"So—lemme get this straight. You actually want me to rehab seven cursed supermodels? To behave?"
He barked a laugh. "That's… adorable."
The guard holding Dexter's chains didn't so much as blink.
'Figures. Tough crowd.'
Dexter grinned anyway, leaning back like the shackles around his wrists were just fancy bracelets.
Up at the front, the High Magistrate cleared his throat with the energy of a man forced to read bad poetry. "By decree of the Crown Tribunal, Subject #09—Dexter Caelum—is hereby pardoned under strict conditional assignment."
The man didn't even look up from the scroll as he read.
Dexter rolled his eyes.
"Here we go," he muttered under his breath.
"You will serve as Instructor of Emotional Stabilization at Edenveil Academy, a secure correctional institute for Class C to S curse hosts—"
"Let me guess," Dexter cut in. "I get to play babysitter for a bunch of cursed girls who might stab first and don't ask questions later?"
The robed man blinked but kept going, repeating the core information. "You will serve as an instructor at Edenveil Academy, a facility that specializes in—"
"—housing hot, unstable, magically-infected disasters? Yeah, read the brochure. Very glossy."
One of the courtroom guards whispered, "Is he seriously mocking a royal decree?"
"Buddy, I used to carve messages into corpses." He smiled, small and mean. "Mocking decrees? That's me behaving."
The guard shut up.
"Tell me something, your Honor," Dexter continued. "When did the Empire decide that the best way to fix unhinged cursed women was to hire a HARMLESS and INNOCENT guy who couldn't even hurt a fly and a frankly unfair face?"
That latter part wasn't a brag. Dexter looked like the kind of guy who should be on the cover of a scandalous romance scroll—white hair, clean jaw, blue eyes too bright for a guy with a kill count. The kind that made people forget the dagger in his hand.
The magistrate didn't answer. He just reached for the seal. "You will reform them, or you will be executed."
"Right, right," Dexter sighed, tossing his head back with a little flair. "So either I die at the hands of the law... or I die from high heels and hormone tantrums."
'I'll take option C: become their favorite teacher and slowly bend them to my will while everyone else assumes I'm playing by the rules.'
Not that he said that out loud. Yet.
Clang!
Chains clinked to the floor.
Dexter stood, smiled, then winked at the magistrate.
"Pleasure doing business with you, your grace. Oh, and if I return in pieces, feel free to blame... literally anyone else."
He stretched, rolling his neck like he was about to hit the gym—or, you know, a cursed asylum with better lighting and worse company.
They gave him back the crimson-lined coat. It flared when he moved—same swagger he'd had walking into crime scenes, minus the applause. Only now he was humming a lullaby under his breath—cheerful, and deeply disturbing.
꒷꒦꒷︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶꒷꒦꒷
The next day,
Dexter stared up at the gates of Edenveil Academy and resisted the urge to laugh again.
Calling this an academy was generous.
It looked like a castle pretending it wasn't a prison and failing miserably.
Black stone walls twisted with vines. Gargoyle-faced towers looming over iron-barred windows. And those gates? Yeah. They creaked like a horror film sound effect.
"This is either the start of a redemption arc... or a pleasurable nightmare," he muttered.
The guard beside him said nothing. Just shoved a clipboard into his chest and walked off without a word.
Dexter stared at the map on the first page.
The layout made no sense. There were three west wings. One hallway was marked "restricted unless bleeding." Another said "DO NOT ENTER UNLESS ESCORTED BY A HIGH PRIEST OR THE HEADMISTRESS."
"Yeah, no. This place is cursed in more ways than one."
He adjusted his coat, smoothed his hair, and walked through the main doors like he wasn't walking into a ticking time bomb.
꒷꒦꒷︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶꒷꒦꒷
Inside, the first thing he noticed: silence.
Too quiet. No footsteps, no gossip, not even a nervous cough.
Second thing? This place was huge. Way too big for a reform academy that reportedly held just seven students.
Suspiciously big.
He stepped through the echoing hallway, boots tapping against polished obsidian floors, and caught his reflection in the dark glass.
The slick innocent deception of a face staring back at him.
Dexter smirked at his reflection. "Let's meet the girls."
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Room 112-B was absurd.
Vaulted ceilings, chandeliers, stained-glass windows casting rainbow light across velvet couches. And there they were.
Seven of them.
Each lounging like she owned the damn place.
Dexter blinked. 'This isn't a classroom. This is an acting audition.'
The moment he peered in for good measure, all heads turned.
Some curious. Some unimpressed. One? She looked like she wanted to throw a chair.
"New instructor," a bored voice muttered.
"You're kidding," said another. "This is our reform?"
"Why does he look like a librarian with daddy issues?"
"Maybe he's into chains. I vote we test that."
Dexter stood in the doorway, smiling like he hadn't just heard seven different ways to die.
"Hello, ladies. Heard you've all got… strong personalities. Good. I prefer my problems bite back."
He stepped in. Slowly. Calmly. Like a man walking into a tiger den with steak tied to his neck for fun.
Now—roll call.
Dexter dragged in a slow breath, glanced down at his clipboard, then at the room full of chaos in human form.
'Seven of them. Great. My odds of surviving the week just dropped below sanity.'
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#1: The Redhead
She sat dead center like she owned the air. Legs crossed, arms folded, eyes fixed on him like he'd wandered into her hunt by mistake.
Her hair—deep crimson, the kind that caught light like blood on a blade—fell over one shoulder in lazy waves. Her uniform looked pressed to kill, literally; not a wrinkle in sight, buttons straight, every inch screaming try me, I dare you.
Those green eyes? Sharp. Unforgiving. Pretty in that way you'd only appreciate right before dying.
