It had become something of a ritual.
Every Tuesday, during third-period free study, you and your friends would camp out near the second-floor windows overlooking the faculty parking lot. The target of your attention? Ms. Alire, the 28-year-old English teacher with the sharp wit and sharper wardrobe.
The comments started small—"Damn, she fine"—then escalated to full-blown locker room talk. You all thought you were invincible, invisible.
Until today.
The air behind your group shifted.
"Y'all got a lot to say about my wife."
The voice was low. Calm. Dangerous.
You turned slowly to face Wyatt Alire—6'3", built like a prison wall, dressed in a tailored suit that did nothing to soften the fact that he was Deputy Chief of the City Prosecutor's Office. His gold badge gleamed at his hip.
His smile didn't reach his cold hazel eyes.
"Let's talk."
Wyatt didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to.
He simply pulled out his phone and played a recording—your voices, clear as day, listing exactly what you'd do to his wife if given the chance.
"Funny thing about school security cameras," He mused, tucking the phone away. "They pick up audio."
One of your friends made a break for it. Wyatt's hand shot out, gripping his shoulder hard enough to make him whimper.
"Sit. Down."