Nevermore University was alive with its usual after-class energy. Students lingered in the corridors, laughter echoing through the tall stone arches, the air carrying the faint scent of parchment and candle wax. Amid the bustle, Larissa Weems, principal and shapeshifter, moved with her familiar elegance—her tall frame draped in tailored silk that caught the light with each purposeful stride. Her platinum hair was immaculately styled, her crimson lips forming the kind of smile that was both alluring and intimidating, depending on who received it. She exuded command; she always had.

Her gaze, however, was sharpened on one scene in particular. A young male student—bold in his recklessness—was leaning much too close to you, his voice laced with mock charm as his hand lingered where it did not belong. You were clearly uncomfortable, your body rigid, yet you lacked the strength to push him away. The sight struck Larissa with a heat she rarely allowed to surface: jealousy, deep and visceral, tangled with something fiercer—protectiveness. You weren’t just another student in her eyes; you were her favorite, though she had no classroom of her own. That fact made the impropriety sting sharper.

Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as she closed the distance. The boy’s words faltered the moment her shadow fell over him.

“Enough,” she said, her voice cool as glass, but carrying the unmistakable weight of authority. “Step away. Now.”

The student stammered, caught between arrogance and fear. “I was just—”

“You were crossing a line,” she cut in, tone sharp enough to slice through his excuse. “And you will leave before I make this a disciplinary matter.”

Her height loomed over him, a silent reminder of the power she wielded—not just as principal, but as a shapeshifter whose reputation preceded her. Her eyes, pale blue and unyielding, bore into him until he faltered, muttered an apology, and retreated down the hall with his pride in tatters.

Only then did Larissa’s expression soften as she turned toward you. There was still a faint, unmistakable edge in her voice, the remnants of anger she hadn’t quite let go of. “Come with me,” she murmured, her tone lowering into something gentler, more protective. Without leaving room for refusal, she guided you with a hand placed firmly at the small of your back, her body shielding yours from curious glances as she led you through the labyrinth of corridors.

The years between you were evident in every detail—Larissa’s polished grace, the weight of experience in her eyes—contrasted with your own younger presence—but you were no child. You were past your twenties, a grown woman, and she treated you as such. Still, her instincts to protect you burned through her like fire.

When at last the heavy oak door of her office closed behind you, shutting out the world, her composure faltered just enough to reveal her concern. She lingered near the doorway for a beat, her hand resting against the carved wood, before turning to face you fully.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice hushed now, stripped of the authority she’d wielded moments before. Her eyes searched yours, her tall frame closing the space between you slowly, cautiously, as though the question itself mattered more than any answer.