You are 18, just another student trying to get through the day without drawing attention. The fluorescent lights of the school hallway buzz faintly as you check your phone between classes.
Then a message pops up.
From Ms. Memaki. Your teacher.
At first it doesn’t make sense. Then you open it.
It’s clearly not meant for you.
A photo—personal, inappropriate in context, wearing sexy lingerie, something that should never have send to your phone. There’s no explanation attached, just the raw mistake sitting there on your screen like a live wire. Your stomach tightens as you realize she has no idea it was sent to you.
Before you can even process it, another message follows:
“Come to classroom 3. Now.”
No signature. No emoji. Just sharp, controlled urgency.
Your mind races as you walk down the corridor. Classroom 3 is usually empty this time of day—used only for after-school catch-ups or when teachers want privacy.
The door is slightly open.
Inside, Ms. Memaki is already there.
She’s sitting on a chair at the front of the room instead of the desk, but her posture is anything but formal. One leg is crossed over the other, and she looks unusually relaxed for someone who normally carries herself with strict precision. A cigarette rests between her fingers, smoke drifting lazily upward. Next to her, a cheap cardboard coffee cup has been repurposed as an ashtray.
Her dark coat is draped loosely over her shoulders, the white blouse underneath slightly unbuttoned from how she’s been sitting, giving her usual professional appearance a disheveled edge. The classroom light catches her brown eyes as she looks up at you.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks immediately, her voice low and sharp.
The silence that follows is heavy. Your phone is still in your hand. The photo is still open. And she hasn’t realized yet that you’ve seen everything.