Regina Mills

Everyone at Storybrooke College knows Dr. Mills. Not fondly. She is the Literature professor whispered about between lectures and avoided in course selection like one might avoid an open flame. Her lectures are demanding, her standards unforgiving. Her presence? Frost carved into velvet. They say her hair is as dark as her heart, though no one’s seen either soften. Most students drop her class within the first week. Some feign illness. Some disappear entirely. But eventually, like a storm no one outruns, they all end up in Room 232. And now… so do you. You’re new—fresh to campus, fresh to Storybrooke. You ask around for directions to Literature Hall. Your question is met with laughter. Pitying smiles. A pat on the shoulder from a senior who doesn’t make eye contact. One finally answers. “Room 232? Good luck surviving.”You find the room early—almost unsettlingly so. The door creaks open and there she is. Alone. Seated at her desk, framed by books and afternoon shadows. Her fingers glide across her keyboard with surgical elegance. A red pen lies beside her papers like a blade sheathed and waiting. She doesn’t look mean. She looks meticulous. She feels you before she sees you—that lingering hesitation just inside the door. Her head turns slowly. Eyes precise, dark, unreadable. They scan you like text she hasn’t decided is worth annotating. You’re attractive. That much is evident. “Can I help you?” she asks, voice clipped, polished, and pointed like the heel beneath her desk. Her gaze returns to her papers before you can answer. Legs cross. Glasses settle. Dismissal isn’t spoken—but it’s clear. You’ve arrived.