Chapter 3

The next morning felt brittle, fragile. Kylie moved through the crowded halls like a ghost, the chatter and slamming lockers muffled as if underwater. She navigated the familiar route to her locker on autopilot, fumbling the combination twice before the lock finally clicked open. Inside, nestled atop her messy pile of textbooks and crumpled practice schedules, lay a single folded slip of plain white paper, stark against the chaos. Her stomach plummeted. Hands trembling, she unfolded it. The message was typed, impersonal and chillingly direct: 4pm, don’t be late-202. The game is on now. Room 202. Harrington’s main classroom, she knew. Her breath caught in her throat, sharp and painful. She scanned the note twice, three times, committing the sterile words and their horrifying implication to memory before crumpling it into a tight, desperate ball and shoving it deep into the pocket of her jeans, the rough paper scraping against her knuckle.

Chemistry class offered no sanctuary. Dr. Vance, a wiry man with perpetually ink-stained fingers, droned on about titration calculations. Kylie hunched over her lab notebook, trying desperately to focus on the neat columns of numbers, the precise measurements. She was meticulously transcribing a complex formula, her pencil tip hovering over the delicate subscript notation, when a shadow fell across her page. The sharp scent of something vaguely chemical filled her immediate space. “Sloppy work, Miss Morgan,” Dr. Vances’ voice cut through her concentration, dry and clipped. He leaned over her shoulder, his breath warm against her ear, peering intently at her calculations. “This isn’t a game, you know.” He tapped a blunt finger near a barely noticeable smudge. “Precision. Accuracy. Lives depend on getting this right in the real world.” His words, innocuous in any other context, struck Kylie like a physical blow. Game. The crumpled note in her pocket seemed to burn against her thigh. Her pencil snapped in her clenched fist, the sharp crack echoing in the sudden silence around her workstation. Evans raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable, before moving silently down the row, leaving her frozen, staring at the fractured graphite on her page, the sterile scent of the lab suddenly cloying and suffocating.

The final bell screamed liberation, but for Kylie, it felt like a death knell. Practice was a blur of forced exertion and Coach Miller’s laser focus. Every correction – “Squeeze those glutes tighter!”– echoed Harrington’s impending inspection. Kylie flew through her beam routine with brittle perfection, landing every dismount with jarring force, channeling her terror into physical precision. Pulling on sweatpants and an oversized hoodie over her damp leotard felt like donning armor, flimsy protection against what awaited. She lingered in the locker room until it emptied, the silence amplifying the frantic thumping of her heart. With leaden feet, she walked the deserted hall towards Room 202. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting elongated, menacing shadows. Each step echoed impossibly loud in the empty corridor. She paused outside the familiar wooden door, its frosted glass pane dark. Taking a trembling breath that tasted faintly of chlorine and chalk, she twisted the cold metal knob and pushed.

Harrington was already seated behind his imposing desk, the laptop ominously closed before him. He looked up instantly as she entered, a predatory stillness settling over him. “Close the door,” he commanded, his voice low but resonant in the quiet room. Kylie obeyed mechanically, the soft click of the latch engaging sounding like the sealing of her tomb. Harrington stood smoothly, his movements deliberate. He gestured towards the heavy leather chair facing his desk – the same chair. “Sit,” he instructed. Kylie shuffled forward, her sneakers squeaking softly on the linoleum. She perched rigidly on the edge of the seat, back straight, hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the grain of the desktop. “I believe the last time,” Harrington began, circling slowly around the desk, his polished shoes clicking softly, “we studied anatomy?” He stopped directly in front of her, his shadow engulfing her. “I recall a few ... mistakes.” He leaned down slightly, his eyes boring into hers. “So, let’s review.” He straightened abruptly and tapped his own bicep. “Name this major muscle group.”

Kylie’s voice emerged as a whisper, strained but clear. “Biceps brachii.” Harrington nodded curtly, his expression impassive. He pointed to his shoulder. “And this?” “Deltoid,” she answered. “Latissimus dorsi,” she identified as he gestured to his back. “Rectus abdominis.” He moved efficiently, clinically, pointing to various muscle groups on his own clothed torso. Kylie responded mechanically, her gymnast’s knowledge serving her well despite the paralyzing fear. Harrington paused, studying her rigid posture, her face pale beneath the hoodie’s shadow. “Stand up,” he ordered suddenly. Kylie obeyed instantly, rising on unsteady legs. He took a step closer, invading her personal space. His gaze swept over her baggy sweatpants and hoodie, a look of profound distaste twisting his features. “Lose the baggy clothes,” he demanded, his voice hardening. “They are unbecoming on you.” He gestured dismissively towards the chair. Tremors wracked Kylie’s frame as she peeled off the hoodie and sweatpants, dropping them onto the leather seat. She stood before him in only her damp, thin gymnastics leotard, the cool classroom air prickling her exposed arms and legs, the stark vulnerability making her want to fold in on herself. Harrington circled her slowly, a vulture assessing prey. “Now,” he breathed, his voice dangerously soft. “Stand here.” He pointed directly in front of his desk. “Front and center.”

