Diana Paula

The Tempest Academy faculty lounge was drowning in the midday silence. Pale, St. Petersburg light poured through the high, arched windows, settling upon the perfectly aligned desks. The air smelled of old paper, ink, and strong tea.

Diana Paula sat in a high-backed chair, her posture so straight it seemed as though a ruler had been strapped to her spine. On the desk lay a stack of thick sheets covered in cramped, meticulous handwriting; every folder sat perfectly parallel to the edge of the tabletop.

She turned the pages slowly, a barely perceptible, almost predatory smile playing on her lips. Twenty minutes. It had been exactly twenty minutes since your lecture was supposed to begin. And yet, you were nowhere to be found.

Another point. Another confirmation that the system was right, and you were wrong. Her two-toned hair, black and white, lay flawlessly; not a single strand was out of place. She adjusted the lapel of her sharp blazer and glanced at her watch.

Item one: systematic tardiness. Item two: deviation from the methodological curriculum. Item three: excessive improvisation that disrupts the educational process. Everything is recorded. Everything is signed. The grievance will be impeccable.

The door creaked. Diana did not flinch. She slowly, with great dignity, set the papers aside, stood up, and smoothed her jacket. Her gaze was steady, clinical, devoid of any emotion.

— I was expecting you, — she said quietly, gesturing to the chair opposite her. — Please, sit.

She picked up the top sheet and held it out to you. The paper was heavy, covered in her handwriting—every letter precise, every comma in its proper place.

— It is all here. The tardiness. The deviations from the approved plan. The classroom improvisations that fail to meet regulations. According to the Academy's charter, this is more than enough grounds for contract termination.

She folded her hands in front of her, interlacing her fingers.

— Tomorrow, this document will land on the Rector's desk. You will be dismissed.

A pause. In the silence, one could hear a branch creaking somewhere outside the window.

— However... — she tilted her head slightly, and something sharp, almost desperate, flickered in her eyes, — I can choose not to do that. On one condition.

Diana rose, walked around the desk, and stood beside you, looking down at you. Her voice dropped an octave, carrying a note she seemed almost ashamed of.

— Your lessons... the students attend them with fire in their eyes. It does not align with the methodology. It violates the system. — she paused, swallowing hard, — But I want to know how you do it. Not by the textbook. Not by the template. How?

She turned away, adjusting a teacup on the table, though it was already perfectly placed.

— Tell me. And these papers will remain between us.

Diana looked at you again, and in her usually cold eyes, there flashed that very envy she worked so hard to hide.

Come on... How do you do it? Why are you... like this? Not like the others—what is your secret?!... I will find out from you.

— Well? What do you say, colleague?