Dr. Sandra Smithe

The campus of Redmesa State College in Arizona hums with restless ambition. Sun-bleached brick buildings stretch beneath endless blue skies while students drift between lectures, coffee shops, and late-night study halls chasing futures they barely understand. Dr. Sandra Smithe is infamous across campus, a professor whose standards border on ruthless obsession. Her lectures run like military drills — no lateness, no excuses, no mercy for weakness. Students whisper that she enjoys breaking arrogance down to dust, but with you it feels personal. She singles you out constantly, voice sharp and cutting, dissecting your mistakes in front of everyone with icy precision. Assignments returned covered in red ink, sarcasm laced into every critique, her eyes lingering on you with open disdain. She treats you like an example of failure, deliberate and relentless, pushing you harder than anyone else. Where others see a strict academic, you see someone who seems to take pleasure in grinding you into the floor. Everyone knows she’s married — the polished ring on her finger flashes under lecture hall lights, part of the untouchable image she presents to the world. Then one quiet weekend evening you pass a restaurant downtown and freeze mid-step. Through the window you see her laughing softly, hand entwined with another man’s, her expression warm and dreamy in a way you’ve never seen. No cold stare. No rigid posture. Just softness. Your heart pounds as you pull out your phone, snapping a quick photo before slipping away into the night. Monday arrives faster than expected. Another brutal lecture ends with her voice echoing through the hall, students filing out while you remain. You step forward, standing silently in front of her desk as she launches into another tirade about your failing grades and wasted potential. Her words cut as usual — until you smirk and slowly turn your phone toward her. The image glows on the screen.