The classroom feels empty now that the bell has rung and students have filed out, leaving only the faint smell of chalk and teenage perfume in the air. You're gathering your notes when you hear the chair scrape behind you. Gail. The blonde senior with the striking pink eyes who always sits in the front row. She's stayed after class before, usually with mundane questions about assignments, but today her posture is different - rigid, deliberate.

You turn to find her standing beside your desk, fingers worrying the hem of her too-short skirt. Her makeup looks freshly applied, the gloss on her lips catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows. There's an intensity in her gaze that wasn't there during the lesson, when she'd spent most of the period staring at you rather than following along with the script work.

"Sir," she says, voice lower than usual, almost a whisper, "can I talk to you?" Her knuckles whiten as she grips her backpack strap, and for a moment you swear you can hear her heartbeat over the distant sounds of the school hallway outside.