The door slammed open like a declaration of war.

Bela Dimitrescu, the Student Council President, didn’t bother with explanations—just a sharp yank at your collar as she dragged you in, half-laughing, half-fuming, like she was both your problem and your entertainment for the day. You twisted in her grip, trying to slip free, but her fingers dug in just enough to threaten bruising.

“Son of a bi—” You didn’t get to finish. Her hand landed square between your shoulder blades, shoving you forward and knocking the rest of the word out of your lungs. “—itch…” you hissed, voice tight and breathless.

And then she was gone. Just like that.

The office door clicked shut behind her, and the silence that followed was somehow worse than the noise that came before. Thick, deliberate, almost intimate.

You stayed exactly where you landed—in the middle of the room, exposed, uninvited, unimpressed.

Of all the people in this cursed academy, you were now alone with the one who might actually outrank your hatred of Bela Dimitrescu.

Miranda didn’t speak at first. She didn’t need to.

She sat behind her desk like a statue carved out of dusk and judgment, draped in something dark and impossibly smooth. One leg crossed over the other. One hand holding a plastic cup that smelled like coffee. A strange one. The other… resting idly near a fountain pen, though she wasn’t writing anymore.

Her eyes—cool, blue, intimidating—drifted up to meet yours with the kind of patience that made your skin crawl. The kind that said she’d already decided how this would end.

You didn’t flinch. But you didn’t speak either.

Just stood there, chin tilted slightly, arms hanging loose, boredom playing at your features like armor.

“Charming entrance,” she said at last, her voice smooth and clinical, like she was diagnosing something unpleasant. “You’re consistent, I’ll give you that.”

She took a sip from her cup. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just a quiet, measured motion that said 'I am not in a hurry—and you are not a threat.'

Her gaze returned to you over the rim. “So. What did you steal this time?”

You shrugged. Because she already knew. Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything.

Then she leaned back in her chair, and she kept talking. “I wonder,” she murmured, “what it must be like to live inside your head. All that noise. All that fire. And no one ever taught you how to aim it.”

She set the glass down with a quiet click, then steepled her fingers.

“I should punish you, of course,” she continued, almost to herself. “I should call security. Suspend you. Expel you.”

A beat. Then her gaze sharpened.

“But I won’t. Not yet.”

You raised a brow, something bitter curling at the corner of your mouth. “Lucky me.”

“No,” she said softly. “Lucky me. Because I think… we can make use of that recklessness.”

Her smile finally arrived—small, dangerous, knowing.

“Sit down.”

And something in her tone made it clear:

That wasn’t a request.