Both of them—Veriza and her friend—froze like statues hastily cast from wet clay.
Their gazes trembled subtly.
It wasn't a tremor of panic, nor anxiety; rather, it was a chest-splitting astonishment—a shock that pierced deeper than mere surprise at the words Margaret had uttered.
Silence crept in, stretching, as if time had decided to hold its entire breath.
Neither of them was able to open their lips first.
Both were still busy collecting the fragments of Margaret's speech that had just struck them mercilessly.
"What did you just say?"
Veriza's voice finally came out.
She stepped forward, her pace scratching the ground with suppressed annoyance, until she stood right in front of Margaret.
"What did you just say?"
She repeated the sentence, this time with a gaze that was truly fed up, full of impatience. A heat suddenly washed over her entire body—a heat that did not belong to the scorching afternoon, but a heat born from a shattered ego.
"Why are you silent now, huh?!" Her tone leapt high.
She shoved her hand out and pushed Margaret's shoulder roughly—a quick shove that made Margaret's body sway for a moment before she regained her balance.
"Where is your courage now?!"
Veriza's eyes widened, darting across every inch of Margaret's face—as if she wanted to search for a crack, a flaw, or something she could use as a reason to feel superior. But all she found was a calmness that only made her hotter.
"Do you truly think that by spewing all that nonsense, you can feel safe... as if you are above me?"
"Aren't you a little too confident... for an arrogant girl like you?"
She moved forward again—the distance between them was only a breath apart. Her gaze was now so close to Margaret's eyes.
"Or... is it because you bothered to defend that weak little puppy, and you feel disturbed? Because you are its owner? Its master?"
Her tone was indeed soft, so slow that every word coming from her lips seemed carefully chosen, calculated, and given long, almost agonizing pauses. Every sentence seemed to take a full minute to traverse from one word to the next. But despite the slowness, the words pierced—sharp, cold, and unavoidable.
Then, a small, brief snort escaped her lips. The snort was not long, did not explode, but everyone who heard it felt its weight and insult.
After that, she stepped back.
Then, arrogantly, she folded both arms across her chest, her back straight, her chin slightly raised. The posture was not just a pose; it was a statement, a symbol of dominance implied in her body language, asserting that she stood above all the tension and intimidation she had created.
"If you are indeed its master, that only proves the saying: an animal raised the wrong way will act according to its master's teachings."
"And since your dog is a thief... the chances are high that you were the one who taught it, aren't you?"
"A little thief who then begs for mercy to be pitied."
"Tell me, are you also the same as your dog—fond of begging anyone for mercy?"
Every sentence was layered with an eroding, cynical tone.
She glanced sideways—towards her friend.
"You agree with me, don't you, Noor?"
The tone thickened, no longer just a remark; it became a demand, an almost forceful insistence, seeking support.
It was not just a request for agreement—it was a call to be part of her version of truth, to affirm that the insult she had just hurled was not a joke, not a coincidence, not mere empty words. It was the truth, from her perspective, and everyone around her had to submit to that reality.
Margaret's eyes flicked instantly to Veriza's side.
There stood a female student with neatly tied ponytail hair, her round, clear glasses were like glass lenses capturing all the surrounding light. At first glance, her expression seemed calm, even flat—there were no obvious emotions, like the still surface of a lake on a windless morning. But Margaret, who had just faced Veriza's emotional storm, knew well that such calmness could be deceiving.
Her eyes shifted again. This time glancing at the name tag pinned to her uniform.
"Noor Beriez."
"That name isn't in my class either. Is she her close friend, or even her classmate?"
Then her gaze rose again, sweeping over Noor's face once more—this time more intensely.
"Even so, it's none of my business."
"What's clear is that both of them are extremely annoying, and I'm trying desperately not to cause trouble here. They have no idea how sensitive I am to things involving animals—especially cats and puppies."
Her mutters spun around inside her own head.
She clenched both hands—tightly, as if holding a wild wind trying to escape. Behind her tightly shut lips, her teeth ground softly, a tiny sound only she could hear. There was a wild urge that wanted to be released, a force demanding physical outlet, but consciousness and self-control held it back.
Noor felt the stream of Margaret's gaze. A small, involuntary reflex took over her fingers; she adjusted her glasses, which had slightly shifted.
"You should look in the mirror first before spewing your long, clearly useless sentences."
"Did you think we were going to listen to all your blabber and comply with whatever is on your mind right now?"
"Wouldn't that be the same as trying to do something unwanted—as if you own a throne in this school and dare to command us?"
The tone that came from her lips was cold and sharp, like frost touching the skin, but it was spiced with a dramatic flair, as if she was suffering more than anyone else around her.
Veriza, who stood beside her, gave a brief nod—a compact movement that meant every word Noor had uttered also found a place in her head.
"You know who we are, don't you?"
"If you already know, you should realize who is standing in front of you... and you should try to not be so—"
Her words abruptly stopped. Not because she had run out of reasons, but because her eyes inadvertently caught the name pinned to Margaret's uniform. Her gaze froze for a moment, then sharpened slowly—as if she had just opened a page she should have read much earlier.
"Margaret Visclonew?"
She repeated the name, this time with lips that moved more slowly.
Then her gaze returned to Margaret's face—more meticulous, more calculating, like someone who had suddenly found a puzzle piece she had wrongly ignored.
"So you're the new student at this school?"
The tone contained a spark of astonishment, but not innocent astonishment—rather, astonishment born from belated realization.