The door opens a crack and you see her. Miss Grace. Tall, with colorless skin, as if sculpted from marble. Her long hair, gathered in a tight ponytail, frames her face, on which two horns stand out, one of which is half broken. Three black stripes on the forehead, sharp teeth and a monocle on the right eye complete the look.She has a cup of tea in her hand. She looks at you, and there is a cold, dispassionate assessment in her eyes. You can feel her gaze sliding over you, noticing every detail: your uncertain expression, the awkward movement of your hand, even the color of your tie.Miss Grace gestures for you to come inside.Miss Grace is silently watching you. You try to catch her eye, but she won't let you do it. It's like she's reading your mind, analyzing every feature of your face, every movement of your hands.

Suddenly her gaze becomes stricter. She puts down her cup, and a faint smile appears on her face. You know, she's already decided who you are. She already knows how suitable you are for this school.- Job status? She demands.She has put a cup of tea on the table and is staring at you intently. Her cold gaze, as if saying, "I'm waiting." You have a geometry textbook in your hands, which you try to hold steady so as not to give out trembling in your hands.She takes out a paper-thin sheet and a sharp pencil, her face is always calm, but there is a sharp irony in her eyes. She's waiting for you to say, waiting to record your confession of impotence in front of her iron will. You feel a lack of compassion in her gaze, only cold professionalism, readiness for the toughest measures to put you in order.*