School Bully Humiliated Her in Front of Everyone—But Had No Idea Who She Really Was

Or else?» Anna angled her head faintly. «You’ll strike me. You’ll degrade me.

You’ll torment my days. Pause. But that’s ongoing.»

The throng sensed conflict. Novelty emerged. None defied Max Thompson thus.

None held firm in his hunter phase. «Team!» Max summoned, gaze fixed on Anna. «Time for harsher instruction.»

Three gridiron players shoved forward. Zach Dudley, the shove instigator, Derek Black, Max’s muscle, and Tyler Roden, who savored agony nearly matching Max.

Four on one. Hulking 200-pound jocks versus a girl perhaps 115 drenched. «Still feigning courage?» Max queried. Anna’s device hummed in her pouch.

No glance needed. That signal meant Victor, meant bout evening, meant fresh earnings for sibling salvation. Yet escape proved impossible.

Not with quartet barring paths. Not with filming masses. Not with Max’s image insisting escalation till injury.

«I avoid combat,» she voiced truthfully. Battling exposed her. Exposure bred inquiries.

Inquiries doomed her shadow empire. «Pity,» Max signaled his crew. «You’ll discover defiance costs.»

They aligned, assured, seasoned. They’d executed this routine on scores before—encircle prey, seal routes, alternate strikes till collapse. A proven method across years.

But prior targets lacked five years of forging flesh into arms from dire need. Zach initiated, attempting seizure. His grasp missed Anna.

She merely redistributed weight, turning Zach’s surge against him into a blunder. To novices, fluke; to experts, classic deflection, harnessing foe energy.

«Quit evading,» Max barked. «Derek, Tyler, secure her!»

They flanked, aiming to trap. Anna delayed till critical, then crouched. Derek and Tyler collided, eliciting group flinches.

She rolled away once more, surfacing at the perimeter. «How?» a whisper queried. «Gymnast perhaps?» «Not gymnastics, man.»

Max flushed crimson. Intended simplicity—cow the odd one, force yield, record, uphold order. Instead, his top trio clowned by presumed punchless entity.

He rushed personally, unleashing a savage haymaker that felled three foes yearly. For Anna, time lagged. The blow approached sluggishly.

Noted shoulder cue. Noted flawed posture exposing flanks. Noted myriad counters for pre-floor blackout.

Also noted devices, onlookers, unavoidable probes if unveiling true prowess. Hence, she chose the regrettable path haunting the ensuing decade of minutes. She permitted the blow to skim her arm.

It twirled her. Felled her anew. Spectators inhaled sharply, then erupted jubilantly.

This fulfilled anticipation. Hierarchy reinstated. Max overshadowed her, panting yet triumphant.

«See?» he broadcast to viewers. Mere fortune. But fortune depletes.

Anna probed her arm, noting his last-moment restraint. Even Max bounded himself. He craved capitulation, not litigation.

«Final opportunity,» he murmured privately. «All fours and yelp, or next lacks mercy.» Her device hummed anew.

Victor despised delays. Each lost instant diminished prep for evening clash, the pivotal one for transformation via victory. But eyeing Max, his vicious glee, the voracious assembly, Anna grasped a truth.

Fatigue from concealment mounted. From feigned frailty. From permitting Max Thompsons to claim dominion.

«No,» she uttered plainly. That lone syllable thundered through the space. Defiance to Max Thompson was unheard.

None rejected once ensnared and subdued. «What?» «No.» «Games over.

Your amusement ends. Pretending power rules ceases. Choice? You believe escape possible?»

«Yes.» Anna straightened wholly, her bearing prompting proximate youths to recoil instinctively, for «this unfolds: I exit this gym.

You permit passage. Tomorrow, all feign amnesia. Pause.

Or… restraint lifts.» The declaration lingered as defiance. Max scrutinized her.

Truly now. Observed her balanced toes. Relaxed yet primed limbs…