Dexter flipped through the profile page.
Rage Curse, Grade S+.
Name: SERANA.
She didn't say a word. Didn't even blink.
'Yeah,' he thought, shifting his weight. 'This one's gonna try to murder me first. Probably in a group activity.'
He offered her a pleasant smile just to see if she'd flinch. She didn't. Of course she didn't.
'Right. Note to self—be more sarcastic and irresistibly annoying if need be.'
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#2: The Sleepy One
A lump on the couch. Literally.
The lady had melted into the cushions like gravity was her religion. Silver hair—messy twin braids—hung over her shoulders. Half-lidded blue eyes barely tracked him. Pajamas. Not even a uniform.
He checked the file.
Apathy and Despair Curse, GradeC.
Name: YUE.
Dexter gave a lazy wave. "If you need a nap, I can write you a note."
She didn't move. Just yawned.
"Unless the note kills me instantly," she muttered, voice slow, dry. "Fucking pass."
Dexter blinked. "Noted. Enthusiasm level: basement."
'If she stops breathing mid-lesson, I'm not sure she'll even notice.'
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#3: The Cheerful One
Next was a pink-haired explosion of energy sitting way too straight. Legs swinging, smile wide, eyes—bright red and sparkling—like someone had forgotten to install the filter.
He squinted at the page.
Emotion: Lust and Manipulation Curse.
'No grade listed. Weird.'
Name: BELLADONNA.
She clasped her hands. "Hi, Professor~♡! Do we get to be experimented on today?"
He stared. "If you're lucky, maybe your own emotional trauma."
She gasped. Then—she clapped. "Yay!"
Dexter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fantastic. The enthusiastic crazy one."
'Boy! Would I enjoy this shit so good.'
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
#4: The Ice Queen
Immaculate. That was the only word that fit. The girl sat perfectly upright, spine like a ruler.
Platinum braid, crisp uniform, gloves spotless. Every movement was sharp, deliberate, precise. She didn't look at him—she judged him.
He checked the paper.
Emotion Curse: Pride, Grade A+.
Name: YUKI.
She didn't speak. Didn't need to. Her expression screamed beneath me.
Dexter stared right back, a twitch tugging at his mouth as he noticed how strange her pale white eyes were.
'Yeah. We're gonna fight eventually. Verbal first. Psychic duel second. Desk thrown at my face, third.'
He tilted his head slightly. "Blink once if you secretly hate everyone."
Nothing.
'Cool. Mutual understanding achieved.'
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#5: The Feral One
No shoes. No sleeves. Scars climbing up her forearms like lightning marks.
Her hair—wild, dark with streaks of gold—looked like it had tried brushing once and lost the fight. Her golden eyes tracked him, sharp, predatory.
Emotion Curse: Wrath and Instinct Overload, Grade B+.
Name: REIKA.
She crouched on her chair like it was a jungle branch. When he stepped close, she sniffed. Sniffed!!!
Dexter froze mid-step. "Not food. Not prey. Just your new handler."
She blinked once. Then smiled. Slow. All teeth.
"Handler, huh?"
He sighed internally.
'And I thought Serana was bad. Yup. This one's the bite-first, apology-never type.'
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
#6: The Witch
A thin laugh almost echoed before he even reached her row.
She sat with her legs crossed, veil draped low, long purple hair spilling over the floor like a shadow.
Her nails—black, curved, sharp. Eyes hazel, but carrying a kind of dark amusement like she was already dissecting him in her head.
Emotion Curse: Envy / Hex-Touched, Grade B+.
Name: LYNETH.
"You're cute," she murmured, voice like honey gone stale.
Dexter smirked. "I get that a lot."
She hummed. "You won't when I'm done with you."
He chuckled under his breath. 'Yeah, foreplay threats. Totally normal work environment.'
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
#7: The Quiet One
At first, he thought the last seat was empty—until the sound of frantic scribbling caught his ear.
A lady sat tucked behind a desk. Glasses slipping down her nose, bangs hiding her eyes. Brown hair, neat except for a loose strand she kept tucking away.
Emotion Curse: Anxiety and Fear Manipulation, Grade S.
Name: MYRA.
She wasn't looking at him. She was writing—fast, furious.
Dexter leaned just enough to peek.
[Do not trust him. He smiles too much.]
He blinked. Then grinned.
"That's fair," he said.
She froze, pen mid-sentence. Slowly turned her head. Their eyes met—hers wide, startled, honey-colored.
He smiled wider.
'Paranoia and honesty. A dangerous combo. I like her already.'
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He clapped once. Loud enough to echo through the velvet-and-chandelier circus of a room.
Every head snapped up. Even Serana's.
"Alright, class," he said brightly. "I'm Dexter Caelum. Professor of Emotional Recalibration. You may call me 'Professor,' 'Sir,' 'Boss,' or, if you're feeling brave—Dex."
Silence.
Not one laugh.
Cool. Tough crowd.
'They'll laugh later,' he thought. 'Or cry. Either works.'
"I know this probably sounds like a joke," he continued, hands sliding into his coat pockets, "but I'm actually here to help. My job's to make sure you can control your curses, your emotions, and—ideally—not murder each other over breakfast cereal."
A few smirks. One snort. Good. They were listening now.
Then he let his tone drop, just a fraction.
Blue eyes sharp. Smile gone thin.
"And I will. One way… or another."
The room tensed.
Then, like flipping a switch, his grin came back. "So! Who wants to go first?"
Serana's hand went up immediately.
Dexter tilted his head. "Volunteer already? Impressive."
She smiled—slow, dangerous. "Me, Dex."
He smiled right back.
"Perfect."