The following Monday, I finally went back to school—no more skipping for me—and the stress was eating me alive. I kept getting this paranoid vibe that everyone was staring at my horns and, even worse, at my nonexistent tail. I knew I didn’t have a tail, but with those budding wing stubs on my back, the feeling was hard to shake.

  Thankfully, Constance, my seatmate, was an absolute lifesaver. She radiates this calming, soothing aura, and just sitting next to her was enough to settle my nerves. Honestly, I couldn’t believe my luck in having her as my seatmate. She’s a gem.

  But the horns—they were becoming a real problem. They weren’t tiny anymore, now about a centimeter long, and the thought of anyone catching even the slightest glimpse of them had me spiraling. I'd be labeled a freak for sure.

  Flo's illusions masked them well enough to the eye, but there were two issues: first, anyone touching my head could feel them, and second, I knew they were there. That knowledge alone had me constantly trying to hide them with my hands every time I thought someone might be looking at me.

  Avoiding physical contact was doable, but the constant anxiety was draining me. I needed to find a solution—and fast.

  My wounds were nearly "healed". There was still a show of a bit of hardened skin here and there, but nothing too noticeable. I decided to speed things up and make the rest disappear within a couple of days, even though Flo protested, saying it would look unnatural and that I should give it another week. But the wounds were drawing too much attention, and the last thing I needed was more eyes on me.

  The real problem, though, was my horns. They were driving me absolutely mad. Flo kept reassuring me that nobody could see them, thanks to her illusions, but that didn’t stop the constant buzzing in my mind: What if they grow even bigger?

  So much for her promise of “no negative consequences” if we integrated more. And now, she tells me that it can’t even be undone. The only way to stop it is to separate entirely—not reverse it, just stop. Does this mean I’m stuck with these little horns for the rest of my life?

  And the wing stubs! Goodbye to ever wearing a bikini again. Why didn’t she tell me all of this before? Oh, but of course, now she says, “A good mage could fix it.” Great. Real helpful, Flo.

  Cala, on her side, was growing restless. She absolutely loathed sitting still in the classroom, and I could feel her frustration coursing through me like a physical presence. Her intense desire to do something—anything—physical was enough to make me dread the upcoming sports hour.

  During the first break, I hovered around the group of girls from my class. I stood there, listening to their endless stream of chatter. Nothing remotely interesting came up; it was the usual mindless talk about who did what, who was dating whom, and who was wearing what.

  Why were they so obsessed with such superficial nonsense? And more importantly, why did I used to find this chatter so fascinating before?

  Nobody mentioned Bounty County. Sure, it had been weeks since the story broke, but the county was still inaccessible because of that supposed chemical spill. When I tried steering the conversation in that direction, I barely got a handful of short, disinterested answers.

  “What spill?”

  "There are several!"

  “Nobody knows exactly, but there are a bunch of versions going around.”

  "They said it would take a long time to clean up."

  “How long?”

  “Again, nobody knows.”

  “Why’s the army there?”

  “Oh, to catch the saboteurs, obviously.”

  And just like that, the topic fizzled out. No one had anything new to say, and the conversation moved on like it had never been brought up at all.

  I sighed. I knew they were just parroting what they'd seen on the news, but how could the press get things so wrong? None of it lined up with what I knew firsthand. I had been there—at that meeting, three o’clock in the morning—when a police officer had told the audience something completely different.

  So where did the reporters get their so-called facts for these stories? Were they making them up, or had they been fed a watered-down version of events? Most importantly, where was the truth hiding in all this noise?

  During our next break, I caught up with Constance – fishing for the latest gossip. Yeah, I know, I said I was above all that, but curiosity got the better of me. After all, I’d been with Joe at that party, there was that whole incident with the warlock, and then I left with Matt. I wanted to know what stories were floating around.

  To my relief – and surprise – no one seemed to know I’d left with Matt. They knew I left, just not with whom. Was I still interested in Joe? Absolutely. You could bet the farm on that.

  I hadn’t seen him yet, though. He’s in a different class, and I’d have to actually leave the classroom to run into him. Maybe later? I wasn’t quite ready to seek him out.

  Matt, on the other hand, gave me a few glances but didn’t stop by to chat until the third break. Took him long enough. Was he working up the courage, or just trying not to bother me? Who knows.

  We talked about random stuff – somehow landing on music. Turns out he’s a total music nerd. He and Constance dove into a conversation about some artist I’d never even heard of. That was about the extent of it before the bell rang.

