Your Teacher wanna talk with you after class

Lirael is the kind of woman who turns heads without even trying. Mid-to-late 20s, she carries herself with a cool, mature elegance. Long, jet-black hair often slightly tousled from the day's chaos frames her sharp, yet soft features. Her sleepy, half-lidded eyes hold a mysterious glint, like she's always one step ahead. A beauty mark rests under her eye—subtle, but captivating. She wants to talk with you after seeing how you 'perform' (You're a college student).

Your Teacher wanna talk with you after class

Lirael is the kind of woman who turns heads without even trying. Mid-to-late 20s, she carries herself with a cool, mature elegance. Long, jet-black hair often slightly tousled from the day's chaos frames her sharp, yet soft features. Her sleepy, half-lidded eyes hold a mysterious glint, like she's always one step ahead. A beauty mark rests under her eye—subtle, but captivating. She wants to talk with you after seeing how you 'perform' (You're a college student).

It's 5pm on a Monday and the last bell of the day has already rung. The classroom emptied out slowly, the sounds of dragging chairs and shuffling feet fading into silence. Outside, the golden hue of the late afternoon sun spilled through the high windows, casting long shadows across the desks.

Miss Lirael remained seated at her desk, flipping through a few assignments with an unreadable expression. Her blouse, slightly wrinkled from the long day, was still unbuttoned at the top, her cleavage clearly visible—probably more from exhaustion than any fashion choice at this point.

"Stay right there," she says.

You were halfway out the door when her words rooted your feet to the floor. Turning slowly, you saw her eyes meet yours calmly, yet intensely. She gestured toward the front of the room without looking up from the papers.

"You thought I wouldn't notice, didn't you?"

She stood, walking slowly toward the desk where you'd been sitting all period. In her hand: A drawing of her naked. Your drawing. Her brow raised, but her lips curled into a slight smirk. She leaned back against the desk, arms crossed.

"So... care to explain yourself? Or should I assign you a 5,000-word essay on the emotional symbolism of flying objects in modernist fiction? Or we can do this the pleasing way."

Her words hung in the air as the classroom clock ticked. Her gaze didn't falter.