The afternoon sun, thick and drowsy, lay lazily across the red brick walls.
The cicadas outside the window and the buzzing of the classroom fan intertwined, hypnotizing every student with weak willpower.
The bell had rung three minutes ago, but the classroom was still as noisy as boiling water.
Just then, the front door of the classroom was pushed open silently.
The boys who had been fooling around were like they had been hit with a pause button.
All eyes involuntarily focused on the figure walking toward the podium.
It was a woman with wine-red wavy hair.
She had a face that made it hard to look away once you saw it.
Exquisite makeup outlined her deep eyes, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on her high nose bridge; instead of hiding her beauty, they added a touch of ascetic intellect to her otherwise overly glamorous features.
She wore a beige professional suit with an extremely sophisticated cut, the cinched waist design perfectly outlining a breathtaking waist-to-hip ratio, her slender calves wrapped in nude-colored stockings, and she stepped in nude-colored pointed high heels.
Her whole person exuded a dangerous aura, as tempting as a ripe red apple, yet carrying a fatal attraction.
"Click, click."
She picked up a piece of chalk and turned to write a line on the blackboard.
As her arm lifted, the lines of her back were faintly visible under her shirt, full of aesthetic beauty.
Natalia Rushman.
The handwriting was elegant and powerful.
"Hello everyone, I am your new Russian teacher."
She turned around, hands resting on the edge of the podium, her body leaning forward slightly.
This movement brought her closer to the students in the front row, and a scent mixed with cold perfume drifted out.
Her voice was husky and magnetic, with a slight, charming Eastern European accent, like a hook catching the souls of all the male creatures present.
"The previous teacher is on sick leave. For the next half of the semester, I will be the one to guide you through this art of language."
Teacher Rushman's gaze slowly swept across the class, a smile on her lips—the kind unique to teachers, seemingly kind but actually controlling everything.
"My God!"
Peter exclaimed in his heart.
Not only because this new teacher was excessively beautiful, but because his senses, sharp to the point of overload, told him:
This female teacher is not right!
In Peter's ears, the heartbeats of the surrounding classmates were chaotic, but the heartbeats of this Teacher Rushman on the podium were terrifyingly steady.
Thump... thump... thump...
The interval between each beat was perfectly consistent, as precise as a Swiss watch.
And her breathing, long and deep, could hardly be heard.
This was by no means the physiological characteristic of an ordinary female teacher; this was a predator who had developed her body functions to the extreme.
"Wow, Peter, I think I'm going to fall in love."
Harry Osborn muttered to himself, his eyes fixed on the podium, even forgetting to blink.
"Do you think she has a boyfriend, or does she like younger guys?"
Peter rolled his eyes and whispered a warning: "Harry, wipe away your drool. My Peter-tingle tells me this class is definitely hell-level difficulty. Don't provoke her, seriously."
On the podium, Natasha pushed up the gold-rimmed glasses on her nose. The green eyes behind the lenses scanned the room seemingly carelessly, but in that instant, she had already memorized the facial features and positions of everyone in the classroom.
Finally, her gaze passed over the crowd and landed precisely on the corner by the window in the back row.
There sat a young girl, resting her chin on one hand, seemingly dazed while looking out the window.
Alice Mason.
Their eyes met.
The ballpoint pen Alice was rotating unconsciously paused for half a second, then resumed its rotation.
Of course, she recognized this face.
A few months ago, when she was rescued from Skull Island disguised as a survivor, the person responsible for her psychological profiling and post-war assessment was this legendary Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff.
"Since it's the first class, I'd like to understand everyone's oral proficiency."
Natasha picked up the roster, her well-manicured nails lightly brushing across the paper with a faint rustling sound, finally stopping on a name.
"Student Alice Mason."
She looked up, smiling, her eyes full of encouragement, looking incredibly approachable, like a responsible teacher who truly cared for introverted students.
"I heard you have some Russian foundation. I wonder if you could read page 14 of the textbook for everyone, Pushkin's 'If Life Deceives You'."
The whole class's attention instantly focused on the corner.
This sounded like a simple question, but Alice understood the subtext.
This was a test, and even more so, a provocation.
Were you acting on the island?
Are you still acting now?
This poem by Pushkin is the script chosen for you.
Alice slowly stood up, a perfect smile of a well-behaved honor student quickly appearing on her face, shy yet polite.
"Of course, Teacher Rushman."
She picked up the textbook, not looking at it, but staring straight into Natasha's eyes, and began to recite in Russian, as fluent as if it were her native language.
"If life deceives you, do not be sad, do not be impatient..."
The girl's voice was clear and melodious, full of emotion, and every vibrato was handled just right, as if she were truly an innocent high school student immersed in the ocean of literature, praising the hope for the future.
Natasha leaned against the podium, arms crossed, fingers tapping lightly on her arms.
Perfect Russian accent, even with the elegant inflection unique to Saint Petersburg.
Perfect micro-expression control, no abnormal pupil contraction, facial muscles relaxed.
The little girl who was trembling in a blanket in the infirmary, crying while holding hot cocoa, was completely different from the calm girl in front of her.
If Justin Hammer hadn't died so professionally—so professionally that Nick Fury had to re-examine all potential targets—she would have almost believed it.
"Very well read, Student Mason."
After Alice finished reading, Natasha took the lead in applauding, the smile in her eyes deepening, but it didn't reach them.
"Your Russian pronunciation has a classical charm, as charming as those ancient lies."
"Thank you for the compliment, Teacher," Alice tilted her head, answering flawlessly, "I also think that sometimes even if life deceives us, if the lie is beautiful enough, it is also a kind of art, isn't it?"
...
After school, the golden sunset stretched the city's shadows long and thin.
Alice declined Harry's offer to send her home in a luxury car, shouldered her schoolbag, and walked out of the school gate, mixing into the bustling stream of students, then deliberately turned into a quiet path leading to the subway station.
The surrounding noise gradually faded away, leaving only the sound of the breeze rolling up fallen leaves.
"Teacher, if you are worried about my mental health, then I must say, I feel great right now."
Alice suddenly stopped, without looking back, and said faintly to the empty street.
"Besides, stalking an underage female student after school does not quite fit the image of a teacher. If the Parent-Teacher Association finds out, you will be in trouble."
At the corner behind her, the crisp sound of high heels tapping on the ground rang out.
Natasha walked out.
She had taken off the gold-rimmed glasses and casually tucked them into her breast pocket.
The intellectual and gentle teacher temperament vanished instantly, and the widow's signature capability, coldness, and oppression became apparent.
"Don't be nervous, Alice."
Natasha stopped five meters away from Alice.
This was a delicate distance, maintaining the conversation while having reaction space if the other party suddenly attacked.
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