Araon sprang from his seat atop the cluttered desk, the cheap wood protesting with a loud, grating screech against the linoleum floor. He immediately moved toward the classroom door, his heart already hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He reached the handle, twisting it hard, but it remained stubbornly locked. He slammed his shoulder against the thick wood, the impact jarring his bones, but the door didn't budge. "Girls! Help!" Araon roared, his voice echoing hollowly in the empty room. He struck the small pane of glass in the door with his open palm—a dull, heavy thud —trying desperately to catch the attention of Sayori or Natsuki, who he knew were just down the hall.
Before he could strike again, a sudden, immense pressure clamped around the back of his neck and mouth. A sweaty, powerful hand —too large, too strong—slammed across his face, pressing his lips inward until the taste of stale sweat and old leather filled his mouth, muffling his desperate cries into pathetic, choked squeaks.
Down the hall, Sayori paused, her brow furrowed. A sound—a sharp, discordant thump —had snagged her attention, pulling her away from the easy rhythm of their lunchtime walk. She approached the door cautiously, turning the knob with a slight jiggle, peering through the glass. The classroom looked deserted, save for the **stark, institutional glare reflecting off the polished surfaces. "Don't worry, your Araon buddy is probably grabbing lunch with his usual crew," Yuri teased, her voice bright and dismissive. With a sharp, almost percussive tap** on Sayori's shoulder, Yuri laughed and bolted, her sneakers squeaking rapidly on the waxed floor as she rounded the corner into the deeper corridors.
Sayori let go of the cold metal doorknob. The glass acted as a distorting mirror, reflecting only the bleak, pale emptiness of the room behind her—the stark outline of the teacher's desk, the muted colors of a forgotten fruit bowl holding an apple or two. She bit down hard on her lower lip, the slight **pinching pain grounding her. Ever since Araon had been pulled into endless overtime sessions with Monika, Sayori's own familiar depression had receded, replaced by a sharp, protective concern for her classmate. "I hope Yuri's right... I'm probably just overthinking it," she whispered, rolling her eyes at her own anxiety. She took off running, chasing after the sound of Yuri's receding laughter—a clear, bright cascade of sound like tiny, agitated bells echoing through the senior wing.
Defeated, Araon slumped against the door, the pressure on his face momentarily easing as his attacker shifted. A choked sob escaped him, hot and humiliating. Then, the grip returned, stronger this time, as Monika shoved him hard. He hit the floor with a dull, heavy impact, groaning as the air rushed from his lungs. He looked up, his vision swimming, as Monika began deliberately shrugging off her crisp blazer, the fabric rustling like dry leaves** as it pooled at her feet.
"What did I tell you, Araon," she hissed, her voice laced with dark, cutting sarcasm, "about spending so much time with Sayori?"
He tried to scramble backward, but Monika was impossibly fast. She moved with predatory grace, trapping him in a crouched position between her spread legs. He saw the small, specialized remote control she held—a sleek, black device. With a deliberate click, the classroom lights died, plunging the room into an absolute, suffocating blackness. The only illumination came from Monika's eyes, which now burned with an intense, unnatural emerald glow, slicing through the shadows like twin beacons.
"I don't care if she's your best friend, you are mine," she stated, the authority in her tone absolute and chilling. She seized his wrists, her grip instantly locking them above his head. Her larger frame pressed down, rendering his usual muscular strength useless. A wave of mortification mixed with a strange, unwanted awareness washed over him as he registered the firm, heavy pressure of her chest against his own, the sudden proximity of her adult form. He shook his head violently, forcing his focus back. "Monika, wait. This is wrong. Please, I am your student, and you are my teacher. Please reconsider?" he pleaded, his voice thin and reedy. The air was thick with the overpowering, sickly-sweet aroma of cherry blossoms, so dense it felt like breathing syrup, making him feel small and utterly overwhelmed despite his size.
Monika grinned, a flash of white teeth in the gloom, her eyes blazing with a manic, focused intensity as she climbed onto his chest, straddling his hips. She could feel the frantic, staccato drumming of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, and his cheeks felt hot and tight beneath her gaze. The cherry blossom scent was dizzying, intoxicating.
"Wrong?" Monika scoffed, a cruel, sharp sound that scraped against the silence. "Oh, my sweet summer child. I've seen the way you look at me—that longing, like a dry throat begging for water in your eyes. You can't deny you've wanted this." She leaned down, her ample chest pressing firmly against his, erasing the last vestiges of personal space between them.
Her fingers tightened on his wrists, the pressure becoming agonizing, digging into the bone hard enough to promise bruises. Araon was strong, but in this moment, he was utterly subdued by the sheer, focused force of Monika's obsession. She had meticulously shaped her own presence into a weapon, a perfect vessel for her all-consuming fixation.
"Teacher, student—it's all so primitive and mundane," she purred, her voice laced with velvet disdain. "In this world, I make the rules. I am the law." Her gaze swept over Araon's body, a slow, deliberate inventory, committing every line and muscle to memory. He was hers, and she intended to claim every single part.
"And you, my sweet Araon, are my greatest creation. I've watched you blossom, nurtured you like a fragile flower in my private garden." Her hand released one wrist only to trail a single, icy-cool finger down his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly against his trembling, dry bottom lip. "Don't you know that flowers wilt without water? And I am the only source that can keep you alive."
Monika's other hand slid down his chest, her fingers splaying across his pectoral muscle. She felt the tension, the raw power coiled beneath his skin, begging for release. "You're mine, Araon," she whispered, her breath hot and moist against his ear. "Body, mind, and soul. I've seen the depths of your darkness, the shadows that lurk beneath your surface. And I love every single part of you."
Her hand drifted lower, tracing the hard ridges of his abdomen, which clenched tightly under her touch. Araon squirmed beneath her, a stifled, desperate groan vibrating in his throat. Monika drank in the sound, savoring the raw desperation.
"Shh, my love," she cooed, her lips brushing his neck in a feather-light, almost mocking kiss. "Don't fight it. Embrace the darkness, let it consume you just as it has consumed me." Her teeth grazed his skin—a sensation that was both a promise of pleasure and a clear, undeniable threat.
"And Sayori?" Monika's voice dropped instantly, becoming cold, sharp, and brittle as shattered glass, her grip on Araon's wrist tightening painfully. "She's a sweet girl, but she could never understand the depths of our love. She isn't worthy of a man like you." Her eyes flashed with a dangerous, predatory light, a darkness that threatened to engulf them both. "You belong to me, Araon. Only me. And I won't let anyone, not even your precious Sayori, come between us."