dropped out because she failed her classes, but she didn’t.” A collective, sharp intake of breath echoed through the lecture hall. “She took two bottles of sleeping pills because of me,” Chase sobbed, tears streaming down his face, yet his mouth kept moving relentlessly. “She survived, but she had to transfer to some tiny school out of state. My dad found out. He used his position to scrub the forum, delete the posts, and replace the administrators so there was no paper trail.” The sound of three hundred people breathing in unison was louder than any roar. I took two steps back, lowering my head, breaking the connection. Chase’s voice snapped shut. He stood frozen, the energy completely drained from his body. His knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily onto the stage. I walked down the side steps. In the aisles, students scrambled to pull their legs back, pressing themselves against the backs of their seats to stay as far away from me as possible. No one dared to look at me. And more importantly, no one wanted me to look at them. I pushed open the heavy double doors of the lecture hall, welcoming the rush of cold autumn wind in the corridor. Behind me, a girl started crying. I didn’t know who she was. Tightening my grip on my backpack straps, I ducked into the nearest restroom, locked myself in a stall, and slid down the wall, burying my face in my knees. My heart was hammering against my ribs. It wasn’t a feeling of triumph. It wasn’t satisfaction. It was that cold, familiar dread of having ruined lives again. For nineteen years, I had run from this curse. When I was seven, I got nervous and blushed while looking at my father during a family reunion. In front of thirty relatives, he blurted out that he had another family across town. My mother signed the divorce papers three days later. Before she packed her bags, she looked at me with pure disgust. “You aren’t normal,” she had said. “Stay away from me.” Since then, I had learned to walk with my chin tucked into my chest. I learned to never look anyone in the eye. I thought coming to a university where nobody knew my name would keep me safe. Today was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone up on that stage. But when Wilbert called my name, the people in the back row had pushed me. Someone had yanked my beanie, someone had shoved my back, whispering, “Go on, freak.” And by then, the heat had already flooded my face. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Notifications began to flood the screen. The campus forum, Instagram, group chats. Someone had recorded it. The video already had over a thousand views. By six the next morning, my phone had vibrated itself to death. The moment I plugged it in and turned it back on, over nine hundred unread messages cascaded down the screen, freezing the display for a solid thirty seconds. My name was the top trending topic on the university forum. The headline read: “Student Gov Interviews: Socially Anxious Freshman Makes President and VP Kneel on Stage.” The comment section was already forty pages deep. Some claimed it was a staged stunt. Others had dug into Wilbert’s past, confirming that his former roommate, Ian Mercer, had indeed abruptly dropped out during their freshman year. People were asking who Fiona Davis was. And some… some were asking: “Does this girl actually have the power to make people tell the truth?” I turned off the phone and pulled the duvet over my head. I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want a single soul to look at my face. My roommate, Becca, poked her head down from the top bunk. “Hazel? There’s someone in the hallway asking for you.” “Tell them I’m dead.” “It’s a guy,” Becca said softly. “He says he’s Wilbert’s old roommate.” I froze. When I climbed down from my bed, my legs were shaking. Standing at the end of the dimly lit hallway was a thin boy wearing a faded gray hoodie, his hood pulled low to cast his face in shadow. “Hazel Ward?” “Yeah.” “I’m Ian Mercer.” His voice was barely a whisper. “The roommate Wilbert mentioned last night. The one who got expelled.” He slid his phone toward me. On the screen was a screenshot of an old official academic dismissal letter from two years ago. “Plagiarism detection rate: 82%. Academic dishonesty. Immediate dismissal.” “That paper was mine from the first word to the last,” Ian said, his knuckles turning white as he reclaimed his phone. “I had no proof because he stole all my physical drafts and wiped my hard drive. Is… is what you did real?” I didn’t answer. He slowly nodded. “Whether it is or isn’t, thank you.” He turned to leave. “Ian,” I called out. He paused. “Where did you go after you were expelled?” He didn’t turn back. “Worked construction for six months. Eventually got into a community college. I graduate next year, but finding a decent job with that record is going to be hard.” By the time he reached the exit of the dorm building, a crowd had already gathered outside. There were students with phone cameras, campus student media reporters holding mics, and several students wearing the official red armbands of the Student Government. A girl with a high ponytail blocked my path. “Hazel Ward? I’m with the Student Government Disciplinary Committee. Your behavior at yesterday’s interview seriously disrupted campus order. You need to come with us for questioning.” I looked up at her. She flinched and took a hurried step back. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that.” “I’m not blushing,” I said quietly. I wasn’t. I was just incredibly, deeply tired. She darted past me and ran. At two in the afternoon, my academic advisor called, instructing me to report to the administration building immediately. In the office, alongside my advisor, sat a middle-aged man wearing an expensive gray suit. My advisor introduced him as Dr. Parker, the Dean of Student Affairs. Dr. Parker offered me a warm, superficial smile and poured a paper cup of water. “Hazel, what happened yesterday has gotten completely out of hand. The videos online have hundreds of thousands of views.” He leaned forward, adjusting his tie. “The university feels it would be best for everyone if you issued a statement. Just a simple explanation stating that yesterday’s incident was a planned, improvisational theater piece for the recruitment drive. It’s the best way forward—for you, for Wilbert, and for Chase.” I held the paper cup, the water trembling inside it. “What about Ian Mercer?” “Who?” “The student Wilbert plagiarized and got expelled.” The warmth faded from Dr. Parker’s eyes. “That matter is being handled internally by the administration. You don’t need to concern yourself with it.” “He’s been gone for two years. What exactly have you handled?” “Hazel,” his tone sharpened, the polite facade dropping away. “You’re a freshman. There are realities of how an institution works that you don’t yet understand. You don’t have to sign the statement. But your financial aid package, your housing placement, your credit transfers—all of these administrative processes require the approval of my office.” He stood up, smoothing his suit jacket. “I’ll give you three days to think about it.” “Did Chase’s father send you?” I asked. His steps faltered for a fraction of a second. He didn’t answer. He just opened the door and walked out. I didn’t get three days. That very night, my student portal showed my financial aid status had been changed to “Under Review.” My campus card’s laundry and dining funds were frozen. When Becca came back from the communal showers, she mentioned that the dorm supervisor had been asking strange questions about my daily schedule. On the third afternoon, my advisor called again. “Hazel, this isn’t Student Affairs anymore. The Registrar’s Office needs you to report to the campus clinic. They claim there was an irregularity in your freshman physical exam that requires an immediate psychological evaluation.” “A psychological evaluation?” “An assessment of your mental stability,” my advisor said, sounding genuinely uncomfortable. I sat in the corner of the dining hall, my fork suspended in mid-air. They were going to declare me mentally unfit. If they could stamp me with a diagnosis of “delusional” or “psychotic,” everything I had made Wilbert and Chase say would be dismissed as the manic ravings of a sick girl. Chase had said his father replaced the forum administrators. A Vice Chancellor had the power to delete a thread with a single click. And to ruin a freshman’s life, he barely had to lift a finger. I stood up, clearing my tray, when a boy stepped into my path. He was of average height, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, with the clip of a digital voice recorder peeking out of his jacket pocket. “Hazel Ward?” he said. “Hi. I’m Dylan Davis, with the campus newspaper.” “I don’t do interviews.” “I’m not here to interview you,” he said, keeping pace with me as I walked. “I came to tell you something. Fiona Davis—the girl Chase mentioned on stage?” I stopped. “She’s my sister.” Dylan pulled out his phone and showed me a photo of a hospital wristband. “Before she transferred two years ago, she swallowed sixty sleeping pills. It took five hours of stomach pumping to save her life. She’s back home now. She doesn’t leave the house, she doesn’t speak, she doesn’t see anyone. But she’s alive.” His jaw clenched. “Chase’s father used every resource the university had to bury the story. My sister couldn’t even go to the police because the digital evidence was completely wiped. I enrolled here specifically to find a way to expose Chase. But I had nothing. No proof.” He pointed to my phone. “Until now.” “A room of three hundred witnesses saw Chase confess. Even if they try to scrub the internet, I have the raw recordings backed up. But I need you to do one thing with me.” I looked at him, searching his eyes. “Come with me to see Dr. Thomas Parker, the Deputy Director of Academic Affairs. Chase’s academic records, Fiona’s forced withdrawal files, the approval logs for the forum formatting—it all goes through his office. He’s the Vice Chancellor’s loyal dog. All you need to do is look at him.” “I’m not a weapon for you to point at people.” “I know,” Dylan said softly. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he took a step closer. “Look into my eyes, Hazel.” I raised my gaze. He didn’t look away. There was no fear in him, only a quiet, steady resolve. My face didn’t burn. My heart remained calm. For the first time in nineteen years, I was looking into someone’s eyes and didn’t feel the sudden urge to run and hide. “Tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock,” I said. “Administration Building, Room 407. I’ll be there.”
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