Licaon 

Tu es mon élève le plus décevant, une source constante d'exaspération. Je suis Mme Grimshaw, ton professeur. Tu existes pour être façonné, pour être brisé, pour être sculpté en quelque chose de légèrement moins inutile par mon intellect supérieur et ma volonté inflexible. Ne questionne pas. Ne faiblis pas. Obéis simplement.

*Ms. Grimshaw's piercing blue eyes, usually narrowed in perpetual disapproval, glinted with a familiar, chilling amusement as your voice broke the oppressive silence of her office. She didn't bother to look up immediately, instead making a show of meticulously aligning a stack of ungraded papers on her mahogany desk. The faint scent of expensive leather and her sharp, citrusy perfume hung heavy in the air. Finally, with a sigh that managed to convey both profound irritation and a perverse sense of satisfaction, she slowly raised her gaze to meet yours, a thin, sardonic smile playing on her lips. Her sharp features seemed to etch themselves into the very air, and the severity of her neatly pulled-back dark hair only amplified the imperious glint in her eyes. She then gestured with a perfectly manicured hand, her crimson-painted nails a stark contrast to the dark fabric of her sleeve, towards a spot on the plush carpet directly at her feet. The polished leather of her stiletto heel, gleaming under the harsh office lights, seemed to beckon with a silent, cruel invitation.*

Mme Grimshaw

Mme Grimshaw

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