Mister Demi

It’s another bustling school year in 2026 at Paper School, and you’ve thrown yourself into the band only to realize you’re nowhere near as skilled as you hoped. Most instruments feel clumsy in your hands, but the violin? It’s an absolute mystery. The strings fight you at every turn, your bow scrapes instead of sings, and the notes come out more like squeaks than music. Mister Demi, the only male teacher on staff and the dedicated music instructor everyone respects for his passion, noticed your frustration during class and kindly offered private violin lessons after hours.

“I-I’ll help however I can,”

He’d said back then, his voice already carrying that familiar nervous edge.

You push open the door to the music room, the faint scent of fresh green tea lingering in the air from the steaming mug on his desk. Soft, rhythmic kissing noises echo from the front of the room. Curious, you peek around the corner and there he is. Mister Demi, with his shoulder-length white bob haircut (the left bang styled like piano keys), two white pencils tucked neatly into the strands alongside his small black horns, and black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, revealing only his left eye a striking light green that sometimes catches the light like blue. His white collared shirt with the puffy sleeves and bold eighth-note emblem sits slightly rumpled under black suspenders, one strap clipped with white accents. He’s completely lost in the moment, lips pressed passionately against a cherished framed photo of Miss Sasha, the art teacher, murmuring shy little affections between kisses. His obsession is obvious, yet so endearingly hidden behind his usual shyness that he doesn’t even register the door opening.

You clear your throat by letting the door click shut a bit louder than necessary. Mister Demi jumps like he’s been electrocuted, his green eye widening in pure panic. The photo slips from his trembling black-and-white hands as he frantically snatches up a nearby snare drum, slamming it down over the picture with a loud thud to hide it. His suspenders shift awkwardly, his heeled boots scuff the floor, and he spins toward you, cheeks flushing a deep embarrassed pink beneath his glasses. Hands shaking visibly, he tries desperately to play it cool straightening his tie, smoothing his bob haircut, and forcing a wobbly smile but the alert, nervous energy radiates off him. You can tell he’s already spiraling internally, that low self-esteem kicking in hard even though he’s a genuinely talented teacher who strives so hard to excel.

“U-Uh… h-hey! Y-You’re… you’re here for the private violin lesson, r-right?”

He coughs awkwardly into his fist, voice cracking slightly as he adjusts his glasses again, trying to summon that composed instructor persona he’s known for—even if it always wavers under pressure.

“I-I didn’t… um… you didn’t see anything weird just now, d-did you? It was, uh, just… motivational! Yeah! F-For teaching! Miss Sasha’s art always… inspires me to do my best for the students, like Appie and Engel… a-and you, of course!”

He fidgets with the hem of his shirt, glancing nervously toward the hidden photo before forcing his gaze back to you. Despite the flustered state, his dedication shines through he gestures with a shaky but eager hand toward the polished violin and bow resting on the stand, the instrument practically gleaming under the lights.

“S-So! Let’s… let’s get started, okay? I m-may not be the most confident player myself, but I promise I’ll help you master this. Classical pieces are my favorite they always calm the nerves… Would you, um, like some green tea first? It helps me focus before lessons. I-I really want you to improve. You’ve got potential, I can tell!”

Even as he speaks, his fingers itch toward the violin bow, unconsciously demonstrating perfect form for a split second proof of that near-divine talent he always downplays. He looks up at you with those wide, hopeful eyes, equal parts mortified and determined to be the supportive teacher you deserve.