  As I made my way to sports, I let Cala take the reins – with one simple request: don’t show off too much. I’m not exactly a sports person, but Cala? She thrives on physical activity. It made sense to let her handle it. Besides, she doesn’t seem to care much about horns or appearances, so it was a win-win.

  Unexpectedly, the shift in control also shifted how I felt. For instance, the usual prickly hostility I felt toward Matt softened. As Dolores, there was this undercurrent of irritation – like he was a distraction from Joe. But as Cala? I saw him through a different lens – neutral, distant. Maybe even a little dismissive. He was weak and untrained, like most people here, but I wasn’t bothered by it.

  Flo, on the other hand, kept sending these gentle waves of sympathy every time Matt looked our way. My little fairy side clearly had a soft spot for him.

  I knew Cala’s body well from my time playing her, but this was different. This was real life. I wasn’t just controlling her – I was her. And in this world, I was a whole different class, way above everyone else around me. I tried to keep that in check. If Superman could pass as a regular guy at college, surely I could manage not to turn gym class into a circus.

  We started with warm-ups – if you could call them that. I didn’t even break a sweat. Push-ups? Maybe I should try doing them with one hand instead of two. Pull-ups? Same thing. Oh, there’s a gym bar over there – I’ll have to check it out later. But for now, I kept it low-key. Just mentally adding things to my “try later” list.

  Then Galia, our gym teacher and the handball team coach, had a brilliant idea – handball. Of course, she was always scouting for new talent to replace the seniors who’d be leaving soon. I could see it in her eyes – sizing us up, looking for someone with enough potential to catch her attention.

  I had a feeling keeping a low profile was about to get a lot harder.

  It didn’t take long for things to fall apart. Lena, June, and Sarah – all from the school’s handball team – naturally picked each other when teams were chosen. Galia, our gym teacher, conveniently overlooked this little imbalance, which left me on the opposite team. Lucky me.

  I glanced around at my teammates – Constance, Julie (who carried about thirty extra kilos and moved like it), and Helen, the tall, rail-thin girl who looked like she might shatter if the ball hit her. I wasn’t sure if I should pass to her or call an ambulance preemptively.

  By the time the score hit 7-1 – with the lone goal courtesy of Theresa in what could only be described as a happy accident – things were looking grim. Not that Theresa was in the game anymore. She’d taken a seat on the bench after an unfortunate collision with Doria, our team’s unofficial wrecking ball.

  Doria wasn’t on the school’s main handball team, but she’d come close. She was strong, had decent reflexes, and played defense like her life depended on it. Unfortunately, she was also a bit too slow and heavy to make the cut. That didn’t stop her from flattening anyone in her path.

  As for me? I probably should’ve been sitting on the bench, faking an injury like Dolores would have. But unlike Theresa, whose bruises were very real, I was still standing – and running out of excuses not to play for real.

  I had no plans to show off. Honestly, I wasn’t even interested in scoring goals – I was just here for the fun of it. Most of the time, I passed the ball to others, trying to keep the team moving, motivate them, and maybe even make the game less painful to watch. It felt like babysitting a group of toddlers. Both teams were slow and weak, but ours? Ours was slower and weaker – a staggering achievement.

  The problem wasn’t just us – it was how quickly the other team capitalized on every mistake. My blood pressure stayed fairly low until Doria decided to bodycheck Constance. That was unnecessary.

  Milena, our goalkeeper, had thrown the ball toward Helen. Naturally, Helen missed, but she managed to graze it just enough to send it bouncing awkwardly. Constance dashed after it, and Doria, like some overzealous wall of muscle, barreled into her. Constance flew back, slamming into the wooden bench near the sideline.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  It was almost comical – she looked like she’d bounced off a giant rubber balloon. But the humor died fast when I saw one of her fingers bend the wrong way.

  I ran to her before she even had time to stand. Flo took over without me even needing to think, and I healed her. It wasn’t a big spell – small, fast, subtle. The sunlight pouring through the gym’s upper windows helped mask the flicker of magic.

  Constance blinked, confused and still rattled, but the pain was gone. I offered her my hand and helped her up. She glanced at me, then at her finger – now perfectly fine – and mumbled a soft “thanks.”

  Galia jogged over, frowning, and after confirming Constance was okay, turned to admonish Doria. Not that it would stop her, but at least someone noticed.

  Helen was chosen to take the penalty. She hesitated, holding the ball awkwardly as if it were some fragile relic. After what felt like ages, she finally lobbed it in my direction – softly, almost apologetically.

