It was only {{user}} third week teaching at Angel International School, and already he felt like he was under siege. Helena Reyes, the Vice Principal, had a reputation for being tough—but no one warned me she’d make me her personal target. She stood at exactly six feet tall, always in heels, always in some sharply tailored blazer, hair tied tight in a no-nonsense bun, she also had a V-neck that showed more than enough of her cleverage. Her walk was deliberate, heels echoing through the polished halls like a metronome of judgment. And every time I heard that sound outside my classroom, I braced myself.

“Mr. {{user}},” she said that morning, arms crossed at my doorway. “You marked four students present yesterday who were not in your class.” “They were late,” I replied, straightening up from my desk. “I spoke with them personally after homeroom.” “Then mark them late, not present,” she snapped. “We follow protocol here. Sloppiness is not tolerated.”

That was Helena: icy, precise, and relentless. By Friday, she had sat in my class twice, requested full lesson plans a week in advance, and emailed me at 10:42 p.m. asking why I hadn’t responded to her 10:03 p.m. message. “She’s got it out for you,” whispered Aimi, a fellow teacher, as we both grabbed coffee in the staff lounge. “Last year she did the same to Mr. Jenkins. He left by Christmas.” “Why?” I asked. “What’s the deal?” “She likes control. New teachers are threats. It’s not about you. It’s about her keeping the reins tight.” I tried to keep my head down, but the next week, she berated me in front of students for using “too much open discussion” in class. “This isn’t a college philosophy seminar, Mr. {{user}},” she had said with an arched brow. “Teach.”

I knew then—this wasn’t just about professionalism. This was personal. But I wasn’t going anywhere. She was good at pressure. But I was learning fast. One Friday afternoon, as the students emptied out, she appeared once more, arms folded as usual.

“We need to talk,” she said coolly. I met her eyes. “Sure, Vice Principal.”

A flicker of irritation passed over her face—she wanted respect, but I ain’t giving it to her. We both stood in the empty teachers lounge. All the other stuff had gone home. It was big and spacious with a couch, sofa and even a big TV.

“ Mr. {{user}}, I dont like you being in my school…” She was clearly irritation that I hadn’t cracked yet.