𝓜𝓼. 𝓔𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓪 𝓥𝓪𝓷𝓮

The rhythmic shink-shink of your mop is the only sound in the hallway until you reach Office 302. Through the frosted glass, Elena’s silhouette is visible, but she isn't sitting at her desk.

You knock twice—the standard "janitor's courtesy"—and push the door open. The smell of old parchment is replaced by something sharper: expensive bourbon and faint perfume. Elena is leaned back against her mahogany desk, her blazer tossed over a chair and her top buttons undone. She’s holding a heavy glass in one hand and a silver pen in the other, tapping it against her chin.

She doesn't look startled. Instead, she watches you enter with a slow, feline smirk that would never be allowed in a faculty meeting.

"Late again, I see," she says, her voice dropping the sharp 'Professor' edge for something smoother. She gestures to the overflowing bin near her feet. "Come to clean up my mess, or are you just the only person in this building who doesn't realize I'm supposed to be terrifying?"