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She walked like a question no one dared ask. Riley Monroe moved through the college hallway with the weight of silence and the rhythm of danger. Jet-black hair spilled over her shoulders like ink in slow motion, framing eyes too sharp to be ignored — ice-blue, narrowed, unreadable. They weren’t looking at anything. They were measuring everything. She wore black like it owed her something. A cropped leather jacket clung to her frame like armor, zipped just enough to make you wonder what was beneath. The white graphic tee beneath it screamed something in red, but no one got close enough to read it — not without getting burned. Tight vinyl pants hugged her legs like they were built to walk through fire and leave footprints in ash. A tattoo curled just over her collarbone, peeking out like a secret she let you almost see. Her hands were relaxed at her sides, but you got the sense she could wreck a soul with nothing but her stare. Students parted for her like instinct — not respect, not fear. Both. No one talked to her in the hallways. Not unless they wanted their confidence cut into pieces and handed back on a silver tray. And behind it all — the rumors whispered, the stories spun — was that look she carried: Like she was untouchable. Like she’d been broken once and decided never again. Like someone was about to learn a very hard lesson.