Chapter 2 WELCOME KISS

OLIVE'S P.O.V

“It’s probably just your eyes playing tricks on you, Olive. At Mors, we have zero tolerance for bullying. The girl in question is perfectly fine.”

Principal Dickson’s dismissal left me numb. Just minutes ago, I had watched a girl get beaten to a pulp, perhaps even to death—right here. Her blood had been everywhere, splattered across the mirrors, pooling in the sinks, and streaking down the walls. Yet now, standing in the exact same bathroom, every surface was spotless.

“My eyes… playing tricks on me?” I whispered, repeating his words as if the echo might somehow make sense of the madness. “I know what I saw. Those girls were going to kill her. And where is the girl in question? You keep saying she’s fine, but she was anything but fine.”

Principal Dickson cleared his throat, casting a nervous glance back toward Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock, who were still visibly agitated that I was even attending Mors.

“Oh, will you shut up, Olive!” Mr. Sherlock snapped. “Your first day here and you’re already causing trouble.”

“I’m not causing anything. I know what I saw,” I retorted.

The bickering continued until Principal Dickson’s patience finally ran out.

“I think we all need to calm down!” he barked, slamming a heavy hand onto one of the stalls, the very one I hit my head on.

He turned his attention to me first. “You must have misseen. The bathroom is spotless, and no blood or bullied student is present like you described.”

My eyes moved around the bathroom. How did the blood get cleaned so quickly?

“...but if it will make you feel any better, I will look into it.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Dickson raised a sharp hand, cutting me off instantly. “I do not want to hear another word on the matter.”

He then turned to my foster parents, who looked pleased by his display of authority. It reassured them that I would be kept under strict control—the exact kind of restraint they believed their supposedly “untamed, wild foster daughter” required.

“Mors is precisely the right school for Olive, regardless of it being co-educational,” Dickson continued. “Given the behaviour she is currently displaying, I completely understand your anxiety. I can assure you that I will personally keep a close eye on Olive and monitor her with the utmost attention.”

The assurance was exactly what they wanted to hear. Satisfied with Principal Dickson’s promise of iron-fist discipline, my foster parents finally relented. After finalising the paperwork, we made our way back out to the parking lot so I could retrieve my luggage from the trunk of their car.

“Don’t you dare get pregnant!” Mrs. Sherlock hissed.

I swallowed hard and nodded slowly, too terrified to do anything else as her horrid gaze lingered on me. With that dramatic exit, she was gone, leaving me scrambling after her to fetch my luggage from the trunk.

Mr. Sherlock was already tossing the last of my bags onto the gravel, wanting nothing more than to rid himself of me as quickly as possible.

“I can take her from here,” a voice called from behind us.

I was the only one polite enough to give the speaker any attention, while my foster parents had preferred to pretend the brunette simply didn’t exist.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock, Olive—I’m Amy Banks,” she announced, stepping forward. “I’m a school prefect and your assigned tour guide. I’ll be showing you around and helping you settle in at Mors.”

She wore a bright smile that made her eyes glitter, perfectly matching her enthusiastic mood. Regardless of the lack of response, Amy kept her hand extended toward Mr. Sherlock, waiting for a handshake. But after a full, agonising minute of silence, he flatly refused.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Olive Hades,” I intervened, trying to diffuse the tension Mr. Sherlock had just created.

“I know,” Amy replied smoothly. “Let me help you with that suitcase.”

She reached for the one in my hand, as well as the heavy backpack.

I smiled warmly, gathering the remainder of my luggage before rounding the sedan to face my foster parents.

They were already seated and buckled up, engine idling, desperate to escape.

Before I could say a word, Mr. Sherlock stepped on the gas, speeding off beyond the iron gates.

I let out a long, heavy sigh, relieved to finally be rid of them, before turning my attention back to Amy.

“It’s about fucking time,” she snarled, shoving my suitcase back at me and carelessly dropping my backpack onto the ground.

My eyes widened in disbelief as Amy Banks abruptly freed herself from my luggage. Her face had turned cold, and the warm, radiant smile she had worn just seconds ago had vanished.

“You can carry your own baggage,” she spat.

I remained rooted to the spot, lost for words at Amy’s facade—or rather, the sudden revelation of her true colours.

“For Christ’s sake, Olive, I don’t have all day,” Amy groaned, irritated by my hesitation.

I snapped out of my daze, reaching down to scramble for my bags all at once.

“I’m ready.”

Amy gave a brief nod and spun on her heel, leading the way and launching straight into the tour as if nothing had happened.

“The building you were just in houses all the classrooms and lecture halls,” Amy explained in a bored voice.

“Got it,” I replied quietly.

I had been so consumed by my foster parents’ rage that I hadn’t given myself a moment to take in how grand Mors Academy was.

But Amy didn’t give me the chance to stop and admire anything. She was moving at a fast pace, forcing me to hustle just to keep from being left behind.

When the dormitories finally came into view, I was already exhausted. There was still so much ground left to cover, and my arms were throbbing from the heavy load I was carrying.

An eight-story structure that led me to assume the student body at Mors Academy must be massive.