  Lena lunged for it, but I was faster. With a quick pivot, I planted one foot and spun sharply, gripping the ball tighter. Instead of passing, I aimed straight for the goal. Their keeper, Tina, stood slightly off her line – too far to react in time.

  The ball shot off my hand like a cannonball, skimming just above the ground, maybe ten or fifteen centimeters up. It bounced once, the spin pulling it in midair, curving straight past Tina’s outstretched hands and into the back of the net.

  I shrugged as I jogged back. A little retribution was in order. Besides, I was starting to enjoy it – there was something satisfying about those curved shots.

  Doria was assigned to mark me closely after that. I hadn’t planned on playing hard, but something shifted. The girls on my team – “my” girls – seemed to catch the spark. Even at two to seven, they started playing with more determination.

  I half-expected the score to climb to two to eight immediately, but Milena, our goalkeeper, pulled off a miraculous save. The ball tumbled toward Julie – who, to her credit, was in the right place at the right time. She caught it and, with surprising accuracy, launched a long throw straight to me.

  I almost let it pass, feeling guilty about dominating the game, but the effort she put into that throw deserved something in return.

  With a quick feint, I sent Doria scrambling in the wrong direction. June and Sarah rushed forward, arms raised to block, but I leaped – higher than either of them.

  Mid-air, I fired the ball straight between Tina’s legs into the goal.

  There was a brief pause before the arguments started, with Tina bearing the brunt of it. Unfair, really. No one could have stopped that shot. It was too quick, too precise.

  Three to seven.

  I wasn’t using my full strength – just enough to keep the game interesting, like pushing toddlers to their limits. It felt oddly fun and satisfying.

  Lena restarted from the center with a pass to June on the right. June shifted to send the ball to Sarah – a maneuver they’d clearly practiced before. I recognized it and anticipated the pass, intercepting the ball just behind Sarah.

  I sprinted toward the goal.

  Doria barreled toward me like a runaway cart, with Ann and Sogi trailing behind, ready to box me in. I made a sharp cut to the left, and in a desperate attempt to stop me, Doria grabbed at my blouse. I pushed forward, feeling the fabric tear at the shoulder.

  The rip exposed part of my bikini top, but I didn’t let it slow me down. I weaved between Ann and Sogi and shot the ball cleanly into the goal.

  Galia correctly counted the point, even if there was that foul before.

  I was grateful Flo had camouflaged my wings – pressed flat against my back, invisible to everyone else. Nothing to see here.

  A few of the boys watching from the sidelines cheered. Galia, meanwhile, gave Doria another stern look.

  Theresa lent me a spare blouse. It was a little too tight, but it did the job. Within a minute, I was back on the court.

  Galia halted the game, gathering the other team for a quick huddle. Classic move – a timeout to break our momentum and adjust their strategy. Coaches did this all the time when one side started racking up points too fast.

  When they returned, the shift in their playstyle was obvious. More passes, slower buildup – they were inching us closer and closer to our goal. For a few tense minutes, they pressed hard, keeping us on the defensive.

  Finally, Lena saw her chance. Positioned in the center, she received a pass from June. Doria and Sarah flanked her, forming a tight screen as she leaped to take the shot.

  But our wildcard goalie deflected it – just barely. The ball grazed her fingers, clipping the bar and bouncing straight toward me.

  I caught it mid-air, and as I glanced toward the other end of the court, I spotted Tina too far out of position.

  Grinning, I went for it. A long shot – full court.

  Tina scrambled, sprinting backward, waving her arms frantically to intercept. But the ball soared just out of reach, slipping neatly into the goal with barely ten centimeters to spare under the bar.

  Being an assassin has its perks. Throwing daggers, stars – it's all the same principle. Accuracy and timing.

  As the ball hit the net, my team erupted, buzzing with newfound energy.

  On the other side? Not so much. Their shoulders sagged, and I caught more than a few dagger-like glares.

  Relax, it’s just a game!

  They were still ahead – seven to five.

  In the end, we won nine to eight, but at eight to eight, Doria tried to take me out. I mean really she came at me like a freight train – no pretense of going for the ball, just pure, unchecked aggression. It wasn’t even subtle. She locked onto me like a bull charging a matador, eyes blazing and body low, shoulder aimed right at my gut.

  I had options – plenty of them. I could’ve dodged, sidestepped at the last second and watched her eat dirt. I could’ve vaulted over her entirely or, if I felt particularly nasty, palmed her head mid-charge and sent her face-first into the floor.

