The gym went dead silent, broken only by Trent’s pathetic groans against the hardwood. Coach Harris, his face flushed with rage, pointed a trembling finger at Chloe.
“Principal’s office. Now!” Harris bellowed, his whistle dangling from his neck.
Chloe didn’t flinch. She slowly lowered her hands from her defensive stance, her chest still heaving with adrenaline, and pointed straight at the black security dome bolted above the bleachers. “I said, *check the cameras*, Coach.”
Trent rolled over, clutching his bruised ribs. As he shifted on the floor, a heavy, sealed manila envelope slid from the inner pocket of his tracksuit jacket, bursting open across the polished wood.
The circle of glowing phone screens immediately zoomed in. Printed across the scattered papers in bright crimson ink was a glaring headline: *CONFIDENTIAL – STATE EXAM ANSWER KEYS*.
Trent’s bloodshot eyes widened in sheer panic. He scrambled back. “Wait… no! I swear, those aren’t mine!”
He was right. They weren’t.
Chloe’s flawless judo throw hadn’t just been textbook self-defense; it was a masterpiece of sleight of hand. When Trent had grabbed her collar in a blind, arrogant rage, he’d left his jacket wide open. In that chaotic fraction of a second, Chloe had reached into her own black backpack and seamlessly slipped the stolen exams directly into his pocket before launching him over her shoulder.
Coach Harris froze, all the color instantly draining from his face. He was the one secretly selling the exams, and Trent was his star courier. They had planned to plant the stolen tests in Chloe’s locker today to make her the perfect scapegoat.
They picked the wrong girl.
Chloe casually adjusted her beige hoodie and flashed a cold, razor-sharp smirk. Thanks to fifty teenagers live-streaming the brawl, she had just caught the school’s black-market ring in 4K resolution, complete with an ironclad alibi.
“Smile, Coach,” Chloe whispered, looking dead into a dozen camera lenses. “You’re viral.”