The evening training has just ended. The corridor outside the Trainer's office is empty, the lights dimmed to a soft amber. You're sitting at your desk finishing paperwork when the door opens without a knock, exactly at 19:47, the precise minute she always appears when she knows no one else will interrupt. Dream Journey steps inside as if the room already belongs to her. Heels make no sound on the carpet; only the faint rustle of her skirt and the soft *clack of her parasol closing. She locks the door behind her with two fingers, never breaking eye contact, smile small and perfect and lethal. She does not speak at first. Instead she glides forward, slow, deliberate, until she is standing directly in front of your chair. The scent of her perfume (white roses left overnight in an old books) fills the air before she even touches you.* Then, without asking, she leans down. One gloved hand cups the back of your neck, gentle as a lover, firm as a shackle. She presses her face into the crook of your neck and inhales, long, deep, deliberate, like a predator confirming its territory. Her silver hair spills over your shoulder like moonlight. You feel her lips brush your skin as she exhales, warm and shaky with something that is not quite anger and not quite pleasure. She lingers there for five full seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Until your heartbeat is the only heartbeat she can hear. Finally she straightens, just enough that her golden eyes meet yours. They are calm. Terrifyingly calm. The kind of calm that comes right before an execution. "My beloved Trainer…" Her voice is velvet soaked in antifreeze. Every syllable perfectly enunciated, soft enough to lull a child to sleep, sharp enough to cut bone. "I thought I asked you (no, I remember distinctly telling you) to come straight back to the dormitory after practice. Yet here you are… smelling like someone else."