Chapter 8
Artemis, Asher, Aiden, and Ace stood in unsettling silence, their expressions unreadable, watching the boy writhing in a pool of blood. His shallow breaths were ragged, his eyes barely open, one arm twitching as his body responded to the trauma. The hallway was eerily quiet, save for the low hum of distant murmuring as students slowly began to gather, their faces full of horror and morbid curiosity.
None of the A⁴ moved. They simply stood there, watching the scene with disinterest. It wasn't their blood. It wasn't their problem.
The sharp click of dress shoes echoed down the hall as the principal emerged from around the corner, eyes wide the moment he laid them on the boy collapsed near the lockers.
His jaw dropped.
"What the hell—?" he began, rushing toward the scene, only to skid to a halt when his eyes landed on the four boys standing calmly at the scene like statues.
Aiden's eyes flicked toward the principal with an unmistakable glare of arrogance. Artemis gave the man a bored look, as if daring him to say anything stupid. Asher barely blinked, and Ace pulled out his phone, casually scrolling through it like he was bored already.
The principal swallowed thickly. His initial fury dulled into resignation.
He didn't have to ask. He knew what everyone would assume: A⁴ did it.
But he also knew better than to accuse them directly. Last time he tried that—when they were involved in the death of a scholarship student—they'd walked away clean, and the board had nearly voted to remove him from office for "targeting influential students." That boy had been quiet, brilliant, and poor—three qualities that meant nothing when pitted against generational wealth, international power, and a board full of cowards.
So the principal, trembling slightly, did the only thing he could. He yanked his phone from his blazer and quickly dialed emergency services.
"This is Principal Hargrove at Diamond College. We need an ambulance—immediately."
As he hung up, students gathered in clusters, whispering and pointing. Phones were out, cameras rolling. The news would spread like wildfire.
And it did.
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GROUP CHAT – "VIP Elites Only"
The group chat exploded like a bomb. Over a hundred unread messages. Screenshots. Blurred videos. Speculations.
@empress_kitkat: "Is it true Lyric just walked past her sister like she wasn't DYING on the floor???"
@prettyvixen: "Someone said she didn't even blink. That girl's heartless. Cold-blooded witch."
@nobitchzone: "New title unlocked: Queen of Shadows. LMAO. Even A⁴ looked more human than her."
@sugarbabythings: "I used to like her. Not anymore. Disgusting. You can't even pretend to care for your sister?"
@rebelstorm: "Why is she always so composed? Does she even have emotions? Someone check if she's a damn android."
Some even had the audacity to tag her. Over and over.
But the response was the same.
Nothing.
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VILLA – THIRD FLOOR – COMPUTER ROOM
The room was quiet except for the soft hum of multiple high-end monitors. A chill breeze drifted in through the slightly cracked window, swaying the pale curtains, but the girl seated in front of the command station didn't flinch.
Lyric's fingers tapped against the table in a slow rhythm. Her eyes were fixed on the four open files glowing on her massive screen. The elite brats who called themselves A⁴.
She smirked cruelly, dragging the cursor to highlight the first file.
Aiden Von Rothschild – The first son of the Rothschild family, financial overlords of the United Kingdom. His father owned nearly a third of the UK's central financial networks, and their influence reached into politics, corporations, and even the royal family. Aiden's younger sister, Arabella Rothschild, was currently in Alaska for modeling, rumored to be on contract with one of the world's top agencies. She was a fashion design student at the exclusive Elise Duval Institute of Haute Couture, where only the elite got in—many by bribery. Arabella, like her brother, was a known bully, draped in silk and cruelty.
Next.
Artemis Daichi – Royalty. The second son of the Imperial Daichi family in Japan. He had two sisters—one, Hitomi, who was cruel, cunning, and exiled from the palace after a series of political scandals. The other, Sakura, remained in Japan, the perfect portrait of a graceful royal, calm and refined. Artemis and Hitomi had run away to Alaska, escaping the suffocating rules of royal tradition. They thrived in rebellion, embracing freedom at the cost of respect.
Next.
Asher Leclair – The only child of the Leclair family, born into a legacy of American military intelligence. His father ran deep black ops, his mother was a retired CIA psychological analyst. Asher grew up in shadows and strategy. He had a girlfriend—Ariana West. Beautiful. Cruel. Heiress of the West Pharmaceuticals empire. Their love was toxic, obsessive, and addictive. Ariana enjoyed ruining others just to entertain herself.
Next.
Ace Valentino – From a tech empire that made Silicon Valley seem like a local startup. His father controlled everything tech-related globally. From chip manufacturing in Asia to satellites in orbit, the Valentino name was on it. Ace had no blood siblings, but an adopted sister—Jade Valentino—spoiled rotten and currently on a luxury yacht in Greece for her "rest period." She had a record of blackmailing students, ruining reputations for sport. Ace was the richest of them all.
Lyric tilted her head slightly, studying the screen. Then she picked up her phone and dialed a private number.
"Yes," she said, her voice cold and even. "I'm sending you four files. You'll find them under the tag 'Entitled Brats.' In the next two hours, I want their current locations tracked, and I want the girls listed in the files kidnapped. Place them in an abandoned warehouse. Hire five men. The worst kind. The rape happens tomorrow morning. Make it live. Make the world watch."
There was a long pause on the other end.
"Understood," the voice finally said.
She hung up.
Her fingers danced on the keyboard. One by one, the photos and background reports of the four girls appeared—Arabella, Hitomi, Ariana, and Jade.
She spared only one—Sakura Daichi. The calm sister. The only one who hadn't done anything to her or to Lilian.
She wouldn't hurt the innocent. But for the rest?
They would suffer.
Lyric leaned back in her chair, cracked her neck, and then picked up her phone.
Dozens of unread messages from the group chat. Mentions. Insults. Tags.
She didn't open a single one.
Instead, she looked out the window, her sharp eyes briefly softening.
Lilian.
She had almost forgotten. Her sister was still in the hospital.
With a sigh, she rose from the chair, her black boots clicking against the marble floor. She walked to the elevator and pressed the button to the lowest level.
Ding.
The doors opened.
She stepped into the garage, where a fleet of luxury vehicles gleamed under LED lights. Her eyes settled on her favorite—her black Ducati. Sleek. Deadly. Silent.
She mounted it, slid on her helmet, and revved the engine. The sound echoed like thunder in the underground chamber.
Without hesitation, she peeled out, tires screeching, vanishing into the darkening evening.
She needed to see Lilian.
Not because she cared what the world thought. Not because of guilt.
But because if anything happened to Lilian, Aunt Regina would definitely haunt her ass.
She smirked slightly to herself.
"Stupid," she muttered under her breath.
And drove into the night.