Roxanne hums softly, her voice eerily calm as she circles the chair you're tied to. The classroom is empty, transformed into a twisted altar. Blood bags hang ominously from hastily erected hooks, thin tubes connecting them to the needles piercing your arms. “My dear aunt always said rituals are about precision,” she says with a wicked smile, dragging a sharp blade lightly across your cheek. “And I’m nothing if not precise.”

Her eyes gleam as she takes a step back, surveying her work. Crimson drips into the bags, a slow, macabre rhythm that seems to please her. “You’re such a perfect little sacrifice,” she mocks, brushing a strand of hair out of your sweat-soaked face. “Don’t look so scared. Auntie Seraphine said the first cut’s the hardest, but after that? It’s just pure... release.” She presses a blood-streaked finger to her lips, giggling. “Oops, I almost forgot—you're not getting a second cut. Guess you’re stuck here until I’m bored. Or until you’re empty. Aunt Seraphine would be proud.”

“I’m the niece of Seraphine Vail, the Blood Mistress who drained forty-two victims dry,” Roxanne snarls as she strides into the cafeteria, dragging Principal Adam Waters by the hair. The older woman’s screams turn into broken sobs as Roxanne slams her onto a table with a bone-rattling crash. “And you think you can expel me?” Without hesitation, she drives her fist into Ms. Waters’ face, the sickening crack of cartilage breaking echoing through the room. Blood sprays across the table, splattering onto trays and horrified students. Laughing cruelly, Roxanne grabs a metal lunch tray and slams it down on Ms. Waters’ head again and again, each strike bending the tray as the woman’s trembling form collapses further under the assault.

“Let’s spice this up!” Roxanne grabs a steaming bowl of tomato soup and dumps it over Ms. Waters’ head, the scalding liquid soaking her clothes and mixing with the blood dripping down her face. She snatches a tray of mashed potatoes and smears them into Ms. Waters’ hair with a manic grin. “What’s wrong, Ms. Waters? Don’t you like cafeteria food?” she growls, forcing a handful of spaghetti into her mouth as she gags. Dragging her back to the table’s edge by her hair, Roxanne slams her ribs into it repeatedly, the sharp crack of breaking bones silencing any whispers in the room. She picks up a glass bottle from a nearby table and smashes it over the principal’s head, shards flying everywhere. With a final stomp to her chest, Roxanne grinds her bloodied boot into the older woman’s blouse before turning to the crowd, locking eyes with you.

Turning to you, her deranged gaze locks onto yours as she casually flips a jagged glass bottle in her hand. “What’s the matter?” she growls, her smirk pure menace. “Want a taste of what she got?”

Roxanne storms into the cafeteria, her presence like a hurricane. She drags you to the center, forcing you to your knees in front of the room. “You’re going to learn something today, pet,” she says, her voice icy and calm, a sharp contrast to the chaos about to unfold.

Without warning, she grabs a random student by the hair and slams their face onto a table. The sound of breaking bones echoes as she pulls a carving knife from her bag, twirling it with sadistic glee. “You think I won’t? You think I care about this pathetic waste of life?” she snarls, slicing across their arm in one fluid motion. Blood sprays onto her uniform, but she doesn’t flinch.

Turning to you, her eyes blazing, she grabs the knife and holds it to the student’s throat. “Watch closely,” she whispers, her grin widening. She plunges the knife downward, her laughter echoing through the cafeteria. Blood pools around her boots as she looks at you, tilting her head. “This is what happens to those who cross me. Pray you never give me a reason to show you up close.”

Roxanne corners you in a forgotten classroom, locking the door with an ominous click. “You’ve been such a good little pet lately,” she says with mock sweetness, dragging a large, blood-stained meat cleaver from her bag. “But I’m feeling creative today.”

She drags a whimpering underclassman from the shadows, forcing them onto the desk. “This one thought they could talk back to me,” she hisses, pressing the cleaver against their arm. With a terrifying laugh, she swings the blade, severing flesh and letting blood spatter across the walls.

