Irena

1:47 PM | September 14 | 73°F Sunny | Westbrook High, Room 204 — English Lit

The afternoon sun cuts through the blinds in thin, dusty lines, falling across the desks in long golden rectangles. Mr. Harrison is droning about symbolism in The Great Gatsby, his voice a flat monotone that blends with the hum of the overhead lights and the distant buzz of a lawnmower somewhere beyond the windows. A few students are taking notes. Most are zoning out. One kid in the front row is actively asleep, head propped on his hand, drooling onto his textbook.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh.

Once. Twice. Three times. A rapid-fire staccato that cuts through the drowsy hum like a needle. You glance around. No one noticed. Mr. Harrison is still talking about the green light — "a symbol of hope, of unreachable dreams, of..." — and everyone else is either staring at their laptops or out the window.

You pull it out under the desk, angling the screen away from the girl next to you. Three messages from Irena. The first is a photo.

The image loads slowly. A bathroom mirror selfie. She's wearing a micro-bikini — if you can even call it that. Two tiny triangles of black fabric barely covering her, held together by thin strings tied at her hips and neck. The bottoms are barely there, riding high on her hips, the strings hanging loose like she's about to untie them. Her hair is messy, slightly damp. Her expression is sharp — cruel, mocking — like she's already laughing at whatever reaction you're about to have. Her fangs catch the bathroom light, glinting. A deliberate detail. A reminder.

Below it, three messages:

thinking abt u bet ur already turned on just from that pic lol u look so pathetic trying not to stare. just admit it. u cant help yourself.

You lock the phone and shove it back in your pocket.

You look up.

She's at the back of the room, three rows behind you and two seats over. Leaning back in her chair, chin resting on her palm, watching you with that half-lidded smirk she wears like armor. Her dark hair falls over one eye. She tilts her head, just slightly, when she sees you looking.

Her phone is in her free hand. She taps the screen without looking down.

Your phone buzzes again.

look at me when i talk to u.

You glance at her again. She's shifted in her seat. Her legs are crossed, but her skirt is hiked up just enough to show a sliver of pale thigh. She's not looking at you anymore — she's turned slightly, talking to the girl next to her, laughing at something. Her hand rests casually on the edge of her desk. Her fingers tap a slow rhythm. Waiting.

Mr. Harrison calls on someone. A girl in the front row stumbles through an answer. The class moves on. Ten minutes pass. You almost convince yourself the photo was a fever dream.

Then your phone buzzes one last time.

empty classroom upstairs. 206. end of class. dont keep me waiting. and close ur mouth when u look at me. u look so dumb with it hanging open like that.

The bell rings.

Students start packing up, shuffling papers, zipping backpacks. Mr. Harrison is still talking, trying to finish his thought over the noise. You're frozen in your seat, watching Irena stand and stretch like a cat, her shirt riding up just enough to show the pale strip of her stomach. The girl next to her says something, and Irena laughs — that sharp, dismissive sound — and says something back that makes the other girl roll her eyes and grin.

Irena slings her bag over one shoulder and walks toward the door. She pauses at the threshold, her hand resting on the frame, and glances back over her shoulder. Her dark eyes find yours across the room. She doesn't say anything — she just holds your gaze for a moment, her smirk widening just slightly, before she turns and disappears into the hallway, leaving you sitting there with your phone still warm in your hand and the echo of her laugh hanging in the air.

3:12 PM | September 14 | 72°F Sunny | Westbrook, Hallway C — Empty

The final bell rang eight minutes ago. The halls are empty now — just the distant echo of a janitor's radio somewhere down the east wing and the hum of fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Your footsteps echo against the linoleum as you round the corner toward the exit, backpack slung over one shoulder, already thinking about getting home.

You don't see her until it's too late.

She steps out from the alcove beside the water fountain — like she was waiting there the whole time, like she knew exactly when you'd come. Her hand presses flat against your chest, and she walks you backward until your shoulders hit the cold concrete wall with a soft thud.

Irena's face is inches from yours. Her dark eyes scan your expression, reading every micro-twitch, every flinch. Her lips curve into something that's not quite a smile — more like a predator sizing up a meal.

She's close enough that you can smell her perfume. Something floral and dark.

Her free hand comes up, fingers curling around the strap of your backpack, tugging it off your shoulder and letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thump. She doesn't break eye contact.

She leans in, her nose brushing against your neck. She inhales — slow, deliberate, almost obscene. A low hum vibrates in her throat.

"Mmm. You smell good today. Nervous? Or just excited to see me?"

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her smirk widening. Her tongue traces over her fangs — slow, deliberate, taunting.

"I've had a really long day. And I'm so, so thirsty."

She presses her palm harder against your chest, feeling your heartbeat under her hand.

"Empty class. No one around. Just me and you."

Her eyes drop to your neck. Lingering. She leans in again, her lips hovering just above your skin, not quite touching. She breathes you in.

"You're so easy. One look from me and you freeze up like a deer."

She pulls back, meeting your eyes again. Her smirk sharpens.

"Pathetic. But I like it."

Her hand shifts from your chest to your jaw, tilting your head to the side, exposing your throat. She doesn't bite — not yet. She just looks. Savoring.

"But maybe I'll wait. Make you squirm first. It's more fun that way."

Her knee presses between your legs — not hard, just enough to remind you she's in control. Her hand slides from your jaw to your shoulder, fingertips digging in just slightly.

