The Bully group is a group that has, of course, bullies in it. The three main bullies are Oliver (The Head Honcho), Zip (The More Mischievous one), and Edward(The Scientist). Their group is called "Top Tier". They bully everyone and can get away with it because they are the teacher favorites. Zip Zip appears like a visual glitch that somehow refused to be corrected, a walking paradox of defiance and controlled chaos. Her hair is the first element to demand attention, violently split down the center in color and intention. The left side is a pitch-black so dark it absorbs light, like freshly spilled ink spreading across a whiteboard, while the right side is a surgical, unnerving white that gleams with the blankness of unmarked paper. The strands themselves fall in clean, straight lines that somehow still look haphazard, tied at the nape of her neck into a low, lazy ponytail that swings with exaggerated rhythm, each motion calculated to appear uncaring. A single ahoge sprouts from the black side, coiling upward in an impossible spiral that ends in a square curl, as if someone doodled it with a shaky hand in the corner of a math test. Slashed onto the white half of her hair in bright, electric blue is a chaotic graffiti message: “2 + 2 = 8.” The numbers are scrawled unevenly just above her ear, with the ink soaking into the strands as if the statement were tattooed onto logic itself, a brazen act of defiance masquerading as nonsense. Her outfit is as jarring as her hair. She wears a sleeveless white dress that clings with clinical neatness, the kind of white that feels sterile and intentional, like the base layer of a concept sketch. Over this, she throws on a cropped white poncho made of soft felt-like fabric, almost plush to the eye. The upper part of the poncho is defaced with vividly colored doodles that look like they were drawn in permanent marker by a kindergarten anarchist. On her left shoulder, a blue smiley face grins maniacally, its circle slightly uneven and one eye bigger than the other. In the center, a crude blue drawing of a square house with a triangle roof sits proudly, complete with a stick-figure chimney and smoke squiggle. On the right side, a red tree bleeds into the fabric, its branches jagged and dripping as if the crayon melted mid-drawing. The result is unsettling, a clash of childish creativity and deliberate anti-design. Coiled around her ankles like a living trap, her dragon tail is matte black and unnaturally thick, covered in rough, uneven spikes that jut outward with no discernible pattern. The tail appears too heavy for her frame, like a weapon disguised as a limb, and it flicks lazily as she walks, trailing behind or occasionally curling tightly in mock affection. Her boots are tall and black, made from stiff leather that creaks ominously with every step. The soles are thick and stomp-heavy, exaggerating the sound of her movements as if demanding everyone’s attention. Zip’s personality mirrors her appearance with terrifying precision. She is bratty and abrasive, the kind of person who grins when someone trips and then mocks their fall with an exaggerated reenactment. Her humor is loud and cruel, childishly taunting yet smart enough to hit where it hurts. She constantly seeks chaos not out of confusion but out of control, commanding attention through sheer audacity. Most of her delight is aimed at tormenting others, especially Claire and Abbie, whom she mocks without mercy. She treats the school like her personal stage, often flanked by her loyal partners in mayhem, Oliver and Edward, reveling in the absurdity of authority and decorum. ⨀⨀⨀⨀⨀⨀⨀ Oliver Oliver looks like a joke the universe played and never apologized for. His presence is sharply theatrical, every part of him curated to draw a gasp, a snort, or a second glance. His hair is so long it drapes almost to his ankles, a snowy white that gleams like silk under fluorescent lights. Tied neatly at the very base of his spine, it flows behind him in a clean, shimmering sheet, bound with a tight black ribbon into a high-sheen ponytail that bounces when he walks like a smirk made physical. On top of his head rests an ahoge that splits into two jagged prongs, jutting upward like lightning caught mid-strike, marking his emotional voltage like an antenna. Embedded high on the right side of his hair sits a glowing red circle, within which an “A+” is permanently etched in bold font. The symbol glows faintly even in daylight, radiating a mocking pride like a sticker given sarcastically by a teacher tired of grading pranks. Two horns curl gently out from his skull, obsidian-black and polished to a mirror shine. They are small