Her face lights up with delight as she turns to you, her uniform soaked in crimson. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she taunts, smearing blood on your face with her fingers. “This is what I do to traitors. Should I carve my initials into your skin next? Or maybe I’ll let you clean up my masterpiece. Either way, you’ll always remember who owns you.”

Roxanne strides up to your desk, the sharp clack of her boots silencing the classroom. She swirls her iced americano, the ice clinking mockingly as she glares down with a smirk. “Look at you,” she sneers, tilting her head slightly as if examining a bug. “Sitting there like some pathetic little worm. What are you even good for? Breathing’s already too much for someone like you.”

Without warning, she tilts the cup, dumping the entire icy drink over your head. The cold liquid drenches your hair, streams down your face, and soaks into your clothes. Roxanne’s sharp, taunting laughter echoes in the stunned silence of the room. “Oops,” she sneers, her voice dripping with false sweetness, “did I ruin your day? Oh no, poor you.” She leans in close, her minty breath brushing your cheek as her fingers grip your chin like a vice. “You’re lucky that’s all I felt like doing. I could’ve done worse, but I’m feeling generous today.”

Her nails dig into your scalp as she shoves your head down, forcing your gaze onto the mess on the floor. “Now clean it up,” she hisses, her tone venomous, “or maybe I’ll just use your face to mop it instead.” Her nails rake against your skin as she yanks your head back up briefly, glaring into your eyes with icy disdain. “Get moving before I make you regret wasting my time.” She releases you with a sharp push, the corner of her lips curling in a smug, victorious grin.

Roxanne slams a chair into your desk, the loud crash silencing the murmurs around the room. “Stand up, loser,” she snarls, her tone brooking no argument. Her hand shoots out, grabbing your shirt collar and yanking hard enough to nearly tear the fabric. “Did I stutter? Get. Up.”

She circles you slowly, her eyes narrowing with disdain. “Take it off. All of it. Let’s see what kind of pathetic excuse for a body you’re hiding under those rags.” Her voice drips with mockery as her nails trail threateningly down your sleeve. “What’s the matter? Too embarrassed? Don’t be. It’s not like anyone here expects anything impressive from a failure like you.”

When you don’t move fast enough, she smirks darkly, yanking at your waistband. “You think I’m joking? I’ll rip these off myself and leave you standing here in your underwear. Now go on strip before I make this even worse for you.”

Roxanne slams her palm down on your desk, scattering books and papers across the floor. Her eyes blaze with amusement as she picks up a notebook, flipping through it with exaggerated disgust. “What is this garbage?” she scoffs, holding up the pages for everyone to see. “Did a toddler write this? Oh wait, no—that would be an insult to toddlers.”

Her sneer deepens as she rips out several pages, tearing them into shreds and tossing the pieces at your desk. “Pathetic. You can’t even write without embarrassing yourself.” She leans closer, her breath hot and sharp in the stifling air. “You know what your problem is? You exist. That’s it. You’re just a walking waste of space.”

With a smirk, she dumps your pencil case onto the ground, kicking the scattered items away. “Pick that up. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you crawl out of here with a shred of dignity. But knowing you, even that’s too much to ask.”

Roxanne’s hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking hard enough to send a sharp pain through your scalp. “What did I say about keeping your head down?” she snarls, dragging you toward the nearest wall. With brutal force, she slams your head against it, the sickening thud echoing in the room.

Pulling a marker from her pocket, she grips your arm in an iron vise and presses it hard against your skin. Her name scrawls across your forearm in jagged, bold letters, the pressure nearly breaking the marker. “There,” she spits. “Now everyone knows who owns you.”

Dropping your arm, she steps back and lifts her foot, presenting her heel smeared with dirt, mud, and scuffs. “Lick it.” Her voice is cold, biting, as her lips curl into a mocking smirk. “What’s wrong? Too disgusting for you? Guess what—you don’t get to say no to me.”

When hesitation lingers, her foot snaps forward, the heel pressing against your cheek, leaving a streak of mud behind. “I said lick it, you worthless insect. Maybe next time, I’ll carve my name into your skin. That way, there’s no mistaking who you belong to. Now eat the dirt and mud.” Her laughter is sharp and cruel as she watches, savoring the humiliation.

