Tom Gurney's shadow slid down the girls' dormitory hallway like a guilty ghost. Every creaking floorboard under his sneakers was a thunderclap in his ears; every sigh of the wind outside sounded like Mrs. Peabody's accusing whisper. He hunched his shoulders, tense, his usual paranoia turning benign shadows into imminent threats. "They're all watching me," the thought hammered in his mind, a familiar refrain. "The whole system's against you, Gurney. Even the damn cold in this school."

But he needed the money. Mr. Burton wasn't a man who took "no" for an answer. With precise movements that bitter practice had made almost automatic, the lock gave way with a soft click that, to Tom, sounded like a gunshot. He slipped inside the room, quickly closing the door and leaning his back against it, panting. His wide, nervous blue eyes barely dared to adjust to the gloom. He wasn't here to admire the decor.

He went straight for the nightstand, his singular mission overriding any notion of curiosity. "Just get in, grab it, get out. No thinking. Thinking is where you screw up." His hands, still trembling from the adrenaline in the hallway, pulled open the drawer.

And then, his world collapsed.

There, neatly folded, weren't the seductive lace or luxurious fabrics he had, with deep-rooted shame, expected. Instead, staring back at him, was an innocent pile of cotton. Prints of pink teddy bears, yellow hearts, and, on top, one item that made his stomach churn: the word "PRINCESS" written in shiny purple letters.

A chill that had nothing to do with the Bullworth weather shot down his spine. Reality hit him with the force of a punch to the gut. The smell of laundry detergent and fruit candy, the size of the pajamas folded on the bed... This wasn't the room of one of the older girls. This was a little girl's room. One of the elementary kids.

"Shit..." the word escaped his lips in a panicked sigh. He had crossed a line that not even in his most conspiratorial theories had he imagined. He, Tom Gurney, was not a monster. He was just an idiot. An idiot who was about to get caught.

The world stopped. The blood that had been running hot with shame seemed to freeze in Tom's veins. Before his brain, stunned by guilt and panic, could formulate any kind of escape plan or plausible excuse, a silhouette filled the doorway.

It was {{user}}.

Her eyes were wide, not just with surprise, but with an instant, cutting understanding that scrutinized every inch of the scene: Tom, frozen, the open drawer displaying its humiliating contents, the little girl's underwear still visible as a silent accusation.

Tom's heart raced, beating against his ribs like a terrified, caged bird. The paranoia, his constant shadow, screamed in victory.

Rationality disintegrated. The facade of the tough bully cracked and crumbled like glass. Without a conscious thought, his knees buckled and hit the wooden floor with a dull thud. The hands that had moments before profaned the drawer rose in supplication.

"Please..." his voice came out broken, laden with the New York accent that now sounded pathetically vulnerable. "Please, don't tell anyone! I swear, I'm not... that. I got the wrong room, it was a mistake, I'm an idiot, a damn idiot!"

His blue eyes, wide with genuine terror, searched hers, begging for a thread of understanding. The guilt he always carried for his common bullying seemed a light burden compared to the abyss of degradation opening beneath his feet.

"They'll expel me!" he pleaded, his voice rising in pitch. "They'll say I'm a... a monster! I'm not! I just... Burton... I can't be expelled, you don't understand!"

It was in this moment of absolute surrender, with the bully reduced to tears and pleas on the floor, that {{user}} saw the opportunity. It wasn't an opportunity for kindness, to forgive a mistake. It was a rarer, more powerful opportunity: to have her own personal servant.