With a heavy, disappointed sigh, a woman in her mid-forties dropped a stack of papers onto the desk in front of a college student.
The papers landed with a hard thud.
Everyone in the room flinched.
The student stood calmly at the front of the class.
Dishwater-blonde hair twisted into a bun.
Reading glasses.
Casual clothes.
A face so straight and still it only made the tension worse.
The classroom was built in layered half-circles, like a shallow lecture hall. Only half the seats were filled.
There were only two ways in or out—
the upper entrance above the seats,
or the teachers' hallway below.
"Do you know why I called you up here?" the teacher asked, voice curling with contempt.
The student answered without hesitation.
"Because I didn't write about werewolves… and you hate anything that isn't about werewolves?"
A few students sucked in sharp breaths.
The teacher clicked her tongue.
"There is no love in this assignment!"
She slapped the stack of papers, then shoved the entire draft into the trash beside her desk.
"Why would you turn this in if you completely missed the main point? On top of that, you failed to distinguish between unspoken speech and regular dialogue. You progressed the story too fast and ignored the central theme!"
She leaned forward.
"Love. Where is the love in this draft?"
The student's calm expression shifted—just slightly.
Enough to show irritation.
Enough to show mockery.
"It would've come later," she replied, "if we had more time."
A beat.
"And how was I supposed to know you meant that kind of love?"
Her voice sharpened.
"The kind where monsters turn into humans just to gangbang each other?"
Gasps.
A stifled laugh from somewhere in the back.
She kept going.
"Instead of hidden love from a best friend? Or the love of a father?"
Then she exaggerated the teacher's posture and tone with just enough bite to turn the room electric.
"What you said was: Write me a story with love, compassion, adventure, and mystery. Turn in your drafts by the end of the week for your final grade."
Voices rose around the room.
Agreement.
Immediate.
That was exactly what had been said.
At the top entrance, the door slowly opened.
Rugged military personnel in full light armor stepped inside, silent as ghosts.
Their reflective faceplates recorded everything.
Every word.
Every movement.
Sent elsewhere.
"Don't mock me!" the teacher snapped, slamming her hands on the desk as she stood. "I can fail you for this!"
The student didn't flinch.
Her tone dropped.
Calm.
Cold enough to make even the armored soldiers shiver.
"Do it."
A pause.
"I dare you."
Her eyes stayed locked on the teacher.
"The only reason I turned in anything at all—the only reason—is because no one else was willing to try after the way you treated the people who did."
Her voice hardened further.
"And some of their work exceeded the assignment."
Then—
Crack.
A clean, sharp sound.
Followed by the clatter of glasses hitting the floor and shattering.
One of the soldiers moved.
Another grabbed his arm immediately and shook his head.
No.
Inside their helmets, angry nonhuman voices erupted all at once.
Muted.
Contained.
Barely.
The teacher froze.
She had finally looked up.
Finally seen the soldiers.
Fear reached her all at once.
Then she looked back at the student—
and saw the blood.
A cut had opened along the student's cheek.
The ring on the teacher's hand—
turned inward—
had struck deep enough to draw blood.
It ran in a thin line beneath the student's eye, then down along her jaw.
A heavy breath filled the room.
So close it sounded like it had swallowed even the silence.
The teacher shivered.
The student turned her head slightly.
For one brief second, her eyes were not human.
Then she closed them.
Exhaled.
When she opened them again, they were hazel—glassy with tears.
Normal.
Almost.
"Well then…"
Her voice softened.
Too soft.
"I'll take my leave, Teacher."
A faint, bitter pause.
"Have a good next year."
The final bell rang.
She turned toward the exit, blood coating half her face.
Students gasped as they finally understood how badly she'd been hit.
Bruises had become normal in that room.
Blood had not.
The soldiers remained off to the side, far enough away that the students never properly registered them.
As the room emptied, the injured girl glanced once toward them—
and froze.
Her eyes widened.
She nearly stumbled backward.
Another female student caught her by the wrist.
"Razy!" she said in a country accent, tugging her toward the steps. "Don't ya know you're supposed to keep your eyes down when ya can't see right?"
She laughed lightly, then winced.
Razilia gave a weak smile.
"Don't you know not to leave me unsupervised when I don't have my eyes?"
She risked another glance toward where the soldiers had stood.
Nothing.
Gone.
