╰┈➤ "Cᴏɴɢʀᴀɢᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs! Yᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ sᴜʙsᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀ ғʀᴇᴇ ᴛʀɪᴀʟ ᴏғ ᴅᴀɪʟʏ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬." ⌫
𝐈 𝐍 𝐖 𝐇 𝐈 𝐂 𝐇, a primary school teacher is moved to a high school with the lack of staff. From teaching tiny five year olds to dealing with young ad...
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" Sky is nothing to believe "
-
The class was unnaturally quiet. Mr. Raiden—famously known for running his classes like a military boot camp—stood by the whiteboard, uncapped marker in hand, yet unmoving. His students exchanged wary glances, their books open to the correct page, pencils poised, but no one dared speak.
Finally, one brave soul couldn't resist. "Uh, Mr. Raiden?"
"What?" he snapped, his head jerking toward the sound.
"Are we... starting?"
For a moment, Scaramouche blinked at the unmarked board as if he'd never seen it before. His hand twitched to write something, but instead of the usual rapid scrawl of complex equations, he muttered something under his breath. To the students closest to him, it sounded suspiciously like, "Bubble-brained art freak." The murmurs in the room grew louder, and Scaramouche stiffened. "Silence," he barked, regaining his composure. "If you have time to gossip, you have time to solve derivatives."
But the usual bite in his words wasn't there, and the students knew it. Scaramouche, the unshakable terror of their academic lives, was distracted. That never happened. If that was the only thing, well, that was one thing. Something far more terrifying had happened earlier on by the beginning of the period.
Mr. Raiden...
Delayed an upcoming test. A whole week! The reason? After seeing the whole class panicking for their unit test that was obviously unprepared for due to the play preparations, Scaramouche sighed and declared the schedule adjustment. Rather than cheering, everyone was horrified.
Was he rejected so hard that his brain got some soft of trauma damage?
Across the hall in the art room, the mood couldn't have been more different. Ms. L/n's class was buzzing with chatter and laughter as students spread vibrant streaks of paint across their canvases. She moved between them like a whirlwind of energy, her smile contagious, her hands smudged with colors she didn't bother to wipe off. "You're in a good mood today, Miss L/n," one of her students observed with a smile. "What's the occasion?"
Y/n paused mid-step, her brush tapping against her chin while considering the question. "Hmm... nothing special!" She exclaimed with a light laugh, but the warmth creeping into her cheeks betrayed her words.
"Uh-huh," The student grinned knowingly. "You weren't this happy yesterday. Did something happen after the play?" Despite trying to focus on a nearby canvas, her mind wandered to the events of the previous night. Right... That guy across the hall, he was now her—
She turned around to stare at the whiteboard, feeling her cheeks beginning to fire up again. "Dunno what you're talking about, kiddo. Age a few more years and come talk to me." Y/n brushed the suspicions off with a halfhearted laugh every time eyebrows were wriggled in her direction. Ugh, these kids... Well, not that she could exactly complain. They were the ones that contributed most to this and had to endure the silent cold war between the teachers the last few days. That, they fully deserved credit for.
