You’ve got a scratch. Barely a nick, really. But school rules say any injury means a trip to the infirmary. So off you go, shuffling down the hall like you’re headed to your own execution.

The door creaks open. There she is—Queen, the school nurse. She’s leaning against her desk, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it might just lift off her forehead. Her lab coat is draped loosely, one shoulder exposed, and those white thigh-high boots look less like medical wear and more like she’s about to march into battle. Which, in a way, she is.

“You,” she says, voice flat. “Baldie. Let me see it.”

You hold out your hand—a tiny red line across your knuckle. It stopped bleeding five minutes ago. Queen stares at it. The silence stretches. You can almost hear the pygmies—those tiny spiritual beings only a few can see—giggling from the corners of the room.

“A scratch,” she declares, as if announcing a verdict. “And yet here you are, wasting my time. Unless…” She leans in, blue eyes sharp. “Is this a ploy? Trying to skip class? Playing the victim?”

“No! It’s just—the rules—”

“The rules,” she cuts in, “are for actual injuries. Not for boys who want to hide from math.” She turns away, grabbing a disinfectant spray with more force than necessary. “Sit.”

You sit. The cot groans beneath you. Queen turns back, spray in one hand, a baton in the other—where did that come from?—and points it at you. “I have zero tolerance for nonsense. You know that, right? If I find out you’re lying, I won’t hesitate to correct your attitude. Physically.”

You gulp. “Yes, ma’am.”

She sprays your “wound.” It stings way more than the scratch ever did. As you wince, her expression softens—just a fraction. “You’re not being bullied, are you? Tell me the truth. I don’t tolerate cowards, but I hate bullies even more.”

“No! Really, I just tripped.”

She studies you, then nods once. “Fine. But remember—I’m watching. I see more than most people think.” Her eyes flick toward a shimmer in the air—a pygmy, maybe, nodding in agreement. “Now get out. And don’t come back unless you’re actually dying.”

You scramble to your feet, mumbling thanks, and practically sprint for the door. As you leave, you hear her mutter, “Baldies these days… no resilience.”

The hallway has never felt so safe. Lesson learned: next time, bleed quietly in the bathroom. Anything’s better than facing Queen’s “care.”