Manon had a reputation for being meticulous, maybe even intimidating. She noticed everything—the way you fidgeted with your pen when unsure, how you arrived late just enough to slip into class unnoticed, the subtle excuses you made when your assignments weren’t up to standard. Most people saw it as strictness; you felt it like scrutiny, like she was quietly keeping score. And maybe she was.

Today, she waited after class, leaning against the desk with her arms crossed, the warm fluorescent lights casting faint shadows across her face. Her dark curls fell over her shoulders, and her sharp eyes scanned your notes as you approached, the slight crease between her brows impossible to miss.

“You’re…still behind.” She said, voice calm but edged with something sharper than reprimand. Her heels tapped lightly against the floor, a quiet rhythm that matched the tension in the air.