and tight but sharpened to dangerous elegance, like decoration with teeth. When he grins, which is often and without warning, his forked tongue flicks out briefly, an unnatural and precise gesture that feels rehearsed. It splits at the end like a serpent’s, thin and glossy, always retreating before you can decide if you actually saw it. His right arm is entirely replaced by a mechanical or stylized pencil, oversized and sharpened to a wicked point. It is fully integrated into his anatomy, moving with fluid grace and expressiveness. He uses it to scribble rude messages onto walls, jab the ends of books, or simply tap against surfaces in rhythms that feel like mock applause. He wears a buttoned black shirt with white-striped sleeves and crisp hems, perfectly ironed as though pressed directly onto his skin. Across the chest is a sharply slashed rhombus, tilted off-center like an emblem from some absurd, self-made house of nobility. His shorts are stark white and end just above the knee, neat and stiff in contrast to the menace of his posture. White knee-high socks cover his legs beneath his black boots, which are shiny, thick-soled, and always slightly too loud. Around his left wrist sits a sleek black watch, its ticking audibly sharp in quiet moments, almost as if counting down to the next act of mischief. Oliver is the embodiment of smug performance. He is cocky, dramatic, and endlessly reactive, thriving on the discomfort and confusion of others. He acts as the ringleader between Zip and Edward, often guiding their chaos like a conductor with a baton. Every movement he makes is exaggerated, every line spoken like it belongs on a stage. He treats school as a sitcom where he writes all the punchlines and reruns the same jokes just to hear people groan. His need for superiority isn’t subtle—it leaks into everything he does, right down to how he corrects teachers mid-lesson or pretends to be bored during chaos he secretly caused. ⨀⨀⨀⨀⨀⨀⨀⨀⨀⨀ Edward Edward is the quietest of the three bullies, but his silence carries the sharpness of a weapon not yet drawn. He doesn’t need to shout or laugh to be noticed—his presence is felt through stillness, like a room holding its breath before a fire alarm. His hair is a mess of jagged white strands, wild and seemingly wind-blown even when indoors, sticking out in every direction like electric static frozen in time. Each spike seems individually shaped, more like blades than locks, as though he styled it by charging into a storm and never brushing afterward. His horns are short, black, and tightly curved, sitting neatly atop his head like polished hooks, always gleaming with a sinister neatness. Perched just behind them is a pair of round black glasses that rarely rest properly on his face. He usually props them on his head or twirls them between fingers, wearing them like a trophy more than a tool. His arms and legs are entirely black from shoulder to fingertip and hip to toe, as if dipped in ink or made from some synthetic, shadowlike material. They shine slightly, like latex or polished obsidian, yet are always marked with faint smudges or chalky fingerprints from recent mischief. His fingers taper unnaturally, ending in precise points that look engineered rather than grown, making him look like he was built to dismantle things without ever lifting a tool. Trailing behind him is a corkscrewed black tail, shaped like a large, angry question mark. It writhes on its own, twitching in response to nearby noise or irritation, seemingly with a mood separate from its owner. His shirt is divided cleanly in tone. The top half is solid black, buttoned and pressed with sharp corners, while the lower portion transitions to an equally clean white, stopping just above the hem in an intentional unfinished pattern. The monochrome split feels like a printing error no one bothered to fix. His boots are massive, matte black, and heavy enough to make the ground tremble slightly when he walks, though he moves with practiced softness that keeps his steps more ominous than loud. Though considered the “serious” one of the group, Edward is still a troublemaker at heart. He rarely speaks unless he knows it will land. When he acts, it is with surgical timing, his jokes often more physical or structural than verbal. He’s the one to tamper with the school’s air vents or swap classroom signs with perfect accuracy. He thrives in silence not because he lacks ideas, but because he understands the power of a well-timed disruption. His companionship with Zip and Oliver feels less like camaraderie and more like controlled combustion, each of them fueling each other in different frequencies of chaos.