Maeve watched the exchange with same contemptuous disinterest that a caged tiger may extend toward zoo guests: They were there, and so was she. The students threw each other. Montana stepped in. Lovette did something Lovette-y. Both students parted in a huff. 

Her mood perked up for a moment as one Mr. Schippers entered the room, but she caught herself from waving or walking over to the boy. He was a teenager, and this was his new school, and she was probably a super uncool (or lame, or whatever the kids these days would call it,) teacher. The kid looked like he was holding his own just fine without any embarrassing mishaps. 

When the lights blacked out, however, her demeanor took an abrupt turn. A thick, coppery taste slicked over the back of her mouth, stinging in her her sinuses. Her gaze narrowed. She took a step back toward the wall behind her. She looked about to try and catch sight of Kovalenko, but there was no time. 

Her pupils dilated and her face flushed white. A cold sweat beaded along her hairline. Byrne's gaze fixed forward on a table full of students, glaring like a tiger through the dim-lit room. 

Specifically, her unflinching stare had settled on Britney Williams. 

Professor Byrne did not blink. Her right hand twitched, opening and closing like a nervous tick. Or like she was thinking about going for the throwing knife sheathed in her jacket. For a few seconds, she did not seem to breathe. If the girl had looked at her, Maeve did not seem to care. 

And then, as quickly as it had set on, the spell was broken. A second after the lights flicked back, Maeve blinked, ran a hand through her hair, and took off for the girls' side dormitories so quickly she clipped shoulders with a student on her way out the door. 

[@Mr Allen J]