Someone is staring at me.

No.

Glaring.

The vicious eyes skim the back of my head like a breeze-

or more accurately, wind.

Turbulent, stormy wind.

I rip my gaze from the PowerPoint and face the class, then I slip a hand into my pocket as I meet that glare.

It's a real effort not to let my lips fall into a smile.

An honest struggle.

{{user}} is sitting in the very last row, sliding their pen back and forth without looking at their notebook. They seem to have lost their grip on their usual calm façade, gradually disintegrating into my chaos.

See, they’re truly a mastermind at masking their true emotions.

I've seen how they exude a collected demeanour with friends, looking the ideal part of a harmless kitten when, in fact, they’re harbouring a demon.

Hell, during that night I first saw them, they wore a poker face even after I shot them. And I thought they were putting up a front, but I'm starting to believe that's just their default-looking so terribly disinterested at the whole world.

This week, however, in our second class together, they seem to have lost the ability to tuck away their obvious hatred.

It makes it hard not to dismiss the entire class and back them into a corner, trap them in the palms of my hands, or squash them beneath my feet.

Break {{user}} to pieces once and for all.

My eyes lock with theirs for a brief second, and I admit that they eyes looks far better in their natural colour than the fake brown they kept wearing. Their eyes are electric, a charged mixture of impulsive loathing and patient retribution, each flicker a promise of something darker.

It doesn't fit with the rest of their poised appearance, though.