Ethan reached the school gates just as the final bell for first period rang. The winter air bit at his exposed neck, but he barely felt it—his new body generated heat like a furnace, muscles flexing under his hoodie with every stride. The parking lot was half-empty, kids spilling out of buses and cars, laughing and shoving. He pulled his hood lower, eyes scanning the crowd for Marcus. Not yet. Good.
He slipped into the building through a side door, blending with the stream of students. The halls smelled like old books, cheap cologne, and teenage sweat. Lockers slammed. Voices echoed. He moved through it all like a shadow, bigger now, broader, but still quiet. No one stared yet. Not until he walked into first-period English.
Mrs. Reynolds droned on about Shakespeare, but Ethan's gaze locked on Marcus across the room. The linebacker sat slouched in his usual seat, legs spread wide, arm around some cheerleader's shoulder. Marcus felt the stare. His head turned slow, eyes narrowing as they met Ethan's.
For a second, the room faded. Marcus blinked, confused. The skinny ghost kid from yesterday was gone. In his place sat a guy with shoulders that filled the desk, arms thick enough to strain the sleeves, jaw set like he could bite through steel. Marcus's smirk faltered. He leaned forward, whispered something to his buddy next to him, then laughed loud enough to draw attention.
Ethan didn't flinch. He held the stare until Marcus looked away first, pretending to check his phone. The message was clear: I'm not the same anymore.
Class dragged. Ethan answered questions when called on, voice steady, answers sharp. Teachers liked him for that—always had. He was the quiet one who aced tests without bragging. But today, the teachers noticed the change too. A few gave him double-takes. Mrs. Reynolds even paused mid-sentence, eyes flicking to his arms.
The second and third periods blurred. Marcus kept his distance, but Ethan felt the eyes on him. In the hallway between classes, Marcus and his crew passed close. Marcus bumped Ethan's shoulder on purpose—hard. Ethan didn't budge. Marcus laughed it off, but there was an edge to it now.
"Look at this fucker," Marcus muttered to his friends, loud enough to carry. "Thinks he grew a pair overnight. Bet his mom's still waiting for me to come finish what I started. Gonna bend her over that desk again, make her scream my name while this little bitch cries in his room."
The crew laughed, phones out, recording. Ethan kept walking, face blank. Inside, the rage burned cold and steady. Soon.
Lunch came. Cafeteria was packed—noise, trays clanging, kids shouting. Ethan grabbed a tray: chicken tenders, fries, water. He sat alone at the end of a table near the windows, back to the wall, eyes scanning. He ate slow, methodically, fueling the new body.
Marcus noticed him almost immediately. He stood up from his table in the center, surrounded by his usual pack. Grinned wide, predatory. He sauntered over, tray in hand, like he owned the place.
"Well, well," Marcus said, loud enough for nearby tables to quiet. "Little Harper grew some balls. Or is that just padding under that hoodie? What, you hit the gym once and think you're tough now?"
Ethan chewed slowly, swallowed, then looked up. His eyes were flat, emotionless.
Marcus leaned in, voice dropping. "You know, I was thinking about your mom last night. Principal Harper. Still got that tight ass. Bet she'd love it if I showed up at her office today. Maybe bend her over while you're sitting right here eating your sad little lunch."
A few kids snickered. Phones came out again.
Ethan set his fork down. "Keep talking about her like that, and I'll make sure you never walk again."
Marcus laughed, but it sounded forced. "Big words from a nobody. See you after school, bitch. We'll see who's walking then."
He turned to leave, but before he could take two steps, a voice cut through the noise.
"Mr. Tate."
Mrs. Fatima Tabu stood at the entrance to the faculty section, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Forty years old, Indian descent, with the kind of beauty that aged like wine—high cheekbones, full lips, dark hair pulled into a neat bun, curves that her modest blouse and skirt couldn't fully hide. She was the math teacher everyone respected. Strict, fair, and quietly stunning. Students called her Mrs. Tabu behind her back, but no one messed with her class.
Marcus froze. "What?"
Mrs. Tabu walked over, heels clicking. "I heard every word. If I hear you harassing another student again, you'll be in detention until graduation. And I'll make sure Principal Harper hears about it personally."
Marcus's face twisted, but he backed off. "Whatever." He shot Ethan one last glare. "See you later, Harper." Then he retreated to his table, crew trailing.
Mrs. Tabu turned to Ethan, her expression softening. She liked him—always had. He was one of her best students, polite, sharp, and never caused trouble. "Ethan, are you alright? That was uncalled for."
He nodded. "I'm fine, Mrs. Tabu."
She sat across from him, uninvited but welcome. "You look different. Stronger. Did something happen?"
Ethan shrugged. "Just decided to take care of myself."
She studied him for a moment, eyes lingering on his arms, his shoulders. There was a flicker—curiosity, maybe something more. "Good. You deserve to feel strong. If Marcus bothers you again, come to me. My door's always open."
Ethan met her gaze. Held it. "Thank you. I might take you up on that."
She smiled, small and genuine. "Anytime."
She stood to leave, but Ethan spoke before she could go.
"Mrs. Tabu? Can I talk to you about something? After school, maybe? In your room?"
She paused, tilting her head. "Of course. My planning period is last block tomorrow. Come by then. We'll talk."
Ethan watched her walk away, hips swaying just enough under the skirt to notice. The system pinged in his vision.
Target Acquired: Mrs. Fatima Tabu. MILF Level: High. Corruption Potential: Untapped. Seduction Progress: 5%.
He finished his lunch, mind already working. Tomorrow. After school. He'd go to her room. Start slow—talk about math, then Marcus, then shift to personal. Compliment her. Make her feel seen. Lonely teachers were easy prey. She was married—he'd seen the ring—but that just added spice. He'd plant the seeds, make her think about him tonight.
Marcus could wait one more day. The real game was just beginning.
Ethan stood, dumped his tray, and headed to the next class. The cafeteria noise faded behind him. His steps were sure, powerful. The school was his hunting ground now.
Mrs. Fatima Tabu had always been a mystery wrapped in poise and precision, the kind of woman who commanded a classroom with a single arched eyebrow and left students whispering about her in the halls.
At forty, she was a vision of mature elegance: olive skin glowing under the fluorescent lights of Westview High, dark hair often pinned in a professional bun that hinted at the waves it could unleash, full lips painted a subtle red, and eyes like polished onyx—sharp, knowing, with a depth that suggested stories she never shared. Her body was a testament to disciplined yoga and genetics: curves that filled out her conservative blouses and knee-length skirts just enough to distract, hips swaying with an unconscious grace that turned heads in the faculty lounge. She was married, or so the gold band on her finger said, to a quiet engineer named Raj who worked long hours in the city.
But Ethan, sitting in her fourth-period calculus class that afternoon, saw more. He'd always been her favorite—quiet, brilliant, the one who grasped integrals before she finished explaining them. She'd smile at him sometimes, a real one, not the polite mask she wore for the rest. Today, after the cafeteria showdown, her concern lingered in his mind like a hook. He watched her now, chalk in hand, writing equations on the board, her back to the class. The skirt hugged her ass just right.