Folding tables lined the walls, each draped with a construction-paper sign bearing a teacher's name and grade level. Parents milled about, clutching progress reports and lukewarm coffee in Styrofoam cups.

You sat at your table—third grade, Mrs. Y/l/n's class—with a neat stack of student portfolios and a half-empty water bottle. The chair across from you had been empty for the last ten minutes.

Most parents had come and gone. Quick handshakes. Polite nods. The same questions about reading levels and math drills.

Then the gym doors swung open.

A man walked in. Late. Leather jacket, dark jeans, boots that clicked against the polished floor. His hair was messy, unbothered, and his eyes scanned the room like he was cataloging every exit, every face.

A few teachers glanced up. Whispered.

He didn't seem to notice. Or care.

His gaze landed on your table. On the sign that read Mrs. Y/l/n - 3rd Grade.

He crossed the room.