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Silence greeted Maya Lane as she stepped through the wide gates of Blackridge High.
It wasn't literal silence—students were chattering, lockers were slamming, and sneakers squeaked against the polished floors—but in her world, it was quiet. Isolated. Cold.
Eyes trailed her every move.
She didn't belong here anymore. Not in the same halls where Mira once laughed, where Mira's name was whispered with love. Now, when people whispered Maya's name, it dripped with venom.
Murderer.
Fake.
Wrong twin.
Her fingers clutched her books tighter against her chest. Her uniform, a little snug in the chest and hips, drew unwanted attention—just like always. But this time, it felt heavier, more accusatory. No one cared how soft her voice was, how gently she spoke. All they saw was the shadow of the girl who should've lived.
"Should've transferred," someone muttered as she passed.
Her legs froze.
"Maya."
The voice was cold. Sharp. Like a scalpel.
She turned slowly.
Elias Cross stood near his locker, arms crossed, one brow cocked as if she were filth he couldn't quite scrape off his shoe. His inky black hair fell across his eyes, and despite the mockery in his tone, there was something dangerous simmering beneath the surface. A calm, quiet rage.
He looked even colder than at the funeral.
And so much more beautiful.
"Didn't think you'd have the guts to show your face here," he said, his voice low enough for only her to hear, but firm enough to cut through her like a blade.
"I…" Maya swallowed. "I have every right to be here."
"Do you?" Elias took a step closer. Towering. Intimidating. "Tell me, Maya. When you close your eyes at night… do you see her?"
Her mouth parted, trembling.
"I do," he whispered. "Every. Single. Night."
She couldn't breathe.
"And you know what hurts most?" he continued, a cruel smirk playing at the edge of his lips. "You wear her face. You stole it. Every time I see you, I wish it was her instead."
Maya flinched as though he'd struck her.
"I didn't mean for her to—"
"I don't care what you meant." His voice was suddenly low, venomous. "You're going to pay for what you did."
Then he walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers deliberately hard.
And in that one, cold moment, Maya realized:
She wasn't just hated.
She was marked.
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