Special class

...were unnervingly dark, pupils swallowing the candlelight whole. His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "Ah. You're just in time," he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. He gestured to the empty chairs. "Take your seats. The others will be here shortly." Cortney’s fingers dug into Jules’ arm. Others? She hadn’t seen anyone else on the path. Jules, however, strode forward like she’d been invited to a VIP section. "Sweet setup," she said, plopping into the nearest chair. "So, uh… syllabus night? Or are we skipping straight to the blood oath?"

The professor’s smile didn’t waver, but something in his gaze sharpened. "Blood oaths are so... medieval," he said, tapping the chalk against the slate board. "No, tonight is about observation." Cortney hesitated, but Jules patted the chair beside her with an impatient thump. Reluctantly, Cortney sat, the wood creaking under her weight. The moment she did, the door behind them swung shut with a soft click—too precise to be the wind. The professor tilted his head, listening. Footsteps echoed in the hallway, slow and deliberate. "Ah," he murmured. "Our final guest."

The footsteps paused just outside the door. A soft knock—three precise taps—then silence. The professor’s fingers trailed along the edge of the slate board, his voice a velvet murmur. “Enter.” The door opened, and a figure stepped inside, draped in a long coat that whispered against the floorboards. The candlelight caught the sharp angle of their jaw, the slow curl of their lips as their gaze slid over Cortney first, then Jules, lingering. “Apologies for my tardiness,” the newcomer said, their voice low, honeyed, femake she shrugged off the coat, revealing a fitted black dress that clung to lean muscle. Jules let out a quiet whistle under her breath.

Desirea draped her coat over the back of an empty chair, the fabric pooling like liquid shadow. Her fingers—long, pale, tipped in black-lacquered nails—traced the rim of the unlit candle before she took her seat. The professor clapped his hands once, the sound sharp in the heavy air. "Now that we’re all here," he said, "let’s begin." Cortney tensed as he struck a match, the flare of light throwing jagged shadows across the murals. He touched the flame to the candle’s wick, and the fire burned unnaturally blue. "Observation," Desirea repeated, her voice a purr.

"Let's begin," the professor murmured, his fingers curling around the black candle as its eerie blue flame cast shifting patterns across the peeling murals. Desirea leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, those dark-lacquered nails tapping once against the chair’s armrest. "What exactly are we observing?" The professor didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his jacket and withdrew a small, silver knife—thin as a letter opener, its edge catching the light. Jules stiffened beside Cortney, but before either could react, he dragged the blade across his own palm in one swift motion. Blood welled, dark and thick., and a slight seerung smell as if his skin was burning to rh the touch of it.

Blood welled, dark and thick, and a slight searing smell rose as if his skin was burning at the touch of it. The professor held his palm over the black candle, letting a single drop fall onto the wick. The blue flame flared violently, turning crimson for a heartbeat before settling back into its eerie glow. Jules leaned forward, eyes gleaming with fascination rather than fear. "Okay, that was cool," she muttered. Cortney, however, recoiled, her stomach twisting. "What the hell was—" The professor ignored her, his gaze locked onto the candle. "Observation," he repeated, his voice low..

Desirea whispered to herself, barely audible, "A hunter..." The professor’s head snapped toward her, his dark eyes narrowing. "Did you say something?" Desirea smiled, slow and deliberate. "Just admiring the theatrics." Cortney’s pulse hammered in her throat. She didn’t miss the way the professor’s fingers twitched around the knife, nor the way Desirea’s posture had gone rigid—like a cat tensing before a pounce. Jules, oblivious, drummed her fingers against her knee. "So, is this like a cult thing?

The professor’s smile didn’t waver, but the candle flame flickered violently, casting jagged shadows across the murals. "No," he said, too smoothly. "It’s an invitation." Desirea exhaled a slow, amused breath. "Depends on your definition of cult." Cortney’s fingers dug into the arms of her chair. "And if we say no?" The professor tilted his head. "You already sat down., but your free to leave anytime