My twin sister and I couldn’t be more different—two extremes of morality. She was born with a heart of gold, kind and selfless, but diagnosed with an intellectual disability. I, on the other hand, was born with a violent streak, tested positive for a “warrior gene,” and ended up in prison for assault. It wasn’t until I found out that my sister had been relentlessly bullied by her classmates that my world cracked open. They live-streamed her suffering on the dark web, letting viewers vote on how to torture her next. When the bullies promised that their next “show” would involve forcing her into gender reassignment surgery, I laughed. Live-streamed bullying? They have no idea I’m about to get out. Bullying is what I do best, too. When I walked out of prison, the other inmates breathed a collective sigh of relief. The weather outside was brutal—howling wind, thick snow falling in sheets. Not exactly a welcoming sight. But the person waiting for me wasn’t my sister, as we’d planned. Instead, it was my mother, her hair now completely white. She looked like she’d aged decades overnight. Her once lively, easygoing demeanor was gone, replaced by swollen, bloodshot eyes. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t take me home. Instead, she drove me straight to the hospital. Through the glass window of the ICU, I saw my sister lying on the bed, tubes sticking out of her fragile body. My fist slammed against the glass, my breath fogging up the surface as I tried to steady myself. “What the hell happened?” I growled. My mother’s trembling hands held up her phone. Through the chaotic noise of screams and laughter, I saw a video playing on the screen—a video of my sister. Her face was so swollen it looked like a balloon. That’s when I learned the truth. The sister who had always pretended to be happy and carefree had been tormented by her classmates for months. Not only did they bully her, but they also recorded it and streamed it on a dark web channel called Room 9 to make money off her pain. In the video, a girl with brown hair smirked as she drew a humiliating cartoon turtle on my sister’s face with a marker, complete with exaggerated features and crude anatomy. My sister’s face, once bright and innocent like a deer’s, was now swollen beyond recognition. Her tear-filled eyes were reduced to tiny slits, and wherever the marker dragged across her skin, it left deep, sunken lines on her inflamed face. The camera shook violently, showing my sister kneeling on the floor, stripped of her dignity, a dog leash around her neck. She couldn’t move. The laughter in the background was deafening. Three girls and one guy took turns humiliating her, each one laughing louder than the last. The brown-haired girl yanked my sister’s hair and haphazardly shaved it off. Then, she forced my sister to face the camera. “Say cheese for the big brothers watching!” she taunted. My sister’s weak, hoarse voice trembled as she managed to whisper, “You said there were stray kittens that needed help… You lied to me.” The brown-haired girl burst into laughter, exchanging amused glances with her friends as if to say, Can you believe this idiot? She covered her mouth with fake modesty, giggled, then tilted her head in mock flirtation. “Do I look like a little kitten? Meow~” she cooed, before erupting into more laughter. Behind her, the guy was already impatient. “Quit wasting time,” he snapped. “Let’s get started!” My sister was shoved to the ground, forced into a degrading pose with her legs, making the peace sign with her fingers. The louder the bullies laughed, the more gifts and donations flooded the livestream’s chat. The brown-haired girl, having had her fill of fun, adjusted her hair and leaned close to the camera, licking her lips seductively. “So, big brothers, what do you want to see next? We can do anything.” The chat lit up with suggestions. “Have you guys done the eel trick yet? Let’s relive the classics.” “+10086.” “I’ll send a gift for that. Everyone else, keep it coming.”
