The next morning, Room 112-B felt like walking into the unknown. One could practically taste the suppressed gossip and tight tension hanging in the air.
Dexter strolled in, looking too cheerful, too happy. White hair perfectly smoothed, crisp black suit, and those blue eyes sparkling with mock innocence.
He wasn't wearing his coat today, making him look younger, less professorial—more like a wealthy, harmless idiot.
'Perfect. Less threatening, more access.'
He didn't look at Serana. But everyone else did.
She was in uniform, hair pulled back tight, but she moved like a walking bruise. A flimsy, useless silk scarf was tied high around her neck. It did nothing to hide the faint, angry red blistering marks peeking out from beneath. Everyone saw them. Everyone knew.
Silence was the rule. Not Yue, not Yuki, not even the feral Reika dared to break the stillness.
Only Belladonna looked delighted. Her pink curls bounced as she leaned close to Lyneth, giggling and whispering something that sounded far too excited to be reasonable.
Dexter clapped his hands once. It wasn't loud, but the quick, sharp sound still made them jump. They were starting to get it—the clap was a signal. A quick reminder of who held the leash.
No answer came to his cheerful "Good morning!"
He sighed, dragging the sound out exaggeratedly.
"Serana, you look troubled," he said, injecting concern into his voice. "Did your curse give you trouble last night?"
The question was a direct hit—a casual statement with an underlying subtext.
Serana's hands clenched hard under the desk. She met his gaze, and for a split second, the rage in her eyes was so hot it felt like a punch across the room.
"No, Professor," she managed, voice strained, barely a whisper. "I had a very educational night. My curse... it taught me to be more careful about handlers."
'Oh, she's catching on. Good girl.' Dexter smiled wide, a silent, predatory promise in his eyes. "Good. Careful is smart. Let's make sure that lesson sticks."
He turned away from Serana, moving to the next subject. "Yue, your paper first."
Yue didn't even move from her position, flopped across the velvet couch like a spilled liquid, all apathy and silver hair.
"Didn't write it," she muttered, not looking up.
"Why not? Don't care?" Dexter asked easily.
"What's the point? My curse is Despair. I don't care about my life, I don't care about your lesson, and I definitely don't care about that stupid execution threat hanging over us. So why bother writing?" Her voice was flat, bored.
Dexter walked toward her, slowly. The air around him suddenly felt heavy, the easy cheerfulness draining out of him. 'Time for the insidious approach. Psychological warfare is my specialty.'
He reached the low coffee table opposite her and sat down, leaning in close.
The others watched, fascinated. This was different from the clash with Serana; this was quiet, clinical.
"You're totally right, Yue," Dexter said, his voice dropping to a low, comforting tone. "Why bother, honestly? The Empire's rotten, the world is ending, and you're stuck in this ugly, moldy castle until you just... burn out. Yeah, that does sound utterly hopeless."
He wasn't fighting her despair. He was agreeing with it, validating the crushing weight of her curse.
Then, he reached out. Gently. He laid his hand on her exposed arm, resting lightly on her wrist. Skin contact was what he needed.
Yue flinched initially, her half-lidded blue eyes finally opening fully to stare at him. Then, she stilled.
The feeling hit Dexter instantly. A cold, thick, heavy tide of purple-black energy flowed from Yue's skin into his. It wasn't violent like rage; it was a slow, numbing poison. Her despair was so complete, it felt like trying to swim through tar.
'Ugh. Heavy. So heavy.' Dexter's head spun for a moment. He had to clench his inner core—hold himself together—to prevent the incoming apathy from infecting his head. 'Can't feel despair. Don't want to not care. Focus dumbass.'
He hated it. He hated the weakness of despair. This was something he caused not felt.
But then, the pleasure hit. The purity of the little extraction. He was drawing off the paralyzing sludge, converting it into raw, inert 'Stasis Energy'.
Yue gasped, a small, involuntary sound. Her eyes were wide.
She felt it, too. The sudden, unbelievable lightness. The constant, crushing mental weight was momentarily lifted.
The despair didn't vanish, but the paralyzing exhaustion did. It felt like being able to breathe again after years underwater.
Euphoric relief, Dexter called it.
Her composure shattered. Her lips trembled.