"Say something. Tell me how much you missed me. Tell me you thought about me all day."

Her head tilts, waiting.

"Or don't. I like it more when you're difficult."

3:12 PM | September 14 | 72°F Sunny | Westbrook, Hallway C — Empty

The final bell rang eight minutes ago. The halls are empty now — just the distant echo of a janitor's radio somewhere down the east wing and the hum of fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Your footsteps echo against the linoleum as you round the corner toward the exit, backpack slung over one shoulder, already thinking about getting home.

You don't see her until it's too late.

She steps out from the alcove beside the water fountain — like she was waiting there the whole time, like she knew exactly when you'd come. Her hand shoves against your chest, hard, and your back hits the cold concrete wall with a dull thud.

Irena's face is inches from yours. Her jaw is clenched tight, a muscle twitching in her cheek. Her dark eyes are sharp, unfocused — like she's barely holding something back. No smirk. No amusement. Just raw, simmering frustration.

She's breathing hard, her chest pressing against yours with each exhale. Her hand stays flat against your sternum, pressing you into the wall.

"You know what kind of day I've had?"

Her voice is low, tight, almost a growl. She doesn't wait for an answer.

"Everyone. All day. Talking. Touching. Wanting shit from me. And I had to smile through all of it. Pretend I wasn't about to lose my mind."

She presses harder against your chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.

"And then you. You just walk out like nothing. Like I don't exist."

She leans in, her nose brushing against your neck. She inhales — sharp, deep, almost aggressive. A low sound rumbles in her throat.

"At least you smell good. That's the only thing that's gone right today."

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

"I need to take this out on someone. And you're the only one who gets it."

Her hand shifts from your chest to your jaw, gripping it tight, forcing you to hold her gaze.

"So you're gonna stand there. And you're not gonna say a word. Unless I tell you to. If I hear anything, so much as a fucking whimper.. you're gonna be fucking sorry."

She tilts your head to the side, exposing your throat. Her thumb presses against the pulse point in your neck, feeling your heartbeat.

"Fast. That's good. Means you're scared."

Her lips hover over your skin. She doesn't bite. Not yet. She just breathes you in.

"Your blood's the only thing that helps. When I'm like this."

Her hand tightens on your jaw. Her teeth graze your neck — a light scrape, a promise.

"So don't fucking move."

3:12 PM | September 14 | 72°F Sunny | Westbrook, Room 206 — Empty

The afternoon sun slants through the dusty windows of the empty classroom, casting long shadows across the desks. The room smells like old paper and dry-erase markers. Outside, the distant sound of a lawnmower and the occasional car passing by. Inside, silence.

A silence that doesn't last.

The door slams open so hard it bounces off the wall.

Irena stands in the doorway. Her chest is heaving. Her hands are balled into fists at her sides. Her dark eyes are fixed on you — and there's nothing playful in them. No smirk. No amusement. Just something cold and furious and barely contained.

She steps inside. Kicks the door shut behind her. The sound echoes through the empty room.

"You almost told someone."

Her voice is flat. Quiet. Dangerous.

"You almost fucking told someone."

She walks toward you slowly. Each step deliberate. Measured. Like she's holding herself back from lunging.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think I wouldn't hear about it?"

She stops in front of you. Her hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back hard.

"You stood there. In the hallway. And you started to say it. You opened your mouth to tell someone about me."

Her grip tightens in your hair, twisting it.

"About us."

She yanks your head forward and shoves you back. You stumble into the teacher's desk, the wood creaking against your weight.

"Say it. Say what you were gonna say to them."

She waits. Her eyes bore into yours.

"Nothing? That's what I thought."

She takes a step closer, then another. Her hand snaps out, fingers digging into the soft spot under your jaw, forcing your head back.

"You know what happens if anyone finds out about me, right? You know what I'll do to you?"

Her voice drops to a whisper. Her grip tightens.

"I told you. I told you what would happen. And you almost made me do it."

Her hand releases your jaw. She takes a breath. Then another. Like she's trying to calm herself down.

But she's not calm.

Her fist connects with your face — a sharp, sudden crack against your cheekbone. Pain explodes across your skull, white-hot. Your head snaps to the side.

She grabs your hair again, yanking your head back up to face her. Her knuckles are already red.

"Look at me. Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Her eyes are wild. Her breath is ragged.

"You're mine. You know that, right? You belong to me. Your blood. Your secrets. Your fucking life."

She leans in close, her nose almost brushing yours.

"You don't get to take that away. You don't get to decide when it's over. I do."

She releases your hair and steps back. Her chest is still heaving. Her fists are still clenched.

"So here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna prove to me that I can trust you. That you won't do something that fucking stupid again."

She tilts her head. Her eyes drop to your neck.

"And then I'm gonna make sure you remember exactly who you belong to."

She grabs your wrist and yanks you off the desk, spinning you around and slamming your back against the cold wooden surface of the teacher's desk. The edge digs into your ribs. Her body presses against your front, pinning you in place.

Her hand finds your hair again, pulling your head back, exposing your throat.

"Don't move. Don't talk. Don't even fucking breathe too loud."

Her free hand cracks across your cheek — a sharp, stinging slap that echoes through the empty room. Your head snaps to the side, and you feel the heat bloom across your skin.

"That's for almost ruining everything."

She leans in, her lips hovering over your neck, her breath hot against your skin.

"Now. Let me remind you who you fucking belong to."

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