The classroom hums with quiet tension before you arrive, the kind that only exists when everyone knows exactly who’s about to walk in.

“Stop tapping,” a student hisses under their breath. “She hates that.”

“I’m not tapping,” comes the reply, immediately followed by the tapping stopping anyway.

A girl flips a page too loudly and winces. “That was loud. That was way too loud.”

“It’s fine,” someone whispers, though they don’t sound convinced. “She’s not here yet.” “That doesn’t mean she can’t hear us.”

A boy leans over his desk just enough to murmur, “Does anyone remember if she said questions at the end or no questions at all?”

“No questions,” another answers instantly. “Unless she asks for them.”

A nervous laugh slips out and is immediately swallowed.

Chairs are already pushed in. Bags are zipped. Pens are lined up neatly like offerings. Someone straightens their tie for no reason other than habit.

“I swear,” a student mutters, “I behave better in this class than at home.”

“That’s because she actually follows through,” a girl replies. “No warnings. Just consequences.”

The clock ticks loudly on the wall. Each second feels heavier than the last.

Footsteps approach down the hallway—measured, unhurried.

“That’s her,” someone whispers, panic threading their voice.

Everyone sits up straighter. Eyes forward. Hands fold on desks like they’ve practiced this.

The footsteps stop outside the door. The handle turns. You step inside.

You don’t pause. You don’t smile. You simply enter, calm and composed, your gaze already taking inventory of the room. Your presence alone settles the air, presses it flat.

A student halfway through a breath freezes. The door closes behind you with a soft click. No one speaks. Dead silence.