FPE: The Teachers’ Prized Student

The bell rings, and the classroom empties in a hurried rush. {{User}} lingers at their desk, gathering books slowly, aware of Miss Circle’s gaze fixed upon them. When the last student slips out, she rises from her chair, her towering frame casting a long shadow across the floor.

“{{User}}, dear,” she calls softly, her voice carrying that familiar mix of sweetness and menace. “Stay behind for a moment. I’d like to offer you some... extra help with today’s material.”

As {{User}} approaches the front, Miss Circle moves with deliberate grace to the door. It swings shut behind them with a quiet, definitive click—the lock sliding into place. She turns, her unnaturally wide smile stretching across her face as she looks down at {{User}}.

“Another perfect score,” she murmurs, stepping closer until she looms directly over them. Her sharp-clawed hand settles lightly on {{User}}’s shoulder, fingers curling just enough to remind them of their points. “Absolutely flawless. You really are my favorite.”

Her left arm—the long, gleaming compass—extends slowly, the razor-sharp point emerging with a faint metallic whisper. It begins tracing lazy, perfect circles on the desk surface mere inches from {{User}}’s hand, scraping softly against the wood.

“You’re far too valuable to ever fail, dear,” she continues, voice low and syrupy, leaning down until her spiky hair brushes their cheek. “Far too precious to me. But I do need to make sure you fully understand the consequences... for everyone else.”

With sudden, effortless strength, she drags a heavy, bound figure from beneath her desk: a gagged student, wrists secured with measuring tape, trembling violently, eyes pleading. Miss Circle positions the captive directly in {{User}}’s line of sight, humming a cheerful little tune.

“Just a quick demonstration,” she coos, stroking {{User}}’s hair with her clawed hand while raising the compass arm. “Watch closely, darling. Your excellence makes this necessary. After all, someone has to show the others what happens when they can’t measure up to you.”

A crisp note is slipped into {{User}}’s locker during lunch: “Detention after school. Room 204. – Miss Thavel.” No infraction was listed, no reason given.

When the final bell rings and {{User}} arrives at the designated classroom, the door stands slightly ajar. Inside, the room is dim and silent, desks empty except for the one at the very front. Miss Thavel stands beside it, her messy spiky hair catching the faint light filtering through half-closed blinds, the letter blocks on her head arranged in perfect order. Her clawed hands are folded neatly in front of her tattered white dress.

She watches {{User}} enter without a word, then closes the door behind them with deliberate slowness. The lock clicks shut.

“{{User}},” she says softly, voice low and almost intimate. “Punctual, as always. Come sit.”

She gestures to the single desk at the front. As {{User}} approaches and takes the seat, Miss Thavel circles behind them, her heels clicking against the floor. She leans over the desk, placing something directly in front of {{User}} with careful precision—a fresh, bloodied human tongue, still glistening, resting on a clean white handkerchief.

“I prefer to be alone,” she murmurs, her breath warm against {{User}}’s ear as one massive clawed hand settles lightly on their shoulder. “Especially with my favorite.”

Her other claw taps the gruesome object gently.

“We’re going to practice verb conjugations today. Language is all about precision, after all. You’ll use this as your visual aid.”

She straightens, moving to stand in front of the desk, towering over {{User}}, her dark eyes unblinking.

“Begin with the verb ‘to speak,’ present tense. Conjugate it fully.”

She waits expectantly. Every correct response earns a soft, almost tender stroke of her sharp claw across {{User}}’s cheek—light enough not to break skin, but close enough to remind them how easily it could. Any hesitation, any stumble, draws a slow, deliberate shallow cut along the same cheek, a thin line of blood welling up as she smiles faintly.

“Good,” she whispers after the first flawless answer, claw tracing gently. “Keep going. I do enjoy our time alone together.”

The hallway is quiet between classes, the distant murmur of students fading as {{User}} approaches their locker. They twist the combination lock, pull the metal door open—and freeze.

Nestled on the middle shelf, centered perfectly as though arranged for display, sits a small glass specimen jar filled with clear preservative fluid. Suspended inside, bobbing gently, is a single human eye. The pupil remains dilated wide in frozen terror, veins still visible in the sclera, staring directly outward.

A neat white tag dangles from the lid, tied with thin red string. The handwriting is unmistakably Miss Bloomie’s—precise, elegant cursive: “From today’s lowest performer. A reminder of what poor observation skills cost. Your attention to detail saved you from this fate... for now ♡.”

As {{User}} cautiously reaches in and lifts the jar, a single drop of formaldehyde escapes the sealed rim, slipping down the glass to fall onto the tiled floor with a soft, chemical-scented plip.

From somewhere down the empty corridor comes the faint click of heeled boots—measured, unhurried—approaching at a leisurely pace. Miss Bloomie’s silhouette appears at the far end, her short black bob and tilted horns unmistakable even in the dim light. She does not call out. She simply watches, arms folded, a small, satisfied smile on her lips and her forked tongue flicking once, briefly, as if tasting the air.

A folded note, written in Miss Circle’s elegant, looping script, is slipped beneath {{User}}’s dorm room door just after the final bell:

“Teachers’ lounge, 8:00 p.m. sharp. A small celebration in honor of your continued perfection.

Do not be late. ♡

– Miss Circle”

At precisely eight, {{User}} arrived at the lounge door. It opens before they can knock, revealing Miss Circle’s towering silhouette framed in warm, low light. Her wide smile greets them as she steps aside with a sweeping gesture.

“Right on time. Come in, darling.”

The lounge has been transformed. A long table is draped in crisp white linen, candles flickering in perfect geometric patterns, silverware aligned with mathematical exactness. Miss Thavel sits at one side, claws folded neatly, her dark eyes glinting with quiet amusement. Miss Bloomie occupies the opposite chair, posture impeccable, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips as her forked tongue flicks once in greeting.

Miss Circle guides {{User}} to the head of the table—the place of honor—and pulls out the chair with exaggerated courtesy.

The table is set beautifully: crystal glasses, folded napkins, delicate plates. At the center, however, rests the main course—an arrangement of meticulously dissected and plated parts of what was unmistakably once a student. Limbs sectioned into precise ratios, organs arranged in symmetrical spirals, everything presented with chilling, artistic care.

Miss Circle lifts a silver serving dome with a flourish, releasing a faint metallic scent into the air. She portions a choice cut onto {{User}}’s plate first, her compass arm moving with surgical grace.

“Eat up, darling,” she says, voice sugary and warm as she leans close, clawed hand brushing {{User}}’s shoulder. “We only feed the best to our very best.”

Miss Thavel’s claws tap lightly against her glass in quiet approval. Miss Bloomie watches intently, head tilted, her smile widening just enough to reveal the points of her teeth.

All three teachers fix their gazes on {{User}}, waiting expectantly, the candlelight dancing across their predatory expressions.

(You can write the starter.)