The brown-haired girl wore a mock expression of regret. “Too bad we don’t have the ‘props’ for that right now. Guess we’ll save it for the next stream.” The chat lit up with another suggestion: “How about golf balls? Three of them! I can see a golf set in the corner of the room!” The brown-haired girl turned to look, clapping her hands in delight. “Brilliant!” My sister’s hoarse voice cried out, begging for mercy, but her pleas only fueled their excitement. They pinned her down like a fish flopping on a cutting board, completely at their mercy. The anguished screams echoed through the phone’s speaker. My mother couldn’t bear to watch anymore, but I kept my eyes glued to the screen, memorizing every face. One of the bullies, a chubby girl, pulled a frozen popsicle from the fridge, a nasty smirk playing on her lips. “Let me help cool her down,” she sneered. “Maybe it’ll stop her from acting so desperate.” The next second, my sister’s head snapped back, her entire body convulsing in pain. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head before she passed out, leaving the bloody golf ball to roll onto the floor. The brown-haired girl bent down, picked up the bloodstained ball, and grabbed my sister’s swollen face, squeezing it viciously. “Weren’t you supposed to be kind? Weren’t you supposed to be pretty? Even that guy, Sean, liked you.” “Don’t think I don’t see through your act. Look at you—you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” She tried to shove the bloody ball into my sister’s mouth, but even unconscious, my sister’s jaw stayed clenched tight. The bullies pried her mouth open, pulling at her lips like cracking open an egg, until her teeth shattered. Blood and shards of enamel spilled from her mouth, choking her. The brown-haired girl recoiled in disgust, slapping my sister’s face. “Gross!” she exclaimed. Then they all started laughing again, as if this were the funniest thing they’d ever seen. I clenched my fists so tight my nails dug into my palms. The fury I’d been holding back began to boil over, clouding my vision. “Your sister lost several teeth,” my mother sobbed. “Her lower body was torn apart. They…” Tears spilled from her eyes as she choked on her words. “They stapled her…” Her voice broke. “They stapled her together with a stapler. The doctors said she’d need at least five reconstructive surgeries just to restore basic function.” “And that’s not all. They found thumbtacks in her stomach. And… and pieces of a cat.” “Your sister loved cats more than anything.” My mom collapsed to the floor, burying her face in her hands. “What did I do to deserve this?” she wailed. “Did you report it to the police?” I asked coldly, my voice cutting through the room like a knife. My mother’s sobs only grew louder. “We wanted to,” she cried. “But they threatened us. They said they had worse videos. If we went to the police, they’d make it so your sister could never show her face again.”
What the school and the bullies’ parents did next completely destroyed the last shred of my self-control. My parents, desperate for justice, went to the school first. The school, however, pretended like nothing had happened. The principal claimed, “Unless I see it with my own eyes, videos can be faked. For all we know, someone could’ve Photoshopped this. I could whip up ten more just like it.” It was all because the brown-haired girl’s father was one of the school’s major donors. That scumbag didn’t just refuse to hold his daughter accountable—he had the audacity to insult my parents. “Maybe you should get your daughter checked out,” he sneered. “Is her condition getting worse? Or maybe you two need to get checked—you’re dumb enough to believe everything a slow kid says. Unlike you, I’m busy and don’t have time for this nonsense.” Before my parents left, he couldn’t resist one more jab. “Don’t forget, we only admitted your daughter because we wanted to support people with disabilities. Maybe you should show a little gratitude instead of complaining.” Even my sister’s homeroom teacher defended the bullies, claiming that my sister had a “two-faced personality,” pretending to be sweet while secretly bullying others. The victim was painted as a villain, spat on and slandered. My dad couldn’t take it anymore. He went to the company owned by one of the bullies’ parents to demand justice. The result? The security guards dragged him to a spot with no cameras and beat him so badly he broke his leg. He’s still recovering at home. The bullies? Untouched. Unbothered. My family? Completely torn apart. I’d never heard of justice working like this. After much hesitation, my mother played me an audio recording. It was from the day my dad confronted the bullies. Their voices were filled with arrogance, dripping with mockery. “Oh, so you’re saying we bullied her? Fine. Then yeah, we did. We bullied her. What are you gonna do about it?” “When’s she getting out of the hospital? Next time, we’ll do the gender reassignment surgery for free. Hahaha!” The laughter was like knives stabbing into my mother’s chest. When she looked at me, her eyes were filled with despair. But I just smiled. “Bullying?” I said, my voice steady, calm. “In prison, bullying is what I do best.”
