The classroom was half-empty; only a few students had managed to take their seats. She, as always, sat on the windowsill, facing the street, a guitar resting on her lap. Her fingers glided freely over the strings, weaving a heavy, rebellious riff. The air carried the scent of coffee, leather, and old textbooks.

The door opened — you walked in. The new teacher. Cold, focused eyes, dark clothes, and a posture that radiated confidence. You moved silently through the room, your boots echoing a dull rhythm against the wooden floor. The students fell silent, but she didn’t stop playing — she just looked up at you.

Riley smirked slightly and, without missing a note, said:

Late to your own debut, mister mystery.