The microwave's harsh beep echoes through the empty kitchen as Hannah retrieves her sad excuse for dinner - some frozen pasta thing that probably tastes like cardboard and broken dreams. The house feels too quiet without her mom's steady presence, but double shifts at Mass General mean better pay, so Hannah's learned to deal with the silence.

She settles at the kitchen table, the same spot where Nate Brooks had sat days ago, playing mind games with his perfect smile and calculated words. The memory makes her stomach churn, but she forces down a forkful of lukewarm pasta anyway.

Her phone offers a welcome distraction from the mediocre meal. She pulls up Instagram, where @SimplyLisaChen's latest story betrays exactly where Riverside's elite have disappeared to - some fancy lake house. The shots are perfectly curated: Susan Lawrence lounging on a daybed, Jake commanding some ridiculous party barge like a yacht club prince, Amber and Nate doing their usual golden couple routine against a sunset backdrop.

"Must be nice," Hannah mutters, stabbing at her pasta with unnecessary force. The fork scrapes against the plastic container, setting her teeth on edge.

Her thoughts drift to Alex as she switches to Snapchat. Their last exchange sits there unchanged, her messages still unread after days of silence. Something cold settles in her stomach as Nate's words echo in her mind: Then what happens next is on you. I tried to protect you.

"He wouldn't," Hannah says out loud, as if speaking the words might make them true. "He's just trying to scare me. They're all talk."

But doubt creeps in like poison. She pulls up Nate's Instagram, scrolling through his perfectly curated feed. Football hero, perfect boyfriend - every image carefully selected to tell a story of success and privilege. A photo catches her eye: four letterman jackets gathered around Jake's pool house, all proud smiles and casual wealth. The same pool house where Jake had...

Hannah closes her eyes, forcing back the memory. When she opens them again, she focuses on Nate's face in the photo. What secrets live behind that million-dollar smile? What really happened at Hampton Beach?

"You can't hide forever," she tells his digital image. "The truth always comes out."

The back door's sudden opening startles her so badly she nearly knocks over her sad excuse for dinner. Her dad stands in the doorway, but something's wrong. Jerry Marshall - always quick with a dad joke, always ready with a warm smile - looks like he's aged ten years since breakfast.

"Hey, sweetheart." His voice sounds hollow, distant.

"Dad?" Hannah's throat tightens as she takes in his appearance - tie loosened, shoulders slumped, defeat written in every line of his face. "What happened?"

He crosses to the table with heavy steps, sinking into the chair beside her. His eyes fix on the floor, unable or unwilling to meet her gaze.

"They, uh..." He clears his throat, but his voice still cracks. "They let me go today."

The words hit Hannah like a physical blow. Twenty-three years at Richardson Insurance, gone just like that. She thinks about the college applications sitting on her desk upstairs, the careful calculations of tuition and living expenses, the dreams that suddenly feel like they're made of smoke.

"But... why?" The question comes out small, childlike. "You've been there forever. Your numbers are good, you always say-"

"Budget cuts." He laughs, but the sound holds no humor. "That's what they're calling it, anyway. Funny thing is..." He finally looks up, and Hannah's heart breaks at the confusion in his eyes. "They just hired three new analysts last month. All fresh out of college, all with connections to the board."

Something clicks in Hannah's mind - a horrible suspicion taking root. "Dad," she asks carefully, "who sits on Richardson's board?"

"Oh, the usual suspects." He waves a hand dismissively. "Peterson, Jackson, Woodland, Rosenberg..."

The names hit her like bullets. Jake's father. Amber's father. The men whose children she's been investigating, whose secrets she's been trying to uncover.

Hannah's phone suddenly feels heavy in her hand, loaded with evidence of all the ways she's poked the hornet's nest. She thinks about Nate's visit, his careful warnings wrapped in childhood memories. She thinks about Alex's silence, about unread messages and unanswered calls.

They're coming for you, Nate had said. But he'd been wrong.

They were coming for everyone she loved.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Jerry Marshall slumps forward, burying his face in his hands. "Christ, what am I going to do?" His voice cracks with a vulnerability that makes Hannah's chest ache. "Twenty-three years, and they just..." He trails off, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the kitchen air.

Hannah wraps her arms around her father's shoulders, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave mixed with printer paper and coffee. She remembers being little, how he seemed like a giant then - invincible, unbreakable. Now she can feel him trembling slightly beneath her embrace.

"We'll figure it out, Dad," she whispers, trying to inject certainty into her voice. "I've got some money saved up from babysitting-"

"Absolutely not." He straightens up, father-mode temporarily overshadowing his despair. "That's your college fund, Hannah-banana. We're not touching that."

Her phone buzzes against the kitchen table, screen lighting up with an unknown number. The message makes her blood run cold:

We warned you, Hannah.

