Kiera’s weekend wasn’t anything like what you’d expect from a normal teenager her age.
While others were out laughing with friends, going to cafes, sharing photos, or just lazing around together, she was alone.
Again.
Of course, it wasn’t always like this.
She used to have friends—half of the school, really. Her name carried weight, her talent attracted attention, and her presence lit up any room.
But now?
Now, they wouldn’t even look her in the eye. The same people who used to tag her in stories and invite her out were now whispering behind her back. Pretending she didn’t exist. Spreading rumors like wildfire.
Just like how she did it to Rin Evans.
That thought made her stomach twist.
She sighed, picking up her phone.
A flood of notifications greeted her. Her messenger was filled with insults from people she didn’t even know. Numbers she had blocked yesterday were replaced by new ones today. Eventually, she just gave up and turned off the notifications entirely.
Everything had been going so well when she first entered the academy. She made friends easily, had admirers, earned respect. Her talent opened doors, and she walked through them with confidence.
So when did it all start to crumble?
Was it when she decided admiration wasn’t enough?
Or maybe it was when she pushed someone else down just to climb a little higher?
Probably both.
Her eyes lingered on the screen, scrolling through a few more hateful messages before locking the phone again.
And for some reason... she thought of him.
"The loser wouldn’t insult me even if I messaged him, would he?"
She already knew the answer.
Of course he wouldn’t.
But then came the memory—Rin’s voice, sharp and cold, cutting through her guilt like a blade:
—"Do you really think I don’t have the right to hate you?"
—"Whether I hate you or not doesn’t matter."
—"The people you hurt—me, others... That’s not something you get to erase with guilt. You should be asking yourself if you’re even worth forgiving."
She closed her eyes, the weight of those words pressing hard on her chest.
He was right.
She deserved this.
She had burned too many bridges, said too many careless things, turned too many people into tools.
And now, here she was—a so-called social butterfly, wings clipped, grounded, and alone.
Exaggerated rumors.
Cold glares.
Friends turned strangers.
Followers turned enemies.
"...I’m really in deep shit, huh?"
She laughed, dry and bitter.
But amidst all the rejection, there was one person who hadn’t turned away from her.
Not that he talked to her. He didn’t even acknowledge her most of the time.
But that indifference? That lack of malice? That was more comforting than anything else she’d experienced lately.
That loser.
Even with Rin’s cutting words still fresh in her mind, Kiera found herself wanting to talk to him.
Anything.
Even small talk.
Maybe just to see someone look at her without contempt.
With a flicker of hesitation, she picked up her phone again. Her fingers hovered over the screen.
Only to groan and set it down.
"...I don’t even have his number."
Of course she didn’t.
They weren’t close.
Not even acquaintances, really.
She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. "What am I even thinking..."
Was I actually going to message him?
The thought spiraled.
If I became friends with the loser... maybe he could help me patch things up. Mediate. Soften the rumors.
That’s all.
Sure.
Right.
"What is he even doing now?" she murmured to herself. "Does he have people to hang out with?"
Probably not.
But still—if she had messaged him...
"...Would he have shown up?"
God, she was losing it.
Actually considering reaching out to someone she used to mock.
But strangely, that didn’t make her stop thinking about it.
She stared at her phone again.
"...Should I ask for his number on Monday?"
A beat passed.
Then she groaned again, pulling a pillow over her face.
"Yup. I’m officially insane."
---
It’s honestly not so bad being in the body of a teenager.
After belting out songs until my enhanced vocal cords were practically begging for mercy, and stuffing myself with spicy kimchi fried rice and a mountain of pork cutlet, I was fully prepared to accept death as the natural consequence of fun.
I mean it—I was lying there, bloated, half-conscious, thinking, "Yeah, this is how I go. Worth it."
But to my surprise, I woke up the next morning not only alive but... mostly fine. Aside from a scratchy throat and a vague sense of regret, I felt great.
Turns out, the combination of this freakishly resilient teenage body and the [ The Oath of the Saint] passive healing was a lot stronger than I gave it credit for.
Honestly, if I’d tried something like that right after transmigrating, I probably would’ve needed an IV and an exorcist. So maybe this wasn’t just teenage metabolism—it was a reward for all the hell I’d gone through lately.
Either way, being healthy? Definitely not complaining.
"Ugh..."
A low groan echoed from across the room.
Unlike me, there was someone paying the price for their reckless joyride.
I turned to the bed next to mine, where Leona lay curled up like a defeated warrior, hugging her stomach and quietly suffering.
"I told you not to eat the spicy cutlet," I said, not even bothering to hide my smugness.
She glared at me, then winced as the movement probably made the burning in her stomach worse.
This was the same person who had mocked me—mocked me!—for playing it safe with the regular cutlet. Called me a coward, even.
And now here she was, face pale, sweating, and making those tiny dying-whale noises people make when they try to act like they’re not in agony.
I grabbed a bottle of water from the desk and walked over.
"You want some?"
She gave me a slow nod, like she was accepting her final communion.
I handed it over and watched her take the tiniest sip imaginable before immediately regretting it.