Page 88 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

The whispers continue around us, growing bolder as more students fill the space:

"The haircut makes her look like a completely different person..."

"Like she's finally showing her real face..."

"Did you see how the Kings move around her? Like satellites orbiting a sun..."

"A deadly sun maybe..."

I smile at that last comment, knowing they have no idea how right they are. Because that's exactly what we are now – deadly celestial bodies locked in careful orbit, our gravitational pull affecting everything around us.

Let them whisper, I think as I withdraw my hand from the fountain, watching water drip from my fingers like liquid crystal.

Let them speculate and theorize and fear.

"Jeez Prescott, are you in your emo arch?"

The voice cuts through the whispers like a blade, making me pause mid-stride. I turn slowly, every movement calculated despite the sudden unease in my chest. Because I know that voice – have sparred with its owner countless times in our own special brand of warfare. But something's different. Something's wrong.

Scarlett Barbieri stands alone in the morning light, and the sight is so jarring it takes me a moment to process what I'm seeing. Gone are her usual entourage of admirers, the carefullycoordinated designer outfits, the perfectly styled makeup that made her look like a renaissance painting come to life. Gone is the signature red hair that once fell past her waist like liquid fire.

Instead, her hair barely brushes her shoulders now, falling in natural waves that look almost foreign against her unusually bare face. The Leighton uniform hangs slightly loose on her frame, as if she's lost weight recently and hasn't had time to have it altered. Even her posture is different – less commanding, more... uncertain.

Students passing by do double-takes, clearly struggling to recognize this transformed version of the girl who once ruled these halls with perfectly manicured iron fists. Some whisper behind their hands, speculation already building about this dramatic change.

"What happened, Barbieri?" I ask, genuine concern coloring my tone. Behind me, I feel my Kings shift slightly, sensing the change in atmosphere. "If this is some kind of early New Year's resolution, I'm going to need you to revoke it immediately. This look doesn't suit you at all."

A dry huff of laughter escapes her as she moves closer, and I catch something in her eyes that makes my stomach twist. Something that looks too much like resignation for comfort.

"Trust me, Prescott," she says, attempting her usual sharp tone but not quite managing it, "I'm not thrilled about it either. But you know what they say – when life gives you lemons..." She gestures vaguely at herself, the movement lacking her usual dramatic flair.

The unease in my chest grows stronger. This isn't our normal dance of barbed comments and careful power plays. This is something else entirely.

"??? ??????????" I switch to Russian, pitching my voice low enough that only those closest can hear.What happened?

Surprise flickers across her features – both at the language choice and my obvious concern. For a moment, I think she'll deflect again, maintain the careful facades we've all perfected in this world of ours.

But then something in her expression cracks, just slightly. A sad smile plays at her lips as she responds in the same language: "???."

Cancer.

The word falls between us like a stone into still water, creating ripples of understanding that spread outward. I catch Matteo's slight intake of breath, see the way Zander's jaw tightens from the corner of my eye. A quick glance shows Ren's usual playful expression has been replaced by something darker, more serious.

They understood, I realize.At least some of them did.

And suddenly everything makes horrible sense – the weight loss, the changed hair, the absence of her usual crowd of admirers. This isn't some chosen transformation like mine. This is something being forced upon her, a battle she never asked to fight.

The morning light seems colder now as it plays across the courtyard's new features. The roses with their sharp thorns, the fountain with its aggressive angles – all of it feels somehow hollow in the face of this revelation.

Because this is a different kind of warfare, isn't it? Not the careful social manipulation we've all perfected, not the strategic plays for power and position. This is something more primal, more terrifying. A fight against an enemy you can't see, can't outsmart, can't negotiate with.

Students continue to move around us, their whispers taking on new speculation:

"Is that really Barbieri?"

"What happened to her hair?"

"Where's her usual crowd?"

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