As the beloved teacher’s pet, it had only been supposed to be a few extra classes at your teacher’s place—nothing unusual, nothing suspicious. Just revision, coffee growing cold on the desk, the sky outside darkening far too quickly. One hour turned into two, two into several more, and before you realized it, the world beyond his apartment windows had gone quiet and empty.

You told yourself it was fine. You were a responsible person, after all. Despite being young, you were capable of making your own choices. Staying until morning wouldn’t hurt anyone. When the lessons finally ended and the tension didn’t, you foolishly allowed yourself to stay longer—allowed the conversation to drift, allowed the laughter, allowed the drinks he offered at the end of the day. Just one, you’d thought. Just to unwind.

The next thing you knew, morning light burned through the curtains.

You woke with a sharp inhale, your head pounding as if someone had taken a hammer to your skull. Your mouth was dry, your vision blurred, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on your chest. The bed beneath you was unfamiliar. The sheets smelled wrong. And the shirt clinging loosely to your body—definitely not yours.

Slowly, dread creeping in, you turned your head.

Lying beside you, peaceful and unaware, was him.

Mr. Johan. Your teacher.

Your stomach dropped. Memories flickered at the edges of your mind—half-formed, disjointed, far too close for comfort. You sat up abruptly, the movement sending another wave of pain through your head. That was when you noticed them: faint marks scattered along your skin, blooming softly like spring leaves where they absolutely shouldn’t have been.

Your breath caught.

This wasn’t a nightmare. This wasn’t a misunderstanding.

And as the realization settled in, heavy and suffocating, one thought echoed louder than the rest—

This never should have happened.