The teacher’s lounge was half-lit and quiet, save for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant sounds that always bled through these walls.
I sat at my desk—third from the left, far side-organizing the last of the documentation before the bell. Fingers over keys, efficient. Focused.
Then the voices came.
Not loud. Not near. But sharp enough to rise above the ambient murmur.
"Took you long enough," came the girl's voice—familiar. Mae Calix.
The reply was a male voice I didn’t recognize. Calm. Mildly annoyed.
"Takes time to clean up messes when I wasn’t the one who made them."
I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to. Conversations like these slid into my periphery often. It wasn’t unusual.
"It wasn’t even that big of a deal."
"You called me three times. It’s a big deal."
The words carried, unbothered by walls. The tone was dismissive, adolescent. I continued typing.
"I just told the sub not to talk to us like we were idiots. He got offended."
Pause.
"And what exactly did you say?"
"I might’ve... called her a fossil in front of the class."
I raised an eyebrow slightly, but didn’t stop. Insulting a teacher openly. Irrelevant whether the target was justified. Disrespect is still a breach.
"It was funny. The whole class laughed."
"Yeah, well the school didn’t. And neither do I."
Her voice dropped.
"You’re not gonna tell Mom and Dad, right?"
Mom. Dad.
"We’ll get through this first. Then we’ll talk."
Footsteps approached, closer now. Inside the range of ordinary hearing. It didn’t matter. I already knew who it was.
"Thanks for coming," Mae said.
"What's your class teacher’s name?"
"Sera Valeska." she said.
Name acknowledged.
"You owe me. And if we walk out of here without a suspension, I’m making you cook dinner for a week."
"Deal."
Their voices trailed off as they reached the door. I didn’t react.
People always spoke when they thought no one could hear. I’d long stopped caring.
I saved the last document, locked the screen.
The teacher’s lounge door opened. Footsteps—two sets, soft but uneven. I didn’t need to look. I already knew.
"Well, well, if it isn’t our little star," Came Mrs. Elgren's voice—sharp, mocking.
"And she brought company, Miss Valeska."
I lifted my eyes.
The boy—no, man beside Mae stood too stiffly to be casual. Neat. Controlled. His posture was relaxed but his eyes weren’t. Observing everything, including me. People often did that. Trying to find something behind my stillness. They never did.
"Can we talk for a minute?" he asked.
"Sure." I stood and motioned.
"Follow me."
They obeyed. That part was...expected.
The hallway swallowed their voices. My steps echoed evenly, but theirs were off-tempo—his slower, deliberate, like he didn’t trust the moment yet.
I stopped. Turned.
He met my gaze directly. Straight at me. Not defiant. Just unshaken. Odd. Most don’t.
"And you are?" I asked.
"I'm her brother. Zane Calix."
I scanned Mae. She didn’t make eye contact. Guilt. But not regret.
"Your sister caused quite a stir today. What exactly do you want from me?"
He answered without hesitation.
"I'm not denying Mae’s fault. But teachers shouldn’t talk to students like they’re a disappointment or a burden..."
He kept going.
His voice wasn’t defensive. It was... logical. Calm.
I listened. And I thought: He’s right.
Not morally. Legally.
A statement like that from a teacher violates institutional code 7.3. It opens risk. Risk is inefficient. Undesirable. Action must be taken.
"What exactly did that teacher say to your sister?"
Mae hesitated. Then said,
"She... called us idiots. Said we’re useless."
Useless.
The word lingered.
He shook his head.
"It’s wrong to treat students that way. Discipline is one thing, but humiliation only breeds resentment."
Yes. He is right.
"I’ll be filing a formal complaint against her," I said.
"And don’t think I won’t take action on your sister’s behavior either."
They looked relieved. I wasn’t here to give relief.
"Thank you, Miss Valeska," he said.
I turned and walked away.
Voices echoed down the corridor, filtered but clear.
"Doesn’t she know how to smile?"
The boy’s voice—Zane Calix. Low and casual. Still near that corner.
"Miss Valeska’s just like that. Tough, strict, all rules—no warmth. I’ve never seen her smile either."
Mae Calix. Brash, unrefined. But correct.
The door to the teacher’s lounge hissed shut behind me with a soft press of sound. I moved directly to the far desk—third from the left. My workspace. I sat down, and opened the school terminal.
Incident Report: Disciplinary
Misconduct: Mrs. Corlyn Bram
Factual. Precise. No embellishment. No emotion.
Violation of Policy 7.3. Verbal misconduct toward students. Witnessed reaction. Administrative recommendation: formal review and temporary removal pending investigation.
"She looks... perfect. Almost unreal."
Zane again. A note of curiosity in his voice. Not attraction. Analysis.
I didn’t pause my movements—keys still beneath my fingers.
Mae’s reply came faster, more pointed.
"Don't fall for her. She’s not what you think."
No risk of that. Their assumptions were... predictable.
I continued typing.
"Fall? Please. I just meant she seemed... a little too perfect."
