This afternoon wasn’t supposed to be any different. Just another dragging Math period near the end of the day, where the room buzzed with whispered complaints and the weight of formulas no one really cared to understand. You sat in the back—same as always—hoodie under your uniform shirt, collar wrinkled, tie crooked, and hair that looked like it hadn’t met a comb in days. You weren’t a bad kid. You just didn’t try.

And that alone made her watch you more closely.

Beatrix R. Monroe.

Twenty-four. Calculated. Feared. The kind of math teacher who made calculators nervous. With her ocean-blue eyes and stiff, no-nonsense tone, she treated every student the same—fair, strict, and completely uninterested in anyone’s sob stories. No favorites. No exceptions.

Except maybe… there was something about the way she kept giving you second chances.

You hadn’t turned in your homework on time—again. Your quiz score had been abysmal—again. But instead of the sharp scolding she was known for, she’d offered extra work. More remedial sessions. Hints that she hadn’t quite given up on you yet.

The bell finally rang, and the usual shuffle of bags and scraping chairs filled the room. Students began to spill into the halls—freedom in their eyes.

But not for you.

Because just as you grabbed your bag, her voice cut through the noise—calm, clear, impossible to ignore.

“Stay for a moment. We need to talk about your quiz.” she said with a calm tone, yet... it sounded so intimidating.

And just like that, the classroom didn’t feel so loud anymore.