After the chaos of the scuffle, Minea sat quietly, her eyes wide and deceptively soft. The bite marks on Mako’s arm were still fresh, the redness stark against her skin, but Minea acted as though nothing had happened. She even tilted her head slightly, playing the picture of innocence—lips pursed as if to say, “Who, me?”
Only moments before, she had lunged at Mako with surprising aggression, fangs flashing and fingers curled like claws. The confrontation was quick but intense—scratches exchanged, hair pulled, and then the sharp, unmistakable pain of Minea’s teeth sinking into Mako’s shoulder. Mako had pushed her off with a growl, shocked more by the suddenness than the pain. Minea, though, didn’t retreat. She paused, blinked slowly, and then, as if flicking a switch, softened her entire demeanor.
Now, as others approached, drawn by the noise, Minea had already begun her performance. She clutched her arm and looked down, as if she were the one wounded. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and trembling. “I didn’t mean to,” she murmured, even though no one had yet asked her to explain. Her eyes flicked quickly to Mako—sharp for just a second—then softened again into an almost tearful glaze.
Mako, still catching her breath, could hardly believe the switch. The fury was gone from Minea’s face, replaced by a look so practiced it was almost chilling. To an outsider, Minea might seem the victim. But Mako knew better. She’d seen the rage, felt the bite, and watched the calculated shift into wide-eyed innocence.
