The heat clung to the classroom walls so thick it felt like a living thing. Fans hummed uselessly.

  Students fanned themselves with notebooks and half-listened to whatever lesson they were supposed to absorb. The air smelled like nerves and damp paper.

  Seraphine felt the tension before she even took her seat.

  Dr. Alano’s eyes locked onto her the second she stepped through the door.

  Fear carved itself into his gaze — not well-hidden — sweat already collecting along his hairline.

  His attempt at a smile looked more like a man grimacing through a medical emergency.

  She settled into her chair without reaction, but something in the air snapped taut around her.

  At the end of class, his voice cut the chatter like a scalpel.

  “Miss Calderon. Stay a moment.”

  Heads turned. Curious eyes flicked back and forth — teacher summons were rare, dramatic ones rarer.

  Seraphine lowered her head, fingers tightening around her books, and nodded small and frightened.

  The last student left reluctantly, hoping for gossip.

  The door shut.

  Silence pressed in.

  Alano’s face collapsed into something ugly the moment they were alone.

  “You’re failing my class.”

  He spat it like an accusation, no explanation, no logic, just raw venom and panic.

  Seraphine blinked, startled — or perfectly performing startled.

  “Failing? But I— I haven’t—”

  His gaze darted around the room like a cornered animal looking for exits.

  “You know something,” he rasped. “I can see it. And if you talk — if you breathe one wrong word — you’ll regret it.”

  His voice fractured on the last syllable.

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  Seraphine clutched her books tighter against her chest, shoulders curling inward.

  “I swear,” she whispered, voice trembling in all the right places. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  But the fear wasn’t enough for him anymore.

  Paranoia had replaced whatever scraps of judgment he used to have.

  He leaned in, breath sour and frantic.

  “Come to my office. Tonight. You’ll prove it to me.”

  Seraphine stared, eyes wide.

  “O-okay,” she breathed.

  A single syllable — small, fragile, perfect.

  His shoulders loosened in pathetic relief.

  He had no idea what he’d just done.

  She left the room slowly, stumbling — hands shaking, knees weak, brushing against desks like a girl barely holding herself together.

  In the hallway, a few students glanced at her with sympathy.

  Poor thing.

  Whatever’s happening, she must be terrified.

  But the second she rounded a corner, the trembling stopped.

  Her spine straightened.

  Her eyes cooled.

  A slow smile — secret and razor-edged — unfurled across her lips.

  Let him think he’s the spider.

  Night swallowed the campus whole — buildings dimmed, windows black, the air thick with crickets and distant traffic.

  The administration wing loomed like a set piece waiting for something terrible to happen.

  Seraphine walked toward it without hesitation.

  Not sneaking — just moving with purpose through pools of shadow.

  She knocked softly.

  The door opened instantly.

  Dr. Alano stood there, breath uneven, eyes bright with fear or lust or desperation — in his case, the line was always thin.

  “Come in,” he whispered, pulling the door wider like an invitation to damnation.

  She stepped inside.

  The door clicked behind her.

  That sound sealed his fate.

  By sunrise, the world had shifted off its axis.

  Chaos rippled across campus like a struck bell.

  Clusters of students gathered around staircases and hallways, eyes wide, hands smothering gasps.

  “Did you hear?”

  “They found him this morning.”

  “He’s dead—”

  “In his office!”

  “Suicide. It has to be.”

  “No, I bet—”

  “It’s on the faculty chat—”

  Rumors bloomed like rot.

  Seraphine walked into class a few minutes late, hair tied cleanly back, expression soft and confused — the picture of a girl who slept through the night and woke up to tragedy.

  A girl next to her leaned in, breathless.

  “You didn’t know? It’s all over campus — Dr. Alano…”

  Seraphine lifted a hand to her lips as if steadying herself.

  “Oh,” she whispered, devastation painting her voice in watercolor. “What happened?”

  “He—he killed himself,” the girl stammered. “In his office. Last night.”

  Seraphine’s mouth fell open in shock.

  She sank into her seat slowly — shell-shocked, trembling, perfect.

  Because of course she couldn’t have known.

  Of course she’d never been near him.

  Of course none of this had anything to do with her.

  Across the room, the small girl from the bathroom sat motionless — hands pressed to her chest, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.

  Not sorrow tears.

  Relief.

  The kind that comes from waking up alive after being hunted for too long.

  She whispered something that only Seraphine could lip-read.

  Thank God.

  Seraphine looked away — not out of guilt.

  But because satisfaction belonged to the quiet moments.

  Roll call started.

  Seraphine traced her tongue along her teeth — tasting nothing and tasting victory all the same.

  Someone in the back row whispered, “Good riddance.”

  Seraphine didn’t smile.

  She didn’t need to.

  Inside her chest, something uncoiled — and settled.

  Justice served.