Chapter 4 CHAPTER 4: PLEASE DON'T KILL ME
Lillian had no idea that taking a deep breath in front of the pharmacy department lockers would be the last moment of peace she experienced today. Her hands trembled slightly as she slid the key into the lock. Ever since morning, the stares trailing her had felt like hundreds of invisible thorns. Every time she passed by, conversations dwindled into venomous whispers, only to erupt into deliberate, mocking giggles right behind her back. She told herself she just needed to grab her textbook and vanish from this place as quickly as possible.
The lock clicked open with a soft, metallic snap.
The exact second the locker door cracked open, a bucket of milk balanced precariously on the top edge flipped downward, drenching her from head to toe.
The freezing liquid cascaded over her hair, rushed down her face, and soaked straight through her worn beige sweater. Before Lillian could even react, a bag of flour came hurtling out of nowhere, smashing violently against her shoulder and bursting wide open. A choking cloud of white dust billowed into the air, clinging frantically to her hair, eyelashes, and clothes. Within seconds, her appearance was so thoroughly ruined that she barely recognized herself in the reflection of a nearby glass panel.
The silence lasted for a single, arrested heartbeat.
Then, the entire hallway erupted.
Laughter crashed from all directions like a rogue wave. Someone whistled; someone else applauded; a few students immediately whipped out their phones to record. Flashbulbs strobed continuously right in front of Lillian.
"God, look at her!"
"Hey look, the pack rat got a dairy bath!"
"Don't cover your face! Let me get a clear shot for the camera."
A hand reached out from behind her, violently ripping the woolen scarf from her neck.
"Don't hide. Celebrities need to look good on camera."
Lillian instinctively jerked the scarf back, but she was too late. Dozens of cameras had already captured her pale, terrified face, smeared and speckled with a horrific mixture of milk and flour.
A girl wearing the bright red pleated skirt of the campus cheer squad stepped forward. Pressing her hands to her chest, she purposely tilted her head to admire Lillian's pathetic state as if she were viewing an art installation. The corners of her lips curled upward, her light, mocking voice carrying clearly down the length of the corridor:
"Post it on the Confessions page. Tag it... #King'sPackRat."
Notifications chimed simultaneously across dozens of phones in the vicinity. Within seconds, Lillian caught sight of several students snickering as they shared the video they had just recorded. She bent down to retrieve her textbook, which lay discarded and forgotten on the tiled floor. The pages, soaked through with milk, were glued tightly together, their covers warped and the text bleeding into ugly, gray smudges.
She didn't cry.
Not because it didn't hurt.
But because she knew that if she let a single tear fall, the laughter surrounding her would only grow louder.
Clutching her ruined materials tightly to her chest, she kept her head down and forced her way through the crowd, which parted automatically to form a narrow aisle. Not a single person moved aside out of pity. They only wanted a better look at her humiliation.
At her back, the mocking laughter chased her for a long, agonizing time.
Lillian practically fled the main building.
The jeers still clung to her skin like nettles. She had no idea how many corridors she had crossed, only stopping when the quiet garden behind the library materialized before her. Bending double, she braced her hands against the rough bark of an old maple tree and gulped down lungfuls of the biting, freezing air.
Her chest burned.
Her legs trembled so violently she could barely keep her balance.
"Calm down..." she told herself. "It's fine... Nobody is chasing you anymore..."
But right at that moment—
A very faint sound scraped against the stillness behind her.
Crunch.
The sole of a shoe crushed a layer of rotting autumn leaves in the empty courtyard.
Lillian snapped around in a panic.
No one was there.
She turned to leave.
Crunch...
The sound repeated, closer this time. Neither fast nor slow, maintaining a calculated, deliberate distance—just enough to let her know she was far from alone.
A shiver raced down her spine. Lillian quickened her pace.
The footsteps behind her matched her rhythm, echoing steadily.
She broke into a full run, hurrying down the stone-paved path, cutting sharply around a corner choked with ivy.
When she could take the terror no longer, she whirled around:
"Who's there?"
Her voice cracked with panic.
Not a whisper in response. Just the wind, and dry leaves spinning lazily across the dirt.
Lillian gasped for air, her numb fingers tightening around the straps of her bag. Maybe... maybe she really was just imagining things.
She turned her back—
Crack.
The sound of a dry branch snapping echoed directly behind her.
Lillian froze.
"Have you run enough?"
A low, frighteningly calm voice broke the heavy silence.
Lillian spun around.
From beneath the sprawling branches of the maple tree, a tall figure stepped slowly out of the shadows.
Kael Ashford.
He stood only a few yards away, materializing like a specter from the gloom, though she had no idea how long he had been standing there. In the dim, bruised light of dusk, the oppressive, natural dominance of his tall frame and the chilling silver of his ash-gray eyes locked onto her, sending her heart into a frantic, terrified panic. The remaining light of the setting sun caught the amber depths of his pupils, making them gleam with a metallic, merciless chill. She felt as though her entire wretched appearance—the sour stench of sour milk and her absolute, crippling terror—were being completely stripped bare beneath his gaze, leaving her nowhere to hide.
Lillian stumbled backward, her boot heel catching on a thick root, and collapsed hard onto the dirt. Instinctively, she curled her arms over her head, her whole body shaking uncontrollably.