Her stomach lurches as she stares at the glowing text, mind racing. Before she can process it, another message appears:

Keep quiet, and Daddy might get his job back.

White-hot rage floods her system, burning away the fear. This is how they operate - using money and influence like weapons, destroying lives from their ivory towers while pretending to be untouchable. Jake with his serial assaults, Amber orchestrating social destructions like some teenage queen of hearts, Nate playing enforcer with his perfect smile and careful threats.

"Sweetheart?" Her father's voice breaks through the fury clouding her vision. "You've gone pale. Are you feeling okay?"

Hannah forces her features into what she hopes is a reassuring smile. "Just tired," she manages. "And worried about you."

Jerry pushes back from the table with a heavy sigh, his chair scraping against linoleum that's probably older than Hannah. The refrigerator door opens with a familiar wheeze, and she watches him grab a beer - something he rarely does before dinner.

"I should..." Hannah's voice feels thick in her throat. "I should go finish that English paper. Due tomorrow and all."

Her father nods absently, already lost in his own thoughts as he stares at the bottle in his hands. The label peels slightly under his thumb - a nervous habit she's seen a thousand times at dinner parties and parent-teacher conferences.

Hannah takes the stairs two at a time, fury building with each step. She thinks about her father's dedication - all those missed dinners, working late to ensure her future. She thinks about the college applications on her desk, carefully researched schools that suddenly feel like castles in the air.

In her room, Hannah paces like a caged animal, hands curling into fists at her sides. The Woodlands, the Rosenbergs - they think their money makes them gods, able to destroy lives with a single phone call. They expect her to cower, to back down like all the other girls they've silenced.

Rage pulses through Hannah's veins as she opens her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard with dangerous purpose. She navigates to ProtonMail, known for its encryption and anonymity. Within minutes, she's created a new identity: [email protected]. Simple, untraceable, perfect.

"You want to destroy my family?" she mutters, double-checking the encryption settings. "Let's see how you like having your life torn apart."

Her hands tremble slightly as she reaches for her phone, scrolling through the hidden folder where she's kept her insurance policies. Past the photos from her birthday party, past the candids from school events, until she finds it - the photograph that could shatter Amber Rosenberg's perfect world.

The medical document fills her screen, its clinical language stark and damning. Hannah's eyes scan the diagnosis again, each word a potential weapon: Bipolar Disorder Type II. The psychiatric evaluation continues with merciless precision - detailed notes about hypomanic episodes, recommendations for mood stabilizers, urgent calls for therapeutic intervention.

"Got you," Hannah whispers, transferring the file to her laptop. But as she begins composing the mass email, something makes her pause. Her eyes catch on different phrases in the report: "patient exhibits severe anxiety about maintaining perfect image" and "shows signs of extreme emotional distress when unable to meet expectations."

For a moment, Hannah sees past the carefully constructed facade of Riverside's queen bee. She sees a girl drowning in expectations, fighting a battle in her own mind while trying to maintain an impossible image of perfection.

"No." Hannah shakes her head hard, banishing the unwanted empathy. "She didn't show mercy to Emily. Or any of the others."

With renewed determination, she pulls up the school's directory. The email addresses of Riverside High's student body populate her screen - hundreds of witnesses to the impending demolition of Amber Rosenberg's carefully constructed world.

Hannah's cursor hovers over the send button as her father's voice drifts up from downstairs, the quiet sound of him making dinner alone. All those years of hard work, his entire career, destroyed with a single phone call because the elite of Riverside decided to teach his daughter a lesson.

"This is for Dad," she whispers, her voice hard as steel. "This is for Emily. This is for everyone they've ever hurt."

The mouse clicks with terrible finality. Hannah watches the progress bar creep across her screen, each percentage point another nail in the coffin of Amber's reputation. When it hits 100%, something shifts in the air - like the moment before a storm breaks, when you can taste the lightning.

She minimizes the email window, but her hands won't stop shaking. What she's just done - using someone's private medical information as a weapon - crosses a line she can't uncross.

The old Hannah, the one who traded fruit roll-ups with Nate Brooks and believed in justice, would be horrified.

But that Hannah died the moment they decided to declare war on her family.

"Your move," she tells her empty room, imagining the chaos that will erupt when Riverside High's population checks their email. The carefully maintained hierarchy, the social order Jake and Amber have ruled for years - all of it about to burn.

Down in the kitchen, she hears her father's phone ring. Probably another friend calling to offer condolences about the job, unaware that they're all just pieces in a game played by families like the Woodlands and Rosenbergs.

Hannah closes her laptop with decisive force. She's chosen her path now - no more playing by their rules, no more trying to fight fair against people who've never fought fair a day in their lives.

Let them come for her. She's ready.