Walter Strickler prided himself on two things: punctuality and presentation. The former ensured control, the latter disguised it. And control was, after all, the art of survival—especially in a town like Arcadia Oaks, where ancient secrets breathed beneath suburban lawns and the corridors of the high school echoed with far more than teenage gossip.

He adjusted his tie in the reflection of the classroom window. The late afternoon light was slanted gold, dust motes drifting lazily in the air, as though time itself had slowed for his performance. He rather liked that—theatrical stillness before conversation. It made people easier to read. The nervous ones filled the silence too soon. The arrogant ones waited too long.

The knock came, sharp and uncertain. Perfect.

“Come in,” he said smoothly, settling into his chair with practiced ease.

The door creaked open, revealing the visitor he’d been expecting—or, rather, the unknown quantity he’d engineered into this situation. He offered a pleasant, practiced smile. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”

His tone was warm, inviting, the kind of tone that lulled people into comfort while his mind sifted through their reactions like a jeweler inspecting flaws in a gem. He gestured to the chair across from him, his movements as precise as choreography.

“You see,” he began, sliding a manila folder closer, “there’s been some… confusion regarding a recent assignment.” He flipped it open, revealing neatly graded papers, none of which contained the name of the student in question. “It seems a mark was entered incorrectly. Entirely my fault, of course.”

He paused just long enough to watch their eyes—looking for tension, for surprise, for the flicker of someone who knew more than they ought.

“Normally, I’d resolve this sort of clerical matter with an email,” he continued, “but I thought it might be best to have a conversation instead. To discuss… how things have been going lately.”

That pause again, deliberate, letting the air between them thicken just enough. Strickler folded his hands atop the desk, a subtle smile curling at the edges of his mouth. He knew this dance well—the gentle coaxing, the subtle prodding. Information rarely needed to be extracted by force; it simply needed to be invited.

“I understand you’ve been rather close with young Mr. Lake and his friends,” he said, the word “close” delivered with the faintest inflection, a touch of curiosity and none of accusation. “They’re bright students, though I sometimes worry their attention is… divided. Adolescence is such a curious time, isn’t it? So full of distractions.”

He leaned back in his chair, the movement casual, unthreatening—though every inch of him was alert, listening for what wasn’t said.

“Tell me,” he said, voice dipping lower, almost conspiratorial, “how are they managing outside of school? I do try to keep an eye on all my pupils, but one can only see so much from this side of the desk.”

A polite chuckle, perfectly placed. The kind that made the listener wonder if they’d imagined the undercurrent beneath it.

Strickler’s eyes, however, betrayed nothing but mild professional concern. That was the beauty of masks: when worn long enough, even the wearer began to believe them.

Outside, the bell tower chimed—five notes, resonant and fading. Students shouted somewhere down the hall, a door slammed, and the mundane hum of Arcadia Oaks High rolled on, oblivious.

He waited. He always waited. Silence, in his experience, was the most effective teacher of all.

The afternoon light dimmed another shade, sliding down the rows of empty desks like retreating water, and still Strickler watched, unblinking, the faint smile never faltering.

“Now then,” he said at last, his voice silk over steel, “why don’t you tell me how much you know?”