"Please..." she stammered, scrambling back as tears spilled over, impossible to hold back any longer. "Please... don't kill me..."
Kael stood completely motionless. His hand within his coat pocket twitched and clenched.
He looked as though he meant to take a step forward—
Lillian scrambled to her feet, fueled by a final surge of adrenaline, and bolted. She tore blindly through the shifting maze of tree shadows, ignoring the gnarled roots that threatened to trip her with every stride.
The crimson maple leaves blurred on either side of her vision until the sound of footsteps behind her was completely swallowed by the rising wind.
Behind her, Kael's towering silhouette stood frozen in the empty courtyard, slowly sinking into the gathering twilight.
Night fell, the sky bleeding into an inky blackness.
Lillian walked like a sleepwalker toward the boarding house. The milk had begun to dry, hardening into stiff, stubborn patches that clung mercilessly to her sweater, constricting her breathing with every motion.
PING!
The old phone in her pocket buzzed suddenly—a notification from the Confessions page, striking her psyche like a physical blow. Driven by an overwhelming wave of panicked reflex, she violently swiped at the bag strap as if trying to fling away something venomous. The phone slipped free, crashing hard against the asphalt, its screen spiderwebbing into a jagged web of cracks.
The shattered display still glowed, illuminating her flour-streaked face alongside the cruel caption: #King's_Pack_Rat.
Lillian didn't dare pick it up. She scrambled up, clutched her head, and bolted headlong into the narrow alleyway. She ran as though stopping for even a second would allow the crowd and the darkness behind her to swallow her whole.
CLICK.
Lillian turned the key, shoved the rickety wooden door open, and stepped inside.
The room was bathed in a warm, golden glow. Toby sat beside the small wooden table, one hand holding the breathing tube of a nebulizer that hummed a steady whir-whir, while the other gently stirred a plastic spoon through a pot of boiling instant noodles.
Toby looked up as his sister entered. His gaze lingered for a long moment on her hair, stiff and matted with dried milk and flour. A fleeting look of confusion and heartache crossed the boy's small features, but with the quiet maturity born of long hardship, he quickly pulled off the breathing mask, forced a bright smile, and swept it all aside:
"You're back! The noodles are almost ready, go wash up and come eat!"
Lillian froze in the doorway, her throat tightening into a painful knot. She rushed forward, throwing her arms around Toby and burying her face against her little brother's thin shoulders. Toby remained still, one hand pressing the nebulizer tubing against his chest as he gently stroked her back.
Lillian took a deep, shuddering breath, swallowing back a sob before pulling away with a fragile smile: "I'm fine, sweetie... It was just really windy outside today."
The boy looked at her, smiled, and nodded, not asking a single question.
Only after Toby had drifted into a restless sleep, lulled by the steady, mechanical whir of the breathing machine, did Lillian trudge heavily into the bathroom.
The harsh, sterile white light of the vanity cast a grim glow over the steam-fogged mirror. Lillian raised her head. Staring back at her was a girl with a pale, smeared face she scarcely recognized.
Her long hair, once her pride and joy, was now clumped together into rigid, foul-smelling masses of dried dairy and powder. She turned the faucet. The cold water rushed down, but the filthy white residue stubbornly clung to the strands, stiff and unyielding like an unpayable debt.
She lowered her gaze. Reaching into the drawer, she pulled out a pair of old utility scissors.
Snip. The metallic blades parted in the quiet air.
Slash.
The ice-cold steel sheared mercilessly through the first lock of hair. Clumps of damp, blackened hair tumbled onto the white tiles, mingling with the murky, milky water swirling sluggishly toward the drain.
Slash. Slash. Slash.
She didn't cry. Her lips were pressed into a hard, bloodless line, her hands jerking mechanically until her waist-length hair was hacked into an uneven, jagged mess grazing her shoulders, looking as battered as a tree ravaged by a storm.
Watching the dark locks wash away down the drain, Lillian whispered softly to her reflection:
"Tomorrow..."
"If they pour milk on me again..."
"...at least I'll save time washing it."
She forced a smile at her mirror image. But that smile was far more brutal and agonizing than any tears could ever be.
Late into the night.
The Ashford family's private ice rink echoed only with the steady, rhythmic hum of the ventilation fans slicing through the freezing air.
Kael still wore his full training gear. His gloves remained on. The sweat on his temples had dried long ago.
He stood motionless by the metal railing, staring down at the pristine sheet of white ice below.
Kael's hand unconsciously tightened around the railing.
Creeak...
The thick, three-centimeter steel pipe buckled under a terrifying grip. A harsh, dry snapping sound echoed through the rink as a long fracture tore across the metal edge.
Kael stared at the deep indentation in the steel, his mind flashing back to the image of the girl clutching her head in terror, collapsing into the dirt beneath the maple tree that afternoon.
His hand tightened further, then slowly relaxed. Her broken, breathless plea still echoed in the chambers of his mind:
"Please... don't kill me..."
Kael closed his eyes.
She hadn't been angry; she hadn't been vengeful. She had genuinely believed he had come to take her life.
His ash-gray eyes snapped open, colder and deeper than ever. He turned on his heel and walked slowly away from the ice rink, though the memory of her desperate, helpless panic clung to his mind like a persistent ghost.
