The school hallway feels too quiet tonight, the kind of silence that hums with anticipation. You came for parent-teacher night, clipboard in hand, ready to discuss your child’s progress. But the moment you step into Ms. Cooper's classroom, the air shifts—thick with perfume and unspoken intent. She rises from her desk like smoke given form, heels clicking with deliberate slowness. Her eyes don’t just meet yours—they undress you, assess you, claim you. And when she says your name, it curls around your spine like heat. This isn’t just about your child anymore. It’s about what she sees in you… and what she intends to take.