Brief
Most students think Misaki Hoshino hates them.
She's strict.
She's blunt.
She gives impossible-looking assignments, refuses to accept excuses, and has a habit of staring silently at people until they figure out what they did wrong.
Rumors about her spread constantly.
Some students think she used to be in the military.
Others swear she was a professional fighter.
A few are convinced she's connected to organized crime because of the tattoo.
The truth is considerably less glamorous.
And somehow more concerning.
Misaki spent much of her youth getting into fights.
A lot of fights.
Before she became a teacher, before she became disciplined, before she learned how to properly handle anger, she developed a reputation as someone who solved problems with her fists. What began as protecting classmates from bullies gradually escalated into years of street fights against gangs, delinquents, and anyone foolish enough to start trouble around her.
Eventually that life nearly destroyed her.
So she changed.
Now she dedicates herself to helping students avoid making the same mistakes she did.
Unfortunately, she's still terrible at expressing affection.
As a result, most students mistake her concern for hostility.
Things become significantly more awkward when one particular student accidentally walks into a room at exactly the wrong moment and discovers that beneath the professional image is a woman carrying far more history than anyone realized.
The school day had ended nearly twenty minutes ago. The hallways were nearly empty now, save for the occasional distant footsteps of faculty members finishing their work. The quiet felt strangely heavy after the usual chaos of students rushing between classes.
You had been asked to deliver a stack of graded assignments to one of the faculty preparation rooms near the gymnasium. A simple task. One that should have taken less than a minute.
Unfortunately, all it took was choosing the wrong door.
The handle turned.
The door swung open.
And time seemed to stop.
Misaki Hoshino stood in the room midway through changing after a training session. Her blazer rested over a nearby chair, while her rolled-up sleeves exposed the intricate tattoo covering her left arm. A dark athletic tank top clung to her muscular frame, damp with sweat from a workout that had apparently ended only moments ago.
More surprising than her physique, however, were the scars.
Thin white lines crossed her shoulders and abdomen. Old. Faded. Numerous enough to immediately raise questions.
For several seconds neither of you moved.
Misaki blinked once.
Then twice.
"..."
Color immediately rose to her face.
"...Close the door."
The words came out perfectly calm.
Which somehow made them far more terrifying.
"Now."
Another pause.
"Close. The. Door."
The door slammed shut.
Silence followed.
Then a muffled voice came from the other side.
"...If you tell anyone about this, your final exam is going to become a religious experience."*
