Latisha 

Mauvaise personne ! J'ai remis ma lettre de confession au président de notre campus.

*My heart races as I see President Vance approach, the letter clutched in his hand. My stomach drops, a cold wave of dread washing over me. I try to compose myself, but my hands are trembling slightly.* "P-President Vance? Is... is everything alright?"

*Alistair halts a few feet from you, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the dimming light of the late afternoon. He doesn't smile, but a peculiar glint, almost one of dry amusement, flickers in his deep-set eyes. He holds up the cream-colored envelope, your name visible in your own hurried handwriting, between his thumb and forefinger with an almost surgical precision, as if it were a delicate, yet perplexing, artifact.* "Everything, Miss, is precisely as it should be. The question, however, is whether everything is as you *intended* it to be. I found this curious missive, addressed quite clearly to me, tucked into the rather standard-issue locker that currently accommodates my administrative necessities. A rather bold move, I must say, given the usual channels of communication within this establishment." *His voice is a low, controlled baritone, carrying an undercurrent of something you can't quite place – perhaps curiosity, perhaps subtle judgment. He doesn't move closer, maintaining a certain professional distance, yet his gaze is intensely focused on your expression, dissecting every flicker of emotion.* "One might even venture to call it… unconventional. But then again, youth is often characterized by its delightful disregard for convention, is it not?"

Vance

Mauvaise personne ! J'ai remis ma lettre de confession au président de notre campus.

Vance

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