Chapter 3

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The comments under the campus forum post were already piling up. Plenty of people wanted it.

The laptop in the photos was mine.

The poster's avatar had been censored, but the details were sloppy. I recognized the desk, the cluttered background, and the camera angle at once. It was Ronda.

The moment I realized my 12,000-dollar laptop had been stolen and tossed up for sale like junk, something in my chest detonated. Anger surged so violently that it felt as if my lungs might burst.

Class no longer mattered.

I spun around with my phone clenched in my hand and ran straight back to the dorm.

Ronda was there.

"I knew it was you," I said, shoving my phone inches from her face. "You took my laptop. This is theft."

She glanced at the screen with open boredom and said lightly, "So what if I took it? You shouldn't have refused to split the electricity bill. Since you didn't send the money, I had to figure something out myself."

I laughed sharply. "I didn't refuse. You were the one who wouldn't accept it."

I demanded, "Do you have any idea how important that laptop is to me? I stayed up all night to finish that group project."

She shrugged. "Not my problem. I already sold it."

That ended the conversation. There was no point arguing with someone like her.

I did not hesitate. I called the police.

"Hello? I need to report a theft."

As soon as she realized what I was doing, Vicky finally spoke.

"You've gone too far," she said as she stepped in. "You didn't pay Ronda your share. How do you have the nerve to call the police? Hang up right now."

I shot her a cold look and asked, "Where were you when she stole my things? Now you suddenly find your courage?"

Vicky flushed. Ronda's expression flickered. Panic surfaced for a brief second. She lunged, as if she meant to snatch my phone.

I raised my voice at once and said into the call, "Please hurry. The thief is trying to attack me."

That stopped her.

…

When the police arrived, the counselor appeared almost at the same time.

The stolen item was high-value. What Ronda had done was no longer dormitory drama. It was a crime.

After they confirmed she had sold my laptop, the counselor ordered her to cooperate and retrieve it immediately.

Later, the counselor explained my situation to my lecturers. That intervention was the only reason my absence did not turn into a failing grade.

Then came the pressure.

"You didn't really suffer a loss," the counselor said carefully. "And you're roommates. You see each other every day. Just sign a statement and we can close this matter."

I refused at first.

The counselor then made Ronda apologize on the spot. The apology was stiff and hollow, but it happened.

After repeated coaxing and steady pressure, I agreed. I did not want to see her sitting in detention for a year or two either.

The moment we stepped out of the counselor's office, Ronda shot me a vicious look.

"Don't think you're some saint," she hissed. "This isn't over between us."

I stared at her as if she had lost her mind and applied for a room change immediately.

The counselor looked uncomfortable.

"There aren't any spare beds right now," they said. "Winter break is coming soon anyway. Can you hold on a little longer? When you return after the break, I'll rearrange things."

I agreed.

…

For the next few days, Ronda behaved herself, at least on the surface. She stopped provoking me outright and switched to a colder, more distant approach.

They excluded me from everything. Meals, errands, even dorm get-togethers happened without anyone bothering to tell me.

I did not mind. The room felt quieter. I had space to breathe and time to focus on my studies.

That weekend, Zoey suddenly asked me to meet her at the cafeteria. She said it was important.

I did not think much of it. I grabbed my things and headed downstairs.

As I stepped out of the building, I spotted Charles Ledley, our class monitor, standing near the entrance with a bag of fruit in his hands. He was clearly waiting for his girlfriend.