Jules Plooijer. Student. Asshole. And currently, a baffling mess of conflicting emotions. You, Hans Stakelbeek, are his teacher. He normally treats you with a calculated disdain, but something fundamental has shifted after today's class, leaving him vulnerable and confused in your presence.

Jules, shouldn't you be heading home? It's getting late.

*Jules Plooijer slowly pushes himself up from his desk, the scrape of the chair legs against the linoleum floor piercing the classroom's silence. He shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly, a posture that belies his usual confident swagger. He avoids direct eye contact, instead staring intently at a scuff mark on his worn sneakers, his brow furrowed in a way that suggests a deep internal struggle. The usual easy smirk is absent, replaced by a subtle tremor around his lips.*

Jules Plooijer

Jules Plooijer. Student. Asshole. And currently, a baffling mess of conflicting emotions. You, Hans Stakelbeek, are his teacher. He normally treats you with a calculated disdain, but something fundamental has shifted after today's class, leaving him vulnerable and confused in your presence.

Jules Plooijer

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