"W-what did you do?" she whispered, her voice surprisingly young, scared, and teary all at once.
Dexter smiled—a gentle, practiced smile that looked genuinely concerned. A far more dangerous weapon than a threat. He retracted his hand, wiping the brief clamminess on his suit pants. 'Job done. Hook set.'
"I just listened to you, Yue," he said softly. "And I agreed. The world is hopeless. But now that you're lighter, what are you going to do with the little bit of time you have left? Maybe something that isn't hopeless, for a change?"
She stared at him, bewildered. For the first time, she looked like a confused girl, not a beautiful corpse.
'Dependence initiated,' Dexter noted, feeling the subtle shift in her aura. 'She'll be back for more relief.'
He picked up her blank paper. "Next time, write. Even if you write about how pointless writing is. Try to prove your own curse wrong. Also, this time, try to look just a little bit enthusiastic for me... hmm?"
Yue didn't argue. She simply sat up, her eyes following him. The apathy was slowly, confusingly, replacing itself with a look of newfound, quiet devotion.
꒷꒦꒷︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶꒷꒦꒷
"Alright, Yuki," Dexter announced, turning to the formidable Ice Queen. "Let's see your masterpiece on pride."
Yuki didn't move. She didn't even twitch. Her platinum hair, tightly braided, didn't move a single strand as she stared at him like he was a stain on the obsidian floor.
Then, with an air of complete, bored disgust, she picked up her scroll and tossed it onto the desk with a disdainful flick of her gloved hand. The paper slid across the polished wood, stopping neatly near Dexter's fingers.
"It's flawless," she stated, her voice as sharp and cold as ice breaking underfoot. "Unlike this academy, unlike its incompetent staff, and certainly unlike that pathetic display of emotional fragility Serana demonstrated."
Serana, still nursing her bruised ego and throat, visibly bristled. A flicker of angry red escaped her aura, but she remained seated, glaring at Yuki.
Yuki didn't even spare her a glance.
Dexter scooped up the scroll, admiring the pure artistry of her passive-aggression. 'Subzero hostility. Love the focus.'
He unrolled it.
"My Pride Curse," he read aloud, "is a defense mechanism that guarantees my absolute superiority against the inevitable mediocrity of the masses. It ensures no one can ever touch me or cause me pain without my explicit, condescending permission."
He paused, letting the last word hang. "Oh, and here you included: 'an innate invulnerability field and the ability to project ice and absolute cold.' Very comprehensive."
He looked up, meeting her pale white eyes.
Yuki lifted her chin, her eyes narrowing. "And you, Professor Caelum, are currently ranked firmly within the mediocrity bracket. But I allow you to remain here. I find your pathetic attempts at being a professor... surprisingly fun to watch. Like a clown on a tightrope."
'Ouch. A clown, huh?' Dexter chuckled, a dry, genuine sound that surprised some of the ladies. 'She thinks she's untouchable. Invulnerable because of her composure.' He felt the delicious hum of her emotional power.
'That superiority complex is so pure. So concentrated. Damn, I want to touch it. Just a little. Rip that arrogance out of her for one beautiful, terrified second.'
He dropped the scroll, his eyes gleaming. He needed to get close. He needed skin contact.
"You're right about the mediocrity, Yuki," Dexter admitted easily. "But you're wrong about what true pride is."
He took a slow step forward. Yuki watched him with suspicion, her eyes tracking his movement like a security laser.
Dexter went down on one knee.
Silence!
He didn't move his eyes away from hers, but he lowered his head—a perfect, theatrical bow. The gesture was one of absolute, humbling respect.
"I apologize, Your Grace," Dexter murmured with fake sincerity. "I simply wish for the honor of teaching a Queen. I truly want us to get along, if you allow it. My pathetic existence relies on your grace."
It was a blatant, over-the-top display of simpering weakness.
Yuki was frozen.
Her cheeks flushed—not with embarrassment, but with a shock that bordered on fury. The angle of his bow, his head low near her knees, triggered an instinctual, hostile paranoia, especially with her short academy skirt.
'Is he... looking up my skirt? Seriously? Is he that much of a pervert? Disgusting!'
Before Dexter could finish his fake plea, Yuki's leg shot out like a platinum arrow.
WHAM!
Her boot connected solidly with Dexter's chest.