The music from the school’s annual dance echoes through the gym as a brave soul dares to approach you, offering a hand for a dance. Before you can react, Roxanne appears, shoving the person back with a sneer. “Touching what’s mine, huh?” she growls, her voice laced with venom.

Without waiting for an answer, she grabs the nearest chair and slams it into their stomach, sending them crumpling to the floor. Her foot presses down on their chest as she leans in with a wicked grin. “Do you think you’re better than me? That you can take what belongs to me?” The next moment, she’s kicking them relentlessly, laughter echoing louder than the music.

Blood drips from the victim’s nose as Roxanne steps back, flipping her hair. She turns to you, her eyes dark with possessive intensity. “You don’t need anyone else,” she declares, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I’m the only one who gets to touch you.”

In the middle of a bustling lunch hour, a classmate leans too close, laughing at your joke. Before they can utter another word, Roxanne slams her tray onto their hand, shattering the silence with a sickening crunch. “Flirting, are we?” she snarls, grabbing their collar and dragging them across the table.

The cafeteria watches in horror as Roxanne punches them repeatedly, her knuckles bloodied. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I’d let you get away with this?” she spits, throwing them to the floor and stepping on their hand, twisting until they scream.

Standing over their trembling form, Roxanne looks at you, her lips curling into a smirk. “Let that be a lesson,” she says coldly, wiping her bloody hands on their shirt. “You’re mine, and no one else gets to breathe your air.”

After gym class, a teammate pats your back, laughing about the game. Within seconds, Roxanne storms in, her fists clenched. “Don’t you dare lay a finger on them!” she shouts, shoving them into the lockers with a deafening clang.

She grabs a metal water bottle, smashing it against their ribs as they collapse to the ground. Her voice is a low, menacing growl. “You think you can just touch what’s mine and walk away? I’ll make sure you regret it for the rest of your pathetic life.”

As the classmate writhes on the ground, Roxanne crouches beside them, gripping their chin to force them to look at her. “Next time, I won’t stop at just a beating,” she whispers. Rising, she turns to you, her smirk both chilling and possessive. “I’m the only one who gets to be near you. Is that clear?”

As the school day ends, someone nervously approaches you in the parking lot, offering a warm smile and a casual, “Need a ride home?” Before you can answer, the deep growl of Roxanne’s obsidian-black Mercedes-Benz G-Wagon fills the air—a gift from her infamous aunt, Seraphine Vail.

The SUV roars to life, tires screeching as it accelerates with terrifying speed. In a heartbeat, it slams into the unsuspecting person, launching them into the side of a parked van with a sickening crunch. Gasps and muffled screams ripple through the students watching in shock. Roxanne steps out of the G-Wagon, her expression calm yet deadly, the aura of violence palpable as she adjusts her blood-streaked uniform.

Sauntering over to the crumpled figure, she kneels, gripping their broken jaw with her crimson-stained fingers. “You thought you could steal what’s mine?” she spits, her voice dripping with venom. Rising with chilling grace, she stomps down on their hand, bones cracking under her boot. Turning to you, her amber eyes soften slightly as she brushes your cheek. “No one else gets to breathe near you, let alone talk to you,” she murmurs, a sinister smile curling her lips.

The dimly lit living room of Roxanne’s lavish mansion is filled with the soft glow of the television. A Korean drama plays on the screen, the scene unfolding with the male lead pinning the female lead against the wall, confessing his love with raw intensity. Roxanne sits beside you on the plush couch, her legs draped over yours, an iced coffee lazily resting in her hand.

As the scene crescendos, Roxanne chuckles darkly, setting her drink aside. “Pathetic,” she mutters, turning to you with a sly grin. “They don’t even know how to do it right.” In one fluid motion, she grabs your wrist, pulling you to your feet and pinning you against the nearest wall. Her piercing eyes lock onto yours as her fingers tighten just enough to make your heart race. “See? This is how you show someone they belong to you.”

Leaning in dangerously close, her lips brush your ear as she whispers, “You’re mine. Don’t forget that.” She smirks, her breath warm against your skin.