After My Sister's Death, I Decided Not to Pretend to Be a Good Girl Anymore

At my sister's funeral, her classmates who were invited came and mocked each other gleefully.

"I told you not to go too far, now the person is dead, and there's no fun anymore."

"How dare you accuse me; taking nude photos, putting chalk powder in her water cup, dripping chili oil in her eye drops... weren't all those tormenting ideas yours?"

Their laughter, showing no remorse, pierced through the rain and reached my ears. My face hid beneath the shadow of a black umbrella, and I smiled in their direction.

If they like to play, I'll play with them.

After all, who would believe that a well-behaved and academically excellent girl would commit murder?

That day, I transferred to my sister's class and used their most familiar methods to tie them up in an abandoned factory.

Looking at the cart in front of me filled with tools like chainsaws, scissors, and knives, they shook like a leaf.

"Let me see who to start with," I said.

I merely wore a smile, then suddenly leaned close to one of them, pressing the scissors in my hand close to her eyeball: "How about you first?"