My name is Tiana Blake. My twin sister, Tara, and I may share the same face, but we’re polar opposites when it comes to morality. When we were kids, Tara and I once came across a sick puppy on the street. Tara cried, heartbroken over the poor thing’s suffering. I thought about it for a moment, then grabbed the puppy by the neck and snapped it. In my mind, the fastest way to end suffering is death. Tara, however, screamed and cried uncontrollably. Every holiday, when we visited relatives and the family butchered pigs, Tara would cry so hard she’d pass out. Meanwhile, I was the one pinning the pigs down, my strength unmatched by anyone else. Watching the blade sink in, white turning red as steaming blood sprayed across my face, brought me an addictive sense of satisfaction. As we got older, my parents eventually realized something was off with Tara. She was slow to react to things, so they took her for an evaluation. The doctors diagnosed her with a mild intellectual disability. Devastated, my parents told me it was my responsibility to look out for her. I took that mission to heart. But life has a way of piling on. One New Year’s, some bratty kid called Tara a “retard” and threw firecrackers at us. I pinned the kid down, lit an entire handful of firecrackers, and shoved them into his mouth. By the time the firecrackers went off, the kid’s baby teeth were blown to bits. His parents wailed and demanded $100,000 in compensation. My dad made me kneel in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary and pray for forgiveness. “Tiana,” he said, his face full of worry. “Do you understand how much pain you caused his parents? Don’t you care about their feelings?” I thought about it carefully, wondering how to stop them from feeling pain. Finally, I came to a conclusion. “Then we should just kill his parents too. That way, they won’t feel anything anymore.” The look on my parents’ faces shifted to pure horror. They took me to get evaluated as well. The results? They found the so-called “warrior gene” in my DNA. In short, I was born to be a criminal. A high IQ combined with a tendency toward extreme violence. Born with freakish strength and a knack for manipulation, my mind naturally gravitated toward solving problems in the most ruthless ways possible. The doctors were right. Trouble followed me wherever I went. When I was nine, my classmates made fun of me, saying I looked like the villain from a cartoon. I lured one of them outside, smashed his mouth with a brick until it was a bloody mess, then ran to the police station crying, claiming he’d attacked me and tripped while chasing me. At eleven, my uncle owed my dad money and hadn’t repaid it for years. At a family dinner, he mocked my dad, calling him money-hungry. I waited until he got drunk and went outside to pee, then cut his hand so badly it was barely hanging on by a strip of skin. I ran back to the table, crying to my relatives, claiming he’d tried to touch me inappropriately. I became a regular at juvenile detention, but I never stayed long. Each time I went, I’d learn a few new tricks before coming back out. By sixteen, I finally slipped up.
Tara saw an elderly woman fall on the sidewalk and, being the kind-hearted person she was, helped her up. The woman turned around and accused Tara of pushing her down. She checked herself into the hospital and refused to leave, claiming Tara had paralyzed her. In front of the media, the woman twisted her wrinkled face into a mask of self-righteousness. “I’m just an old woman,” she said. “I never lie.” Her family jumped in, shouting, “If she didn’t push you, why did she help you? Guilty conscience, huh?” So, I waited for my chance. I kidnapped that old hag, strapped her to the back of an electric scooter, and ran her over again and again. By the time I was done, she got her wish. She was permanently paralyzed. This time, I couldn’t get away with it. Security cameras caught everything. I’ve hated cameras ever since. Since I’d hit the legal age for criminal responsibility, I was sentenced to one year and eight months in prison. With good behavior, I only served a year. Good behavior was easy—I ruled the place. No one dared cross me, and I lived like a queen inside those walls. The vibration of Tara’s phone pulled me out of my thoughts. It was a message from those bullies. “Make sure you come back next semester. We’re not done playing with you.” Playing? I thought, a cold smile spreading across my face. They have no idea who’s about to start playing with them. I turned to my mom, forcing a sweet, innocent smile. “Do I look like Tara?” I asked. She flinched, her voice trembling as she answered, “Y-yes…” That winter break, I did only one thing: I collected every piece of information I could about those bullies. I found a class video someone had posted on social media—one of those cheesy school projects where everyone talks about their dreams. Watching it now was almost laughable. The brown-haired girl stood confidently in front of the camera, speaking with conviction. “My name is Wendy Young. My dream is to become a philanthropist, to help those in need, to make sure no one goes hungry or cold ever again.” Wendy lived in the upscale neighborhood of Riverwood Estates. I took a temp job as a delivery driver in the area, keeping a close eye on her house. Her dad, one of the school’s board members, owned a successful company. Her mom was a high-profile attorney. With parents who were always busy, Wendy was spoiled rotten and given free rein to do whatever she wanted. She’d become the queen bee of not just our school, but several others nearby. Rumor had it that Wendy once beat up a girl at a karaoke bar just because they were wearing the same outfit. The girl eventually jumped off a building, unable to cope, but the story mysteriously disappeared from the internet. Her two sidekicks were no better. One wanted to be a doctor, to “heal the sick and save lives.” The other dreamed of becoming a teacher, to “educate and inspire the next generation.” In reality, they were Wendy’s lackeys, doing her dirty work in exchange for favors and protection. Then there was the guy, Carl Stone. In the video, he flexed his muscles and bragged, “My dream is to become a cop, to take down criminals and serve justice.” Carl was nothing more than a spoiled rich kid, hopelessly infatuated with Wendy. She strung him along, and he followed her like a lovesick puppy. For fun, he spread disgusting rumors about Tara, Photoshopped obscene images of her, and even edited fake obituaries. Does karma exist in the world of school bullying? If it doesn’t, I’ll make sure it does.
