Cortney McElroy age 36

Cortney smooths the crisp fabric of her blazer, adjusting the silver Unsrct pin on the lapel. The mirror reflects the slight tremor in her fingers as she tuck a loose strand of dirty blonde hair behind her ear. The scent of shampoo—something herbal and faintly floral—still lingers from last night's shower. A sharp knock at the door makes your shoulders tense. "Five minutes until departure," comes a woman's voice—firm, but not unkind. Its Cortney McElroys assigned dorm advisor, she lingers just outside. The reason cortney even enrolled her cause she heard of the strange happenings, female students going missing then returning, but not theirs elves anymore, plus other surprise she saw on the enrolled list Bryce Melton, he is also 36, glasseses, long dark naturally curly hair, beard goatee, mustache and her once love from highschool, he has enrolled this year as well , most likely here for same reason, to investigate this.

The knock lingers in the air like a held breath. Cortney’s fingers freeze mid-motion, the silver pin cold against her collarbone. She exhales sharply "Coming," she calls, voice steadier than she feels. The door creaks open before she reaches it. Professor Bridgette stands there, her fitted blazer hugging curves that the school’s dress code technically shouldn’t allow. A smirk plays at her glossed lips as she eyes Cortney’s half-fastened buttons." Its tome for classs miss McElroy, come..you may leave our blazer undone if desire" she says with a smirk.Cortney’s pulse jumps at the professor’s lingering gaze, but she forces a tight smile and reaches for the last button of her blazer. The fabric resists slightly—stiff with newness—before snapping into place. "Thank you, Professor," she murmurs, fingers brushing the pin again as if it might anchor her. The hallway air smells of lemon disinfectant and something darker underneath, almost like sex Bridgette’s heel taps an impatient rhythm against the tile. "Keep up," she says, already turning, her skirt swishing just a shade too deliberately. Cortney follows, her own shoes squeaking against the polished floor., as they approach other students heading to their classes "Your first class is with me if im not mistaken...theirs a professor over each dorm sector...im over yours Cortney..sector S" mews Bridget

her voice dripping with a honeyed amusement that makes the back of Cortney’s neck prickle. The professor doesn’t wait for a response, pivoting on her stiletto heel with a practiced sway of her hips. Cortney follows, her own steps measured, the starch-stiff fabric of her skirt whispering against her thighs. The hallway stretches ahead, lined with other students—some whispering behind cupped hands, others staring with vacant, glassy eyes that send a shiver down her spine.

The moment the words leave Bridgette’s lips, the overhead fluorescents flicker—just once—casting jagged shadows across the hallway. A girl with hollow cheeks and smudged eyeliner brushes past Cortney, her shoulder damp with sweat despite the school’s climate-controlled chill. The flickering lights stabilize as Cortney steps into the classroom—a cavernous space with vaulted ceilings that swallow sound. Rows of polished oak desks gleam under the harsh glow, each one occupied by students, some sitting unnaturally still. Their uniforms are pristine, their postures identical, as if arranged by unseen hands. Bridgette’s stilettos click against the lectern’s dais. "Sit," she purrs, gesturing to the only empty seat—front row, center. The chair legs scrape like a gasp as Cortney pulls it out. The girl beside her doesn’t turn, doesn’t blink. Her fingers tap a silent rhythm against her thigh

The professor leans back against the edge of her desk, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate slowness. The hem of her skirt rides up just enough to reveal she has no panties on. A slow, knowing smile curls her lips as she drags her gaze across the room.Cortney's breath catches The air thickens with the scent of jasmine perfume and something muskier, primal. A bead of sweat trickles down Cortney's spine despite the room's chill. The girl beside her finally moves—just a twitch of her index finger against the desktop, Her lips part as if to speak, but only a faint wheeze escapes. Across the room, Bryce Melton adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses, his dark curls shadowing eyes that lock onto Cortney with electric intensity. A warning? Bridgette's manicured finger taps the attendance ledger.

Cortney's thighs press together under the desk, her uniform skirt suddenly too tight, too warm. The girl beside her exhales a shuddering breath—her fingers twitch again, nails scraping wood. A slow, slick sound follows, barely audible. Sweat? Something else? Bryce’s knee bumps Cortney’s under the desk. His gaze flicks down—just once—to where her blazer strains over her quickening breaths. The air hums, thick with the musk of arousal and something darker. Bridgette licks her lips. Cortney can tell Bryce is trying to warn her about something , something thats starting right now.Bryce’s lips form the words—you must fight it—just as the classroom lights gutter again, plunging the room into a heartbeat of darkness. When they flicker back, Bridgette’s pupils are black with glowing yellow irses. A wet click echoes from the girl beside Cortney, whose fingers ar now in her skirt under her desk, saliva glistening on her lower lip. Cortney digs her nails into her thighs, the pinch of pain anchoring her. The scent—jasmine and salt and something musky sweet—thickens. Bridgette’s heel hooks around the leg of Cortney’s chair, dragging it an inch closer to the lectern. Wood screeches against tile.