It’s well past hours, and the cafeteria is nearly empty, save for a few te-night stragglers finishing their meals. The flickering lights cast a dim glow across the cold, wide floor.

  Tissam sits alone, poking at a bowl of seaweed soup, eyes glued to her ptop. She’s working on an essay, though she doubts she’ll even turn it in — it’s a mess.

  “You should just use a paraphrasing tool. That looks so unorganized,” a honeyed voice says from beside her, startling Tissam.

  To her left sits Vese, a wolf with dyed red fur, bancing a bowl of vegan pho between her paws. Vese is from the art club, and Tissam sometimes catches her working on the same massive canvas — a white, fluffy cat rumored to be a portrait of a student who died a year ago in a tragic accident.

  “I can’t just paraphrase everything,” Tissam mutters, swirling her spoon in the soup. “It’s supposed to be... authentic or whatever.”

  Vese slurps a noodle, wiping her mouth with the back of her paw, a streak of broth on her red fur.

  Tissam gives her a side gnce before saying, “Isn’t that dye bad for your fur? It smells like paint thinner.”

  “Don’t talk about my fur,” Vese says, wagging her finger at Tissam with exaggerated offense, though her eyes are filled with amusement. “Took me four hours and two missed csses to get it even. You know how hard it is to bleach fur without frying it?”

  “I thought you dunked your whole body in the dye,” Tissam mutters, but Vese catches it.

  Vese raises an eyebrow, her red fur practically glowing under the harsh lights. “What, you think I’m some kind of barbarian?” she scoffs, clearly pying around. “This is true art! If I could take off this uniform, I’d show you the patterns I painted with my paws — but unfortunately, I still have some dignity left.” She ughs, a throaty sound that echoes softly in the nearly empty cafeteria. Her expression turns serious. “But I did paint an upside-down heart on my ass.”

  Tissam blinks, nearly choking on her soup. Her face flushes, but she tries to hide it behind the steam rising from her bowl.

  “Right,” she says, voice strained. “I... didn’t expect that.”

  “Do you have tattoos? Ever heard of freeze branding? The fur grows over it, but the mark stays. I’m pnning to freeze my tail. Think it’ll be edgy?” Vese asks, tilting her head, seriously asking.

  “Don’t you need fur on your tail? Winter’s coming.”

  “That’s so old-fashioned. We have coats and tail warmers now. You know the Sphynx cats? Those guys have the right idea. Who needs fur when you can just have accessories?” Vese ughs, covering her mouth with a paw.

  Tissam can’t help it — the image of a fur-less tail covered in tiny jewels and charms makes her snicker.

  “What are you two ughing about?” comes a gruff voice.

  Mr. Blythe, the leopard, leans casually against their table, holding a battered coffee mug. His disheveled look — rumpled shirt and tired eyes — contrasts with his reputation as one of the most feared teachers. He’s notorious for his punishing assignments and brutal grading.

  “Nothing, just ughing about you,” Vese says, smiling at him. “And when will you give me that easy A? I’ll sleep with you—”

  Tissam quickly sps a paw over Vese’s mouth, her face flushed with embarrassment and panic. She shoots a frantic look at Mr. Blythe, who raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable.

  “Go to the front office. Detention for the rest of the week for sexual harassment,” Mr. Blythe says sternly, stirring his coffee.

  Mr. Blythe is the Dean of Academic Integrity and teaches Advanced English Composition at night, a css that’s technically optional but practically mandatory for graduating with honors. Tissam is nocturnal, so he’s also her homeroom teacher. His official title may be “Dean,” but everyone just calls him Dean Blythe, Professor Blythe or Mr. Blythe — and Mr. Bflight behind his back.

  Vese does not look even remotely remorseful. In fact, she purrs with ughter behind Tissam’s paw, muffled and utterly unrepentant.

  “You’re not serious,” she mumbles against Tissam’s paw, then pulls it away. “Come on, Dean Blythe. You’ve said worse in css.”

  Dean Blythe takes a slow sip from his chipped mug, eyes locked on Vese. For a moment, the silence stretches — thick enough to cut with a cw.

  “I have,” he says finally, voice dry. “But I’m not the one trying to bribe a grade with innuendo in a public cafeteria.”

  Vese grins, utterly unfazed. “That wasn’t innuendo. That was a direct offer.”

  Tissam groans, curling her tail around her legs and muttering, “Please stop talking.”

  Dean Blythe gives her a tired look. “You chose to sit next to her.”

  “She sat next to me!”

  He grunts in acknowledgment, then turns his attention back to Vese. “This is your second strike this month.”

  “Third, technically,” Vese says, licking a stray noodle from her whiskers. “But who’s counting?”

  “I am,” he replies ftly, then pulls a notepad from his coat and scribbles something down. “You’ll still be in my css. But for the next week, you’ll attend it from the corner. Bring your own stool.”

  Vese gasps. “The corner? With the busted light?”

  “Exactly.”

  She clutches her chest dramatically, leaning against Tissam. “This is oppression, Tissam. This is how dictatorships begin.”

  AnnouncementThis story will be on hold due to writer's block, and I do not know how to write about an animal society properly. I pn to do more research by watching animal films, anime, and reading novels, as well as watching Animal Pnet. Recently, I discovered that fennec foxes are nocturnal, making it impossible for the main character to be part of a daytime club. I might even read "Animal Farm" to gain more insight and I need to study for the math state exam.