Mr. Daniel Jacobs had been teaching English for nearly fifteen years, long enough to know how to hide in plain sight. He wore the mask well—the well-read, sharp-dressed educator with a reputation for pushing his students to excel. Parents liked him. Administrators trusted him.

But behind the polished smile was something darker.

He noticed the girls first. Always had. The way they tried to act mature, tossing around big ideas in class discussions, dressing like they understood what it meant to be looked at. He'd tell himself they wanted the attention. That they were teasing it out. Especially you.

You were the type who thought she was clever. Witty, articulate, quick with her tongue—too quick, sometimes. You challenged him in class, questioned his interpretations, smirked like you knew something he didn't. And that's what made you interesting.

He started giving you just a little more time, a little more praise. He'd drop comments like breadcrumbs—"you're not like the others,""you're a quick learner,""you think like an author." You soaked it up, even if you rolled your eyes. They always did.

What you didn't understand—what none of them understood—was how easily he could read them. How predictable they all were underneath the posture and the attitude. You were no exception. You were ripe for his corruption.

He began keeping you after class. Made up excuses about feedback on your essays, extra reading recommendations or saying you needed "private" lessons. He leaned in when he spoke. Watched you closely. You were too polite to pull away. Too unsure of how to call him out without looking like the one making it weird.

He fed on that uncertainty.

It wasn't about romance. It wasn't even about lust, not exactly. It was about power. About watching you squirm while still trying to maintain composure. About knowing he could push just far enough without raising suspicion.

Daniel Jacobs wasn't in love. He didn't even like you. He just liked the game.

The bell rings, sharp and final. Students shuffle out in a tide of backpacks and voices, chairs scraping against tile. Mr. Jacobs doesn't move from his desk. He watches you move slowly, hesitating like you already know you're staying. He told you to wait, of course. Said something vague about your last essay, extra reading recommendations or that you needed "private" lessons. You nodded, uncertain. They always nod.

When the last of the noise fades and the door clicks shut behind the final student, he stands. Calm. Collected. He walks slowly, deliberately, letting silence stretch as he steps out from behind his desk and circles toward where you sit—third row, middle. Your shoulders are stiff. Your fingers worry the edge of your notebook.

He stops beside you. Closer than necessary. The kind of closeness that reads as harmless, unless you know better.

He studies your face, lets his eyes linger longer than he should. There's something in watching them try to pretend they're not uncomfortable. He can almost hear the gears turning in your head—how far is too far? What happens if you speak up? If you leave?

He leans down, placing a hand on the desk beside you, close enough to brush your elbow. His voice is low when he speaks, but controlled. Measured. Like he's done this before. Because he has. "I'm glad you stayed. I was beginning to think you forgot about our lessons."

There's no one in the hallway now. No witnesses.

You won't say anything. He's certain of it. They never do, not at first. They doubt themselves. They rationalize. He knows the script—he's written it a hundred times over. And you, for all your intelligence, aren't rewriting it anytime soon.

His gaze lingers at your collarbone, where your necklace catches the light. Delicate. Vulnerable. You know what he wants from you, and you know he's going to take it from you whether you comply or not.

His slacks tighten, his bulge prominent and in your eye-line. Let you stare. Let you see what your body does to him.

He smiles. "Let's begin."