Chapter 1

The last thing I remembered was the world turning sideways. The scholarship trophy I was about to receive slipped from my grasp, its sharp corner hitting the stage with a loud crack that echoed my own breaking point. Madison was standing there, tears streaming down her face, pointing a trembling finger at me.

"She cheated," Madison sobbed, her voice carrying across the silent auditorium. "She plagiarized her entire project. I saw her."

It was the final nail in the coffin. A coffin Madison had been building for me since the day we became roommates. Her innocent face, her wide, clueless eyes-they were weapons she used to dismantle my life piece by piece. She got me a failing grade by "honestly" telling our professor I'd signed her in for a class she skipped. She isolated me from my friends by spreading "worried" rumors about my mental stability. And now, she had taken my future.

I was expelled. My name was dragged through the mud. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on me until I couldn't breathe. I ended it all on a cold, rainy night, a final, desperate act to escape the torment.

Then, I felt a sharp, annoying poke in my side.

"Chloe? Are you awake?"

My eyes snapped open. The light was too bright. The air smelled of cheap lavender air freshener and old pizza. My own dorm room. I sat up so fast the world spun.

Across the room, Madison stood by my bed, holding a textbook. She had that same familiar, vacant look on her face. A look I had once mistaken for innocence. Now, all I saw was the malice hiding beneath.

"I don't get this question," she said, pointing to a page. "It's for Professor Miller's class tomorrow. Can you help me?"

I stared at her. Professor Miller's class. The class she would get me to fail. This was it. This was the day it all started. The very first day of her calculated destruction. I was back.

A cold, hard feeling settled in my chest. It wasn't fear. It was rage. Pure, undiluted rage.

I looked at her, then at the textbook. I didn't say a word. I just snatched the book from her hand, tossed it onto her own messy bed, and lay back down, pulling the covers over my head.

Madison gasped. "Chloe? What's wrong? I just needed help."

Her voice was laced with a fake, wounded tone. In my previous life, I would have immediately apologized and spent the next hour explaining a concept she had no intention of learning.

Not this time.

From under the covers, I spoke, my voice low and flat. "Figure it out yourself."

There was a long silence. I could feel her staring at the lump I made under the blanket. I imagined the gears turning in her head, recalculating, confused by this unexpected response. Finally, she huffed and stomped back to her side of the room.

I lay there in the dark, my heart pounding. It was real. I had a second chance. And I wasn't going to just survive it. I was going to make Madison pay for every tear I shed, for every opportunity she stole. This time, I knew all her moves before she made them. This time, I was the one with the advantage.

For the next hour, Madison was a whirlwind of passive-aggressive noise. She sighed loudly every few minutes. She dropped a pen on the floor, letting it roll under my bed before making a big show of struggling to get it. She muttered to herself, just loud enough for me to hear.

"Some people are just so selfish. I don't understand it. We're supposed to be roommates."

I didn't move a muscle. I just listened, cataloging every single petty action. I remembered how these things used to wear me down. The constant, low-level harassment that was so easy to deny. If I ever confronted her, she'd just look at me with those wide, innocent eyes and say, "What are you talking about? I was just studying." She was an expert at making me feel like I was the crazy one.

I recalled the incident with the shared mini-fridge. She'd unplugged it to plug in her hair straightener, letting all my food spoil. When I found out, she just said, "Oh, I didn't know that would happen! I'm so bad with electronics." Or the time she "accidentally" spilled bleach on my favorite sweater, the one I was planning to wear for a job interview. "Oops! I'm so clumsy."

Every "oops" and "I didn't know" was a deliberate attack. She thrived on my frustration and misery. She was a leech, feeding on the emotional energy of others.

But the leech was about to starve.

I threw back the covers and sat up, looking her dead in the eye.

"Madison," I said, my voice calm and even. "If you have a problem with me, say it to my face. Otherwise, shut up. I'm trying to sleep."

She looked genuinely shocked, her mouth hanging open slightly. The innocent mask slipped for a second, revealing a flicker of raw anger in her eyes. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by her usual wounded doe expression.

"I-I don't have a problem," she stammered. "I was just... stressed."

"Good," I said, turning my back to her and closing my eyes. "Then be stressed quietly."

This life was going to be different. I wasn't just going to defend myself. I was going to go on the offensive. And I knew exactly where to start.