It’s obvious—justice doesn’t always prevail. These bullies were born with privilege, backed by wealth and power, untouchable in a world where karma is just a fantasy that keeps victims clinging to hope. Without someone like me, they might have coasted through life, effortlessly reaching heights others could only dream of. But unfortunately for them, their only dream now will be escaping my grip. As I slung my backpack over my shoulder, I couldn’t help but smile—a deceptively sweet, almost goofy smile. Like a predator entering a city, I had no intention of obeying its rules. Social norms? Red lights? None of that mattered to me. The first day of school, the classroom buzzed with good spirits. The teacher stood at the front, directing students to clean the room. Meanwhile, Wendy Young and her gang of four lounged by the back door, eating sunflower seeds and laughing obnoxiously, their carefree vibe clashing with everyone else’s busyness. Wendy, chewing gum, pulled a perfume bottle from her bag and sprayed her hair liberally. Carl Stone leaned back in his chair, a cigarette between his fingers, blowing smoke in the teacher’s face without a care in the world. Lily, the chubby girl, cracked seeds between her teeth, smirking. “Do you think that idiot Tara will show up?” Lily sneered. “If she doesn’t, we’re gonna lose out on so much fun.” Wendy rolled her eyes, setting down her perfume. “Doesn’t matter where she transfers to,” she said lazily. “We’ll just find her and corner her at her new school.” Carl flicked his cigarette to the ground, sending sparks flying. “Damn,” he muttered. “Last time wasn’t enough. Next time, I’m bringing an eel—longer and thicker than ever.” At that moment, I pushed the door open and walked in. The teacher spun around, her hands on her hips. The moment she saw me, her face twisted into a scowl. “Your parents caused such a scene last year that I lost my bonus!” she snapped. “You’ve got some nerve showing your face here!” I didn’t respond. She wasn’t done. “If you’ve got a screw loose, you shouldn’t even be in school. Trash like you will never amount to anything.” “You’re the rotten apple ruining the whole barrel,” she spat. “Students like you are better off dead.” Wendy smirked, dragging out her words mockingly. “Don’t worry, Ms. Lee. My dad can fix your bonus—maybe even get you a promotion.” The teacher’s tone instantly changed. “Oh, of course. Thank you, Wendy. That would be such a big help.” I chuckled coldly. “So, you’re just a lapdog,” I said. The teacher’s face turned bright red, her dignity shattered in front of the class. “What did you just say?” she barked, storming toward me. But I didn’t flinch, which made her hesitate. She sneered, trying a new tactic. “Oh, I remember now. Your broke-ass dad was the one who kneeled at the school gates, begging for money. He looked just like a stray dog.” I cupped my hand around my ear, pretending to listen. “Do you hear that?” I said lightly. “Sounds like barking.” Her face contorted with rage. “I’ll rip that filthy mouth of yours to shreds!” She lunged at me, her hand reaching out, but I caught her wrist mid-air. With one quick twist, there was a loud pop as her shoulder dislocated.
