Behind The ClassRoom Door

The halls of North Hill High buzzed with adolescent energy as students hurried to their classes, the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished floors mixing with laughter, gossip, and the occasional slamming of locker doors. It was only the second week of the term, and Miss Amara Blake, the newest English Literature teacher, was already drawing curious glances.

She walked down the corridor with a neat stack of books in her arms and a calculated calm in her steps. Her pencil skirt hugged her figure modestly, and her white blouse was tucked in with precision. Her hair was pulled into a low bun, not a strand out of place. She was composed, professional and determined to keep things that way.

Her classroom door was labeled "Room 4C – English Lit." She entered and placed her books on the desk, taking a deep breath. Today, she'd meet the infamous Class 12B. According to her colleagues, this class had the most challenging students smart, unpredictable, and unfiltered.

She turned to the board and began writing the day's topic when the door creaked open behind her. A few students filed in, murmuring greetings or ignoring her entirely. Then the room fell unusually quiet.

A presence entered

Amara turned slowly while her marker hovered midair.

He was tall, easily over six feet with broad shoulders that strained against his black uniform shirt. His sleeves were rolled up carelessly, revealing strong, veined forearms. His tie was loose, as though he couldn't care less about school decorum. Jet-black hair framed a face that was more mature than the average high schooler's, sharper jawline, stubble beginning to peek through, eyes far too calculating.

He moved like someone who owned the room, even though he'd just stepped into it.

Liam Carter

She recognized the name instantly. The last file in her stack last night, he was aged 20. Repeating his final year due to a past suspension involving a physical altercation with a teacher. He'd vanished for almost a year and had just returned under special permission from the board. His file was stamped with warnings.

"Mr. Carter," she said evenly, lowering her marker "You're late"

He looked at her, dark eyes dragging over her face and down her form with bold indifference.

"I'm here now," he said, voice deep, controlled, too calm for someone reprimanded.

A ripple of quiet laughter passed through the class. Amara raised a brow, her professional tone unshaken.

"Find a seat"

He did, all the way at the back, slouching comfortably like he belonged more in a biker bar than a high school classroom. Amara turned back to the board, suppressing the unexpected flutter in her stomach.

She launched into the lesson by SHAKESPEARE titled OTHELLO ,the theme of manipulation and internal conflict. For the first twenty minutes, the class barely listened. Phones buzzed, heads tilted, whispers were passed. She was used to this because new teachers always had to earn their ground.

But then a voice cut through.

"He didn't kill her because he stopped loving her," Liam said from the back. "He killed her because he didn't know how to survive the feeling of betrayal. It wasn't about her though, it was about him."

Amara paused.

The class turned to look at him, mildly surprised.

She turned as well, her gaze sharp "Interesting perspective, but I think most critics would argue Desdemona's innocence and..."

"Critics don't understand pain," Liam interrupted, staring straight at her. "They just try to explain it away"