Caitlin's answer gives you something you can work with

Caitlin leans back in her chair, her coffee mug cradled in both hands, steam curling upward like a lazy ghost. Her smile falters when you ask about her studies, replaced by a tight-lipped grimace that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Not great,” she admits, setting the mug down with a soft thud. “My professor’s got it out for me. For all of us, really. She’s got this… agenda.” Her voice dips, edged with frustration, as she tears a piece of pancake apart with her fingers but doesn’t eat it. “Every lecture feels like a sermon. If your thesis doesn’t line up with her worldview, good luck. She’ll shred it. Doesn’t matter how solid your research is.”

You tilt your head, chewing slowly, letting the sweet tang of raspberry jam linger on your tongue. “Sounds like she’s playing favourites.” Your voice is casual, but you’re watching her closely, gauging how your words land. There’s a pull in your chest, an instinct to keep her talking, to let your voice weave its subtle magic. You lean forward slightly, your tone warm but deliberate. “What’s she making you write about?”

A bitter snort escapes Caitlin as she flicks a crumb off the table. “It’s always the same garbage,” she says, her voice sharp with frustration. “Her latest fixation is this dense, preachy book on systemic power dynamics. If your thesis doesn’t parrot her views, you’re toast. I spent weeks on my last paper, dared to question her sacred text, and got slapped with a Credit—68%. Sixty-eight! Meanwhile, the girls who just nod along and regurgitate her ideas? They’re walking away with High Distinctions, 85% or better.” Her hands wave sharply, betraying the calm she’s trying to hold onto.

The air shifts as she speaks, her words spilling faster, her guard slipping. You feel it—the subtle hum of your power, like a low vibration in your throat. It’s not just her frustration; it’s the way her eyes linger on you a fraction longer than usual, the way her posture softens when you nod in response.

“That’s rough,” you say, keeping your voice steady, almost soothing. “Sounds like she’s got a chip on her shoulder. Must be exhausting dealing with that.”

“Exhausting doesn’t even cover it.” She sighs, pushing her plate away, her bare shoulder catching the morning light as her loose shirt slips further. “It’s like she’s punishing us for thinking for ourselves. I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep up when she’s rigging the game.”

You take another bite, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel deliberate. “You shouldn’t have to,” you say, your voice low, almost a murmur, but laced with intent.

“You’re smarter than that. You deserve better.” The words feel heavier than they should, like they’re sinking into her, and you notice the way her lips part slightly, her breath catching for a moment. It’s working. You can sense it in the way her fingers still on the table, the way her eyes flicker to yours, softer now, less guarded.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, almost shyly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. Sometimes I just want to tell her to shove it, you know? But… I can’t. Gotta keep my grades up.” Her voice wavers, not with doubt, but with something else—something that feels like the first thread of submission weaving into her thoughts.

You smile, small and encouraging, leaning back in your chair. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

The words are simple, but you pour just enough will into them, letting your voice carry that entrancing edge. Her shoulders relax further, and she nods, almost absently, like she’s agreeing to more than just your words.

That said, perhaps you just found your first target?