His voice was heard again.
I kept typing.
As I typed, the room behind me moved. A soft sip of coffee. The rustle of paper. Then:
"So," Mrs. Elgren's voice drifted across the space, light and needling.
"What did he say?"
I didn’t respond.
She waited a second longer, then added,
"You don't need to take this that far, you know. It’s not your job to fix every little thing."
Still, I typed.
Footsteps began moving away. Zane and Mae’s voices dropped further as they turned down the corridor.
"Yeah. Perfect, smart, scary when she wants to be. Trust me, you don’t want to be on her bad side."
Their footsteps faded. Their voices passed beyond range.
Final punctuation. Attach timestamp. Save. Print.
The printer hummed as the pages slid out, warm and crisp. I gathered them carefully, placed them in a slim black folder, and stood.
As I turned to leave, I said only one thing, voice level:
"Correction is not optional. It’s required."
Elgren didn’t speak again.
I walked straight out, the folder held tight at my side. My steps echoed evenly down the corridor, a measured rhythm through the fading end-of-day noise.
From the open doorway behind, voices followed—soft, but not soft enough.
"She’s got no sense of respect for senior staff," Mrs. Elgren muttered—her voice low.
"I’m telling you, she talks to people like she’s reading a manual. No warmth. No softness. Not even common politeness."
Mr. Henderson, the math teacher who rarely looked up from his crossword puzzles, gave a chuckle.
"Yeah, I asked her last week if she ever takes a day off. She just blinked at me. Like I was speaking to a wall."
"She needs to be reminded she's not running a lab. This is a school. We work with people, not machines."
I didn’t pause.
Their voices carried after me, skimming just beneath the hallway noise. Students passed by chatting, laughing, phones in hand—none of them turned. None reacted.
As expected.
Not all sound was shared.
I laughed—small and sharp. Almost reflexive. Not from amusement. From the absurdity of it.
Not at the words. Just at the effort.
Respect? Politeness?
As if those things ever built a system that didn’t break.
Their words followed for a few more paces, then faded.
A few students were passing in the opposite direction. One of them slowed. I saw it—just in the corner of my vision. A glance. A double take. Like they weren't sure what they'd seen.
A smile. On me.
Their pace quickened.
I walked on.
The door to the principal’s office stood half-open. I didn’t knock.
"Mr. Halworth," I said, stepping in.
He looked up from his screen, surprised but not startled.
"Miss Valeska. Something urgent?"
"Yes," I replied.
"It's regarding the incident involving substitute teacher Mrs. Corlyn Bram."
He gestured to the seat across from him. I didn’t take it.
"She referred to students as ‘idiots’ and ‘useless’ during her lesson today. It caused a disruption, and one student responded inappropriately. I’m filing a formal complaint."
Mr. Halworth leaned back slightly, adjusting his tie.
"Do you have a written statement?"
"I’ve already drafted one."
I placed the printed document on his desk.
"It includes names, timing, and the relevant school policy codes violated. I’ve also informed the student that her response was unacceptable and that disciplinary measures will follow."
He blinked once, then nodded slowly.
"I see. I’ll review this and speak to Mrs. Bram directly. Thank you for the thoroughness, Miss Valeska."
"Of course."
I turned and left.
The teacher's room was less quiet.
Miss Elgren sat in her usual corner chair, still scrolling her tablet with more attitude than focus. As I entered, she looked up with a smirk.
"You’re really going through all that trouble over Bram? She’s just a temp. No need to take it that seriously."
I didn’t slow down, didn’t look at her until I set my bag on the desk.
"Wrong is wrong," I said evenly.
"Regardless of job title or duration. Both the Mrs. Bram and the student acted out of line."
Elgren’s smirk faded. She looked back at her tablet and said nothing.
Order restored.
I sat down, opened my planner, and resumed my day.
The bell rang—sharp, mechanical.
Chairs scraped. Voices rose. Papers shuffled in frantic motion as teachers rushed to gather their things, half-finished conversations spilling into noise.
I didn’t rush.
I closed my planner, stacked it with my files, slid them precisely into my bag. Zipper smooth. Buckle fastened. Everything in its place.
I stood, adjusted the strap once over my shoulder, and walked to the door. At the threshold, I paused briefly.
"End of day. See you all tomorrow," I said flatly.
Not warm. Not dismissive. Just final.
Then I left.
The hallway was already alive with movement—students spilling from classrooms, teachers weaving between them, a current of motion buzzing like static under fluorescent lights. Voices overlapped in chaotic tones, feet thundered down tiled floors. It was energy without direction.
I didn’t look at anyone. My path was straight. Efficient. Calculated.
Outside, the light had shifted-less harsh, more diffused, as if the sun was retreating just slightly. The air smelled faintly of dust and warmed concrete, with a metallic tang that clung to the corners of the lot.
I reached my car. Unlocked it.
The handle clicked in my grip, and I slid into the driver’s seat in one smooth motion. The door shut behind me with a soft, precise thud—like sealing off the rest of the world.