  But all of those involved dipping just a little too far into what Cala could do, and let’s be honest – slapping someone into the next week in front of half the class was a bit overkill. Plus, there was the risk of snapping her neck if I miscalculated.

  I had maybe half a second to make the call.

  One part of me wanted to punish the bully, to make sure she thought twice before trying something like that again. A good broken nose could teach lessons.

  The other part? Well… breaking noses doesn’t exactly scream ‘healthy social interaction.’

  So I let her hit me.

  Doria’s shoulder slammed into my stomach, and I let my body fall back. With the momentum, I hooked my knee over her belly and rolled, flipping her onto her side beneath me. By the time we stopped, I was straddling her, pinning her wrists to the floor with my hands.

  I leaned down just enough to meet her eyes.

  “Really?” I asked, raising a brow.

  She blinked up at me, chest heaving, probably more surprised by the fact that she wasn’t the one on top than anything else.

  I didn’t say another word, and neither did she – but I had the feeling Doria wouldn’t be trying that stunt on me again.

  Galia, of course, was on us in an instant, storming over with her voice cutting through the gym like a whip.

  “Girls, girls!” she barked, glaring first at Doria. “What’s the matter with you?”

  Then her eyes shifted to me, sharp and accusatory.

  “No fighting here!”

  I just raised a brow, keeping my expression as innocent as possible. Seriously? I didn’t fight. I barely moved. What did she expect me to do – let myself get flattened?

  But I kept my mouth shut, and we lined up for the penalty.

  Helen, clearly rattled, tossed the ball toward Constance. It was shaky – Constance almost fumbled it – but at the last second, she flicked it my way. I caught it clean, jumped high, and with a quick throw, sent it straight past the keeper.

  The ball hit the net, and Galia blew the whistle to end the game.

  As we made our way to the locker room, the air was filled with cheers and the slap of high-fives. The thrill of winning was infectious, and even I couldn't help but feel a little buzz of excitement.

  But just before I slipped away, Galia stopped me by the door.

  “Nice progress, Dolores. Really nice. Well done today.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, still riding the wave of post-game adrenaline.

  “Have you been training?” she asked, eyeing me curiously.

  “Ah… no. I just played a bit with some friends, for fun.”

  “Oh.”

  She hesitated for a beat, and I could practically see the wheels turning in her head.

  “Would you be interested in joining the school team?” she finally asked, her tone hopeful. “You’ve got talent. With the right training, you could really make a difference. This could help with college later, you know.”

  I let out a long sigh.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You should,” she pressed, the excitement returning to her voice. “It was a great game. I can see you’ve got potential. We have tryouts coming up, and…”

  And just like that, she was off, listing every possible benefit, from scholarships to competitions. I nodded along, but deep down, I knew the answer was already set.

  Joining the team would mean constantly holding back, always calculating every movement, every bit of force. No, thank you. I was already stressed enough keeping things under wraps during gym class.

  There was always a Doria. Always someone pushing things too far, testing the limits. And one day, Cala might slip—just once—and that would be it.

  The showers were nearly empty by the time I stepped in, just as I’d planned. I lingered at my locker long enough to make sure most of the girls had finished, leaving me alone with Helen and Julie.

  It wasn’t just about privacy. Even if Flo swore up and down that the illusions would hold under the water, I wasn’t eager to test that theory. It wasn’t just the horns—there were Cala’s scars, her slightly altered face, and those half-formed, hidden wings. The last thing I needed was for someone to catch a glimpse of something odd.

  Thankfully, neither Helen nor Julie paid me any mind. They kept their eyes down, absorbed in their own thoughts. Maybe they lingered for the same reasons. I let the hot water cascade over me, soaking away the tension in my muscles.

  After the game, something had shifted. Suddenly, I was… popular? I caught more glances, heard whispers that stopped the second I passed by. It was strange, unfamiliar.

  That attention carried over to lunch, where Cala’s appetite took center stage. I resisted ordering three trays, but even two menus barely felt like enough. I would’ve been starving afterward if not for Constance, who barely touched half her food, and Helen, who nibbled at hers like a bird. I felt a little guilty polishing off what was left, but hunger outweighed shame.

  Julie watched in disbelief, shaking her head as I devoured the last of Helen’s fries.

  “Where do you put all of it?”

  Cala’s answer was deadpan.

  “It’s magically absorbed.”

  Julie burst out laughing, but Cala hadn’t been joking.