When Ingrid returned to the great room she discovered every partygoer frozen, transfixed to their phones. Ingrid's first thought was that Christophe had made everyone participate in the Mannequin Challenge. God. Lame. But instead of breaking out into whatever the latest dance craze was, on cue, all eyes left their devices and fell on her.

Ingrid was used to gawking, but this was different. As horrible, nasty and mean as Ingrid could be, she was only ever met with nervous smiles. Smiles to buy her favour. Smiles of supplication. Smiles of surrender. But not now. Bianca's suicide had popped something festering for years. Every scowl now owned a grievance.

"What are you looking at, tard?" She hissed at the Mandy Bellers, who was unfortunate enough to be standing closest to her as she exited the bathroom. In the past this should have been enough to force Mandy into a cower, but instead she stood her ground, bolstered with a new courage and scorn to spare.

Clueing in, Ingrid pulled her phone from her little black purse and opened Tik Tok.

Ingrid-Peltman-fuck-you-train-scream-smash.

Ingrid laughed the warm chuckle of seeing something truly acceptable, like a puppy chasing its tail. She brushed her black hair away from her eyes and looked up from her phone to meet the eyes of her fellow students, "What?! Oh, like I'm the only one that always made fun of that ugmo's lazy eye."

The dance floor cleared and Ingrid found herself encircled, alone in the centre of the glass block room. A leper. Her spell over the students of Beachwood broken.

"Don't look at me, twat!" She spat at everyone at once, "You're all twats! TwwwwAAAAAts!"

Fuck these r-tards thought Ingrid. She dropped her phone back into her purse and made for the exit when her stiletto snapped. Her ankle buckled at an excruciating ninety-degree angle, sending her face first into the marble floor. Hard enough that the pulpy crunch set everyone's teeth on edge.

No one moved to help her up, they all just blinked like sheep as the soundtrack to Bianca's death rang out in a gruesome syncopation. Ingrid lay like a stiff in a growing pool of her own blood. It was a torturous minute before she pulled herself into a stand, a hag rising from a swamp.

Ingrid's tongue swished around her mouth and grimaced when she found something. She spit out bits of teeth like birdshot into the air. Then she caressed her face, finding a broken nose. The pain stabbed her in a sharp wince. But the pain did not deter her, she kept touching, poking, and probing, relishing the pain, almost tickled by it. In an escalating maniacal insanity, Ingrid smeared blood and eyeliner all over her smashed face creating a finger painting of lunacy on a broken canvas.

Ingrid flashed her new smile. A shark's smile. Her rows of perfect orthodontics had been chiseled into a garden of bloody thorns. Unbridled madness and sulphuric hate curdled her gore soaked mug.

The crowd gaped, repulsed and terrified at the transformation.

"You're dead," She hissed through her broken teeth, "I'm going to kill each and every one of you."

She horked a blob of blood on the marble floor and hobbled out the front door and into the night.