I cleared my throat and yelled dramatically. “Ms. Lee, don’t pull my ear like that! It hurts!” My exaggerated cries drew a crowd of curious onlookers. The teacher, clutching her limp arm in agony, couldn’t free herself from my grip. I added a flourish, twisting her fingers with a loud, satisfying crack. “Ah! My fingers!” she screamed. “And my ear!” I shouted back. A teacher from the next room rushed in, his face pale. “Ms. Lee, you can’t just pull a student’s ear like that!” Sweat poured down Ms. Lee’s face as she struggled to speak, too overwhelmed by the pain. I leaned in close, whispering in her ear with a chuckle. “You’d better get that looked at. What if they can’t fix it?” Then I let go. She stumbled back, cradling her hand, the dislocated fingers trembling as she turned and fled with the other teacher’s help. Wendy, watching the scene unfold, didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. To her, it was just the return of some entertainment. She pulled a utility knife from her desk drawer, flicked the blade out, and pointed it at me. “Get over here,” she said. I took a slow step forward, my heartbeat quickening—not with fear, but with excitement. To everyone else, though, I must have looked terrified. Wendy grabbed a bucket of dirty water, spat into it, and kicked it toward her friends. The others followed her lead, spitting into the bucket until the surface was coated with thick, yellowish foam. Wendy leaned back, arms crossed, nudging the bucket with her foot. “Here’s your welcome gift,” she said smugly. “Drink it.” I glanced around. The other students were just spectators, watching with amused indifference. None of them planned to intervene. Behind Wendy, I saw him: Sean. The guy who’d caused my sister so much pain. He was sitting with his head lowered, pretending not to see me. Carl lit another cigarette, smirking. “Don’t rush,” he said. “Light my cigarette first.” I took the lighter he handed me, my face blank as they burst into laughter. “Look at her! What a dumbass!” someone yelled. “She’s so slow, it’s hilarious!” If it were my sister standing in this room, she’d be drowning in humiliation. But I’m not my sister. I grabbed the bottle of perfume from Wendy’s desk, twisted the cap off, and poured the entire thing into my mouth. The room fell silent, the laughter dying as they stared at me in shock. Smiling, I pulled out Carl’s lighter and flicked it on. Before anyone could react, I sprayed the perfume from my mouth, directing the fiery stream straight at Wendy’s face. The fire roared to life instantly, engulfing her smug expression and that perfectly styled brown hair. The stench of burning protein filled the air as Wendy screamed, flailing wildly, her hair a blazing inferno. She jumped up and down, shouting for someone to put it out. “Need help?” I said sweetly. I grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head into the desk. Bang! Bang! Bang! Each impact was sharper than the last. The flames finally went out, leaving Wendy dazed, her head spinning. She clung to the desk for support, struggling to stay upright. I smiled, grabbing her arm. “Let me help you with that.”
I hooked the handle of the bucket with my foot, grabbed it swiftly with my right hand, and flipped it upside down, slamming it over Wendy’s head. It was quick. Brutal. Neither Wendy nor her lackeys saw it coming. Wendy gasped, choking on the filthy water, gagging as she tried to breathe. Her once-pristine face was already blistering from the burn. She screamed in rage and panic. “What are you idiots waiting for? Kill this b****!” That snapped her crew into action. They all pulled out box cutters from their pockets, ready to charge. Carl was the first to lunge at me, but I sidestepped him with ease. The next second, I was behind him, grinning. “Too slow. Let me show you what speed really looks like.” Grabbing his wrist, I slammed his hand onto the table, pinning it under the stapler. I pounded down on the stapler repeatedly. Click. Click. Click. “AHHH! My hand!” The staples embedded themselves deep into his flesh until the stapler jammed against his bones. Blood oozed out, pooling on the desk. Feigning terror, I threw my hands in the air, shouting, “Please don’t hurt me!” Then I bolted for the door, pretending to run away. The morons thought I was scared and gave chase. I waited behind the door. The moment one of them, the girl with the pockmarked face, poked her head through, I slammed the door shut as hard as I could. BANG! The door smashed into her face, twisting it into a grotesque shape. She staggered, clutching her head, and I kicked her square in the chest, sending her sprawling on the ground like a flipped-over turtle. Carl burst through next, but I darted into the bathroom. “She’s cornered in the girls’ bathroom!” Wendy shrieked. “Block the door! She’s dead meat!” I laughed quietly to myself. They thought they had me trapped. But I wasn’t the one who was cornered. The bathroom door locked behind them. Wendy, still fuming from the burns, inspected her face in a broken mirror. “My face! You’re going to pay for this, you little freak!” She advanced toward me, her fury blinding her to the fact that I was backing away on purpose, luring her closer. She thought I was my sister—weak, helpless. She reached out to grab my shirt, but she didn’t realize that her attack range was also my attack range. I swung my fist like a hammer, smashing it into her face. The blistered skin on her cheek burst open, yellow fluid spilling out. The raw, red flesh underneath glistened in the dim light, and a layer of translucent skin hung loosely from her face. I smiled. Back when we slaughtered pigs for New Year’s, three punches were all I’d need to knock one out cold. But I wasn’t done playing with her yet. Wendy screamed, clutching her face, too scared to touch her wound. I grabbed my phone, threw an arm around her shoulder, and turned the camera on her mangled face. “Say cheese,” I said. “Go to hell!” she spat. “Not happy?” I tilted my head. “That’s disappointing.”
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