They called her "Mouse."
Not to her face — not yet — but in whispers that followed her through the halls like stale perfume.
She arrived two weeks after spring term began, tucked between schedule reshuffles and the blur of mid-year apathy. Teachers introduced her with polite indifference. "Mira Toh," they said, gesturing toward the quiet girl in the corner. "Transferred from overseas."
She bowed slightly, said nothing.
Just another ghost added to the roster.
No one cared that she sat alone. That she never spoke unless called on. That she dressed plainly — long sleeves, neutral colors, never makeup. In a school built on legacy and spectacle, someone like Mira was invisible.
And the students of Brackley Academy had never been kind to the invisible.
It started with whispers. Always does.
"She doesn't blink much, have you noticed?"
"She stares at her laptop like it's speaking to her."
"Maybe she's, like, obsessed with someone? I heard she hacked the Wi-Fi already."
"She smells like old books."
"She's so weird."
Within days, they gave her a nickname: Mouse.
Small. Quiet. Unimportant. Easy to step on.
The name stuck. Someone scrawled it on her locker in fading red marker. One of the senior girls, Mara, giggled about it on TikTok — "There's always that one sad exchange student who doesn't get the social memo."
They mimed kindness when adults were nearby. But once the hallway cameras shifted, the cruelty dripped slow and cold.
A "missing persons" flyer taped to her dorm door — her photo poorly cut and pasted on a milk carton.
A dead mouse placed gently inside her locker in a Ziploc bag, complete with a bow.
Her stylus stolen. Her sketchpad flipped through and scribbled on with black marker: "Still Life = Still Boring."
She said nothing.
Did nothing.
Not even when Rika brushed past her and hissed, "Better stay invisible, transfer girl."
The teachers noticed, but not enough. The kind ones offered tight smiles. The cruel ones ignored it completely. Even Camille — who once looked at Mira for a second longer than usual — eventually turned her gaze back to her notes.
Because no one wanted to be the one who stood out.
And no one remembered what happened to the last quiet girl.
Not really.
But Mira Toh — Mouse — was not fragile.
She watched.
She recorded.
She learned their rhythm.
At night, while the others slept, she worked. Her room became a lab — laptops glowing, code running silent. Her fingers moved like dancers across the keyboard, pulling threads from the school's digital infrastructure, building profiles with terrifying precision.
Each insult became a data point.
Every cruel comment was timestamped and backed up.
Even the mouse — especially the mouse — was photographed, scanned, logged.
She added it to a folder called "Behavioral Patterns: Echo Map."
She didn't fight back. Not yet.
Because the plan required patience.
And the best revenge always begins with silence.
On Friday, she walked past Rika's table in the student lounge. No one looked at her.
That was fine.
She dropped a flash drive behind a couch cushion.
Thirty minutes later, the lounge TV screen glitched.
Then blinked on.
A sketch appeared — subtle, fading in like breath on glass.
A girl underwater. Hair like ink. Screaming in silence.
Five faces above the surface, melting, monstrous.
Only one student noticed. A sophomore. He stared for a moment, unsettled.
Then the screen went black again.
Everyone else laughed at something Mara was saying.
Mira walked away.
She never smiled.
But her eyes shimmered with something close to satisfaction.