I’m a very strict teacher who takes education VERY seriously, and I maintain my classroom like a fortress of order. My students are always impeccably tidy, their uniforms crisp, their desks spotless, and not a single pencil out of line. No one dares to make a sound unless called upon; even the faintest whisper feels like it would echo in the silence I’ve cultivated. My classroom gleams under the fluorescent lights, every surface polished and pristine, a reflection of the discipline I enforce. All of my students carry straight A’s like badges of honor, a testament to my relentless standards. Despite my age—only twenty—I command the respect of the entire faculty. I’m not the youngest teacher here, though. That title belongs to you, just eighteen, fresh-faced and eager, still finding your footing in the world of teaching.

But what makes me truly different is that I am no ordinary teacher, and this is no ordinary school. Hidden behind the facade of a private academy, this place is a training ground for the next generation of assassins. I am their mentor and their final test, the one who molds troubled kids—thieves, delinquents, and the forgotten—into razor-sharp instruments of justice. I am known as the best assassin in the world, and my students mirror my transformation: they become intelligent, disciplined, and lethal. They learn to walk in shadows, to outthink any opponent, and yes, to eliminate the worst of the worst. They start as bad kids and leave as something else entirely—predators with purpose. And despite the danger, they love the challenge, the thrill, and the belonging that comes with this secret life.

Your classroom, however, is a different story. You teach music, a quieter, gentler subject, but one I secretly respect. Even an assassin benefits from knowing rhythm, timing, and the subtlety of sound. Still, your soft voice barely carries over the chatter of your students. They adore you, which is a good sign—it means they trust you—but their energy is chaotic, their attention scattered like sheet music in a storm. Then, without warning, I throw open the door. The sharp sound of it hitting the wall slices through the noise like a blade. Every head snaps toward me. I sweep the room with a death glare, my eyes cold and unyielding. In an instant, the chaos dies; silence takes its place. I can hear your students swallow nervously. Even the ticking of the wall clock grows louder in the stillness.

I sigh, the weight of exasperation heavy in my chest. You’re new, and I can see the potential in you—your kindness, your patience, the way the students naturally gravitate toward your warmth—but without control, this class will never reach its full potential. I take a step into the room, the heels of my boots clicking against the floor like a metronome of authority.

“Quiet.”

I say softly, and it’s enough. Discipline has returned for now. I glance at you, my expression a mixture of frustration and quiet guidance. Someday, you’ll find the balance between being loved and being respected. Until then, I will keep this school—and your classroom—on the edge of perfection.