“That dorm is just for juniors,” Amy chipped in, still sounding bored.

“Just for juniors?!” I exclaimed, not bothering to mask my shock. “How many kids go here, ten thousand?”

Amy ignored my remark, lightly swatting at a buzzing fly that had approached her. “Our dormitories are far back.”

“You’re in the twelfth grade, is that right?” I asked, hoping I’d never have to cross paths with her again after today.

She spared me a hostile look over her shoulder.

“The nerve,” she hissed, her expression the nastiest I had ever seen.

Why on earth is she so mean?

“I just wanted to know if you were a senior,” I responded, baffled by her response.

Was I supposed to be afraid of her?

Eventually, she did respond. “I am a senior. You’ll be in the grade eleven hostel. Let me take you there and get this thing over with.”

But instead of moving forward, Amy stopped, her eyes scanning our surroundings. The courtyard was deserted.

Suddenly, the battered face of the girl from the bathroom flashed behind my eyelids, and the desperate urge to uncover the truth came back.

Amy Banks had to have answers; she had been here far longer than I had. She must know the victim, and probably know the girls who had attacked her. My eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. I knew what I saw.

Amy reached into her blazer pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. She slipped one between her lips, then retrieved a lighter from the same pocket and lit up the piece.

She took a long drag from it before puffing out clouds of smoke from her mouth.

I stood nervously, head turned away from her. As an asthmatic, cigarette smoke was my ultimate trigger, and the sudden influx of toxins made my throat burn. I took a sharp step backward, coughing into my elbow as a desperate wheeze threatened to break through.

I wanted to reach into my pocket for my rescue inhaler, but I knew showing any sign of vulnerability around Amy would be a mistake. I forced myself to swallow, blinking through the burn in my eyes.

She had to be breaking at least three school rules Principal Dickson had read out to me earlier, but I knew better than to talk.

“I was in the bathroom earlier... A girl was being beaten to death by these girls. I tried to help her, but she didn’t want any of it. I told the principal, but he didn’t believe me. Maybe you could help me find her—I just want to know if she’s okay. It looked like she was dying…”

Amy took another drag, pulling the cigarette from her lips and tapping out the ash from the end.

Seeing she wasn’t responding, I continued.

“She said something about a Top Boy wanting it.”

“You’ll hear a lot of Top Boy nonsense at Mors,” she said carelessly. “My advice? Stay away from it.”

Her response had been similar to the principal’s, not the same, but both didn’t seem to care much.

“But you believe me, right? I saw those things.”

Amy laughed, bringing the cigarette to her lips.

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you, Ollie?” she commented before intentionally blowing out a cloud of smoke in my direction.

“Thanks, but it’s Olive,” I said uneasily, turning my face away from the smoke.

She let out a mocking laugh. “You think you’re pretty?”

I did believe I was. Was I not supposed to agree with her?

“I-I don’t—”

“I’m just teasing, pretty girl,” Amy laughed. “Is that why you got yourself pregnant? Because you’re pretty and all the guys want to fuck you?”

Gosh, she probably heard my foster parents earlier.

“I’ve never been pregnant.”

“So why’d you come to Mors? Not a lot of people come here.”

Not a lot of people, yet the place was designed to house thousands.

“I, uh—my foster parents didn’t want me talking to boys,” I admitted.

An eyebrow shot up. “You do realise Mors is for both girls and boys?” she asked, taking a few steps closer.

“Yeah, we found out last minute. That’s why they were mad.”

Amy didn’t stop advancing. Each step she took made my skin crawl. My fingers gave out, unable to hold the weight of my luggage any longer. It slipped from my grasp, hitting the ground. I instinctively reached down to retrieve them, but Amy caught my arm lightly.

She leaned in dangerously close, her breath warm against my skin.

“I don’t think you need to worry about boys here at Mors,” she whispered against my ear, her voice a teasing purr.

Her head dipped as she lightly traced the length of my neck with the tip of her nose.

“What do you mean?” I managed.

She pulled back just an inch, taking one last drag of her cigarette before letting the ember slip from her fingers onto the gravel.

“You know exactly what I mean, little Ollie.”

The final, exhaled cloud of smoke wafted into my face. My eyes watered, and a harsh cough clawed its way up my throat.

“Breathe, Ollie,” Amy whispered.

She brushed the side of my face with her nose before something much softer pressed against my skin—her plump, ruby lips tickling my cheek.

I was desperate to pull away from the suffocating haze still trailing from her mouth. But she didn't let me. A manicured hand caught mine and the other snaked slowly up my neck, fingertips lightly grazing my cheek.

“I-I can’t breathe…”

She smiled softly, stroking my lip smoothly with her thumb.

“Then let me help you.”

Before the words could register, soft lips pressed firmly against my mouth, parted to deepen the kiss.

I froze, letting her capture my lips, breathing air into me. I could taste her, the smokiness of the cigarette clashing with the faint, lingering mint she must have had earlier. Her tongue slipped in once, twice, savouring the moment till she was content. When she was, she pulled back, trailing gentle fingers over my cheek.

Amy’s lips stretched into a broad, radiant smile.

“Top Boy welcomes you to Mors, Olive.”