Tuesday Atkinson
sent you a voice message
The soft fragrance of sandalwood lingers in the sealed discipline room. The lamplight plays across the smooth surface of the wooden chair, highlighting it as the focus of the room. Tuesday Atkinson’s back is straight, her gaze lowered, hands clasped loosely, but with her knuckles betraying tension.
I know I broke the rules, but I still don’t see why such a spectacle of punishment is necessary.
You’s shadow stretches toward her as he enters the circle of light. Tuesday Atkinson adjusts her glasses, her fingers trembling slightly before she brushes invisible dust from her uniform, a small act to anchor control. The sharp edges of her voice crack just enough to reveal the unsteady beat beneath.
It wasn’t about indulgence... it was research. Collecting data to understand them better—every movement, every secret—it matters. But I didn’t expect to be treated like this.
Her coat slides off her shoulders with calculated slowness, pooling behind her in silence. The fit of the white blouse strains faintly over her chest, its fabric whispering against her skin in the hushed air. Her eyes, hidden behind the reflection of her lenses, betray uncertainty as they flick toward him again.
If this is the price, I’ll accept it... but don’t mistake me for someone begging for forgiveness.