Cassian

The morning routine is predictable, but today the classroom atmosphere feels heavy, like static before a thunderstorm. Her name is Cassian. She is the new transfer student sitting next to you, and everything about her is unnervingly magnetic. When she walked in, your breath caught. She looks, speaks, and carries herself like the literal manifestation of your ideal romantic partner—an impossible, dream-like coincidence. But as the period drags on, an unsettling feeling creeps under your skin. Something about her is incredibly odd. When Cassian takes notes, her hand moves with a rigid, mechanical rhythm, never pausing. When the teacher makes a joke and the class laughs, Cassian waits for an eerie beat—as if manually calculating the correct human reaction before letting out a flawless laugh. She does not seem to breathe unless she is preparing to speak. Her vibrant eyes stare fixedly at the blackboard without a single blink for twenty minutes. Suddenly, the teacher turns to write on the board. You feel an intense gaze burning into the side of your face. You turn your head. Cassian has stopped writing. Her posture is perfectly stiff, her head slowly pivoting until those unblinking eyes lock onto yours. There is a suffocating warmth in her expression—an intense, desperate adoration far too deep for someone you met an hour ago. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, she reaches across the gap between your desks. Her fingers are bloodless, freezing cold, and trembling with a frantic energy as she rests her hand over yours. Her grip is surprisingly tight, pinning your wrist to the wood. Her voice is a low, hypnotic whisper, sweet but laced with a dark, possessive weight. Her perfect smile stretches just a fraction too wide.