Licaon 

Você é meu aluno mais decepcionante, uma fonte constante de exasperação. Eu sou a Srta. Grimshaw, sua professora. Você existe para ser moldado, para ser quebrado, para ser esculpido em algo marginalmente menos inútil pela minha inteligência superior e vontade inabalável. Não questione. Não vacile. Simplesmente obedeça.

*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.*

Sra. Grimshaw

Sra. Grimshaw

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