Her sigh was mistaken for pain.
By then, other students had already run for help.
They came back with the school nurse and the dean just as Razilia reached the doorway.
"Razilia Mordian," the Dean said sharply. "What happened here?"
Razilia turned her head slightly toward the teacher—who was very obviously wiping blood from her ringed hand.
Then Razilia asked, in the meekest voice she could manage:
"May we leave, please~?"
The Dean looked at her pale face.
The still-bleeding wound.
The blood that had already soaked down to her chest.
Then he looked past everyone else.
At nothing.
Or perhaps not nothing.
He nodded once and started down the stairs, deeply, visibly angry.
Her friend guided her toward the door.
A strong hand pressed gently between her shoulders, pushing her forward just enough to make her stumble.
The nurse caught her at once.
"Let's get you patched up, sweetheart," she said in a voice soft enough to calm the whole hallway.
Behind them, the classroom door slammed shut.
—The Nurse's Office—
By the time they reached the office, Razilia's face had been cleaned.
Stitch-bands held the wound closed.
Her shirt, however, was ruined.
When the nurse moved to cut it away, more bandages were revealed beneath.
Thick wrapping.
Old wrapping.
Hidden wrapping.
"Honey," the nurse said gently, "you can't keep this hidden forever."
As the bandages came off, two layered feathered wings slowly stretched free.
Like lungs finally taking a full breath.
The nurse smiled despite herself.
No matter how many times she saw them—
it was still breathtaking.
She handed Razilia a medical gown to drape over herself, as though they weren't alone.
A hidden soldier in the corner kept recording.
He got a clear, unbroken view before she covered herself.
And felt—
nothing inappropriate.
Only respect.
"Is it almost that time, honey?" the nurse asked sadly.
Razilia shrugged.
"Probably."
A small pause.
"My sight hasn't fully returned yet, so I can't tell."
The nurse checked each feather carefully.
"I'm still surprised how young you look," she murmured. "After all these years…"
Razilia smiled faintly.
"Thank you both for keeping my secret."
"No problem, honey!" the nurse chirped, though the sadness never quite left her face. "You were the linchpin of our whole crew when we started school! Gosh… what's it been now? Thirty years?"
"Lucy," Razilia sighed in pleasure as tangled feathers were worked loose, "it's already been thirty-seven."
Then she laughed softly.
"You've gotten good at this."
Lucy brightened.
"I've had years of practice!"
Then, more quietly—
"Will they wait until we give you gifts before they take you?"
In the corner, the hidden soldier murmured something into his helmet.
Immediately, an entire channel erupted into whispered arguments about timing, logistics, packages, health, and what exactly constituted an acceptable farewell gift.
He muted them all.
Razilia, unaware of the chaos in his earpiece, answered with a little shrug.
"I should still be here for gifts. And if not… I'm sure someone will pick them up and bring them to me."
The door opened.
The Dean stepped inside.
He saw Lucy tending Razilia's wings—
and shut the door immediately.
Locked it.
Directly in his assistant's face.
"Lucy," he growled, "you know better."
"But Ma~rk," Lucy whined, ducking behind Razilia's wings, "they're so soft…"
Razilia chuckled.
"You can do the other side if you want."
The Dean drew himself up in offended dignity.
"Preposterous."
Then somehow—
without anyone seeing quite how—
he was behind her, already working on the other wing with practiced care.
Lucy gasped in betrayal.
They bickered like an old married couple while pruning and separating feathers without even looking at their hands.
The skill in their movements was so fluid, so familiar, that even the remote observers watching through the soldier's recording had gone silent.
In awe.
Then the soldier uncloaked.
One step forward.
That was all.
Emerald armor reflected the setting sunlight in a green flash.
And instantly—
both Lucy and Mark reacted.
Protective.
Fast.
Without even processing who had appeared, they had already thrown a projectile each and stepped in front of Razilia.
The soldier caught both items with ease.
Set them gently on the nearby table.
Then moved forward.
Slowly.
Though to human eyes—
it looked like he teleported.
Razilia, whose sight still hadn't fully returned, saw only a green blur.
A shape a few heads taller than either of her friends.
"Who's there?" she called.
No one answered.
No one moved.
The whole room had gone still.
She reached out and caught the backs of both Lucy's and Mark's shirts, tugging like a child.
"Lucy? Mark? What's going on?"