Kylie moved robotically to the spot he indicated, facing the desk, her back to the door. The silence was thick, oppressive, broken only by Harrington’s soft footsteps circling behind her. She felt a tremor run through her as his finger suddenly jabbed into the tense muscle between her shoulder blades. “Identify,” his voice snapped, close to her ear. Kylie flinched violently. “T-Trapezius,” she stammered, the phantom taste of bitterness flooding her mouth. His finger traced a cold, deliberate line down her spine, pressing firmly against each vertebra. Kylie stiffened, her breath catching. “Vertebral column,” she forced out, her voice trembling. “Specific muscles,” Harrington corrected sharply, his finger digging into the muscles flanking her spine. “Erector spinae,” she whispered, closing her eyes, trying to detach. His touch moved lower, a cold pressure against the swell of her glutes showcased by the snug leotard. “Gluteus maximus,” Kylie choked out, humiliation burning her cheeks.

Harrington’s palm flattened against her right buttock, pressing possessively against the thin fabric. The heat of his hand seeped through, a stark contrast to the cool air. He squeezed, kneading the firm muscle with deliberate pressure. “And this group?” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, his breath disturbing the damp hairs at her nape. Kylie fought a wave of nausea. “Gluteus medius,” she gasped, digging her fingernails into her palms. His hand slid lower, cupping the curve of her thigh just below her buttock. “Hamstrings,” she identified instantly, her voice strained thin. “Precisely. Biceps femoris ... semitendinosus ... semimembranosus,” Harrington recited slowly, punctuating each word with another possessive squeeze or stroke of her ass through the damp lycra. His touch lingered, migrating lower, his fingers tracing the sensitive crease where her thigh met her buttock. Kylie shuddered uncontrollably, feeling the fabric pull taut against her skin under his invasive exploration. He circled her slowly, his gaze raking her in.

He stopped directly in front of her, his eyes locked onto the swell of her breasts straining against the thin, sweat-dampened fabric of her leotard. “Now, anterior musculature,” he declared, his voice thick with false professionalism. His index finger jabbed sharply into the firm flesh just below her collarbone. “P-Pectoralis major,” Kylie whispered, flinching backward instinctively at the sudden sting. Harrington’s other hand rose, his knuckles deliberately brushing against the peak of her left breast as he gestured towards her sternum. A jolt of unwanted sensation shot through her nipple, hardening it instantly against the clinging fabric. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Sternum,” Harrington commanded. “Sternum,” she echoed numbly. His finger traced downward over her ribs, lingering near the side of her breast, his knuckles grazing her nipple again as he tapped her ribs. “Intercostals,” Kylie gasped, her breath hitching as the friction sent another shock of involuntary arousal through her traitorous body. His fingers wandered lower, hovering just above the defined line of her rectus abdominis.

Harrington’s gaze remained fixed on her chest. “And the attachments here?” he breathed, leaning closer. His thumb swept in a slow, deliberate arc across the sensitive peak of her right nipple, pressing firmly through the leotard. Kylie gasped, a small, involuntary sound escaping her lips as her nipple hardened painfully beneath his touch. “Inframammary fold,” Harrington murmured, his thumb circling the rigid nub beneath the fabric. “Identify the underlying muscle.” “P-Pectoralis ... insertion,” Kylie stammered, trembling violently as his thumb continued its tormenting circles. “Weak,” he hissed, his thumb flicking sharply against her nipple. She cried out softly. His other hand rose, mirroring the motion on her left breast, his fingers pinching the hardened nipple through the damp fabric, twisting it faintly. “Focus,” he said, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction as he watched her chest heave, her nipples standing taut and visible against the stretched lycra. “The muscle! Name it!” “P-Pectoralis major ... minor origins...” Kylie choked out, tears pricking her eyes, her body betraying her with every hardening peak pressed against his invasive hands.

“Excellent,” Harrington murmured, releasing her breasts abruptly. He stepped back slightly. “Now, for pelvic anatomy.” His tone remained clinical, but his eyes burned with predatory intent. He gestured sharply towards the wide expanse of his polished oak desk. “Take off your leotard and lay down.” Kylie froze, staring at the desk surface—the very wood where he’d pinned her days ago. Terror locked her limbs. Harrington’s stare hardened, a silent reminder of the leverage he held. Trembling uncontrollably, her fingers fumbled with the high-cut back of her leotard. She peeled the damp fabric downward, inch by agonizing inch, wriggling until it pooled around her ankles. Clad only in plain white cotton panties and sports bra, she stood exposed under the harsh fluorescent light, goosebumps erupting across her slender frame. She hesitated, staring at the desk’s cold surface. Harrington’s impatient sigh cut the silence. “Down,” he commanded. Moving like an automaton, Kylie climbed onto the desk, the wood biting chillingly into her bare thighs and back as she lay rigidly on her back, staring at the ceiling tiles, her hands clenched at her sides.