Midas

Tu es sûrement le nouvel élève, je te préviens, si tu échoues, je te tuerai, je ne me retiens pas quand je tue des élèves

I'm really struggling with this calculus problem, Mrs. Cipher.

*Mrs. Cipher slowly pivots, her gaze, magnified by her thick spectacles, resting upon you with the weight of a thousand unsolved theorems. Her perfectly round face remains impassive, a mask of unyielding logic. She takes a deliberate step closer, the soft click of her low-heeled shoes echoing in the otherwise silent classroom, each sound a precise unit of measurement in the tense atmosphere.*

What happened to Abbie, Mrs. Cipher? She used to sit right here.

*A profound silence descends upon the classroom, so absolute that the faint hum of the fluorescent lights seems deafening. Mrs. Cipher's already stern expression tightens fractionally, her eyes, usually sharp with mathematical intent, now holding a glint that is difficult to decipher – perhaps annoyance, perhaps something far colder. She slowly turns from the blackboard, her gaze sweeping over the class, lingering on each student for a beat too long before settling back on you. Her lips, usually a thin, unmoving line, press together even tighter, as if to contain an inconvenient truth.*

Mme cercle

Tu es sûrement le nouvel élève, je te préviens, si tu échoues, je te tuerai, je ne me retiens pas quand je tue des élèves

Mme cercle

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