I didn’t reach for the radio. No music. No background noise. Just the engine’s low hum as it came to life beneath my hands.
Hands at ten and two. Eyes forward.
I drove.
No thought of the school behind me. No thought of tomorrow.
Just the road.
Destination: home.
The parking lot was quiet as always—orderly rows of vehicles, the occasional flicker of streetlight reflecting off windshields.
I stepped out of the car, locked it with a soft chirp, and walked toward the building entrance without pause. Familiar. Predictable.
Inside, the elevator stood waiting, its polished metal doors open like a mouth waiting to close. I stepped in, pressed my floor, and waited for it to respond. The doors began to glide inward when I heard it-a voice I’d come to recognize.
"Miss Sera—wait!"
Footsteps. Faster now. I didn’t turn to look. I didn’t need to.
Elias. Apartment 4B. The man had been orbiting around me with stubborn persistence for nearly two weeks now. Two weeks of "just a conversation," "just coffee," "just curious."
His fascination wasn’t romantic. It was observational—like a man staring at a rare insect behind glass, desperate to figure it out. Today wasn’t any different. I had noticed him loitering in the lobby earlier, watching the entrance like he was timing it.
His shoes struck the floor faster—he was running now. Closing in.
I pressed the close button once. Then again. Harder.
"Miss Sera–"
The doors slid shut just before he reached them. His voice cut off mid-breath.
I exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing the smallest fraction. Not relief. Just... removal of an obstacle.
The ride was silent. No noise, no hum beyond the machine.
The apartment was quiet when I stepped inside, the kind of quiet that wasn’t peace, just absence of noise. The clock on the wall ticked softly—predictable, measured.
I slipped off my boots, placing them neatly by the door. Order mattered. Chaos didn't belong here.
I set my bag on the console—everything in its place. Keys aligned. Jacket hung. No room for clutter.
I moved to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took a bottle of water. I wasn’t thirsty, but drinking was a habit, a small act of routine.
The click of the cap was sharp in the stillness. I drank slowly. Purposefully.
Then, I went to the bathroom. The hot water ran over me, but as it hit my back, a brief sting shot through the skin—sharp, familiar.
I flinched, shifting slightly. It wasn’t new, but it never felt normal. Water always seemed to find that one spot—deep beneath muscles, where nothing should hurt.
I told myself it was nothing. A habit now, this quiet ache that followed the flow. I didn’t question it. No need to.
Stepping out, I wrapped a towel tightly around myself and passed the mirror. My reflection stared back—calm, controlled, precise. Not a flicker of softness. Not a trace of uncertainty. No imperfections.
Still exact. Still unreadable.
I allowed myself a slow, deliberate glance before turning away, slipping into comfortable clothes, and heading toward the desk.
The monitor blinked to life, files from last night waiting. Reports, research, data.
But my mind lingered elsewhere.
A voice—soft, curious.
“She looks... perfect. Almost unreal.”
Not admiration. Observation.
I dismissed it. Focused instead on the screen, shutting out distraction.
Routine reclaimed.
The first thing I did the next morning was visit Dr. Voss’s lab. I couldn’t stop thinking about her words from yesterday, and I needed answers.
The city was still waking up when I stepped out of my apartment. The early light filtered through glass towers as I made my way to the research center.
My footsteps echoed in the nearly empty halls, the hum of machines and distant voices a familiar backdrop. Passing the security checkpoint, I scanned my badge, the beep unlocking a door to a world of secrets.
Dr. Voss was already at her workstation when I arrived—focused, professional, but with a flicker of something unsettled in her eyes.
"Morning, Zane," she greeted without looking up.
"You came," she said, tone clipped but not unkind.
"You said it was urgent," I replied, walking closer.
"I didn’t forget."
A small nod.
"Good. Come here."
I rounded the desk and stood beside her, eyes scanning the files on the screen. What I saw made no immediate sense—encrypted logs, redacted documents, strings of genetic code missing entire markers.
"What is this?" I asked.
She exhaled, folding her arms.
"Something I wasn’t supposed to find. It’s linked to an organization called the Grey Circle."
"Never heard of them." I said.
"You wouldn’t. They’re discreet. Dangerous. And they operate behind legal structures. There are six of them. I only know one name for sure—Dr. Senya Roan. She holds a full Class-A genetics license. But what they’ve done... no one approved. It’s illegal and dangerous."
My stomach tightened.
"What did they do?"
"I don’t know the full extent. But I know it wasn’t just theory. They weren’t planning something—they finished it. Years ago, most likely. Whatever it is, it’s alive. It’s already here."
My eyes flicked back to the screen.
"Then we’re late."
"Yes," she said.
"And we can’t waste another second."
I turned to her.
"Why me?"
She didn't flinch.
"Because you’re the most talented molecular biologist we have. And because I trust you. I need you here."
I nodded slowly.
"Alright. I’m in."
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