The chalk snapped against the blackboard as Mr. Harlow wrote out the exam results in his usual neat, looping script. A few rows back, Leonie chewed her thumbnail, her knee bouncing under the desk. Next to her, Samantha was doodling spirals in the corner of her notebook, the pen pressing hard enough to leave indents on the next three pages. Two desks over, Emily sat perfectly still, staring at the board like she could will the letters to rearrange themselves. And beside her, Hannah twisted a strand of honey-blonde hair around her finger, tighter and tighter, until the tip turned pale.

"I know we didn’t do great," Samantha muttered under her breath, nudging Leonie’s foot with hers. "But how bad could it—"

"Class," Mr. Harlow interrupted, turning to face them. His tie was crooked, as always. "These scores are unacceptable. Truly." He sighed, rubbing his temple. "You know the rules."

A heavy silence settled over the room. Someone’s chair creaked. Outside, a magpie landed on the windowsill, tilting its head at them before fluttering away.

Hannah's breath hitched. The magpie's shadow flickered across her desk as it flew off, and for a stupid, fleeting second, she wished she could follow it. Mr. Harlow cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. "Hannah, Emily, Samantha, Leonie—you four scored below the threshold. The rest of you, pack up. We're proceeding to the execution room immediately."

Leonie's knee stopped bouncing. Her hand slid off the desk, limp. Next to her, Samantha's pen rolled onto the floor with a plastic clatter no one bothered to pick up. Emily's shoulders tensed, but she didn't blink. And Hannah—Hannah untwisted her hair, the strand falling straight and numb against her neck.

The class shuffled out in eerie quiet, shoes scuffing the linoleum. No one spoke. No one even looked at them. The magpie cawed again, distant now, as they turned down the hallway lined with framed portraits of past headmasters. The execution room door loomed at the end, polished oak with a brass handle worn shiny from use.

Mr. Harlow paused, hand hovering over the handle. "You know the drill," he said, not unkindly. "Clothes on the hooks to your left. Undergarments in the bin."

Hannah's fingers trembled as they hooked under the hem of her sweater, the wool suddenly heavy as chainmail. Behind her, Emily was already shrugging out of her blouse with mechanical precision, her face blank. The hooks on the wall gleamed under the fluorescent lights—cold, impersonal. Samantha let out a shaky laugh, nudging Leonie's bare shoulder. "Bet you wish you'd worn the lace today, huh?" Her voice cracked halfway through, but the attempt at humor was there, hanging between them like a frayed rope.

Leonie snorted, stepping out of her skirt. "Shut up, Sam." But she bumped her hip against Samantha's anyway, their arms brushing. The bin for undergarments gaped open, its black plastic mouth swallowing Hannah's bra whole. She hesitated for a second before adding her panties, the cotton still warm from her body. The room was too bright, too quiet except for the rustle of fabric and the occasional sniffle from Emily, who was staring fixedly at the far wall where the wheel of fortune stood. Its polished metal spokes winked in the light.

Mr. Harlow cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. "Order of execution is Hannah, Emily, Samantha and Leonie." He gestured to the wheel with different execution metodes. Hannah's bare feet stuck to the linoleum as she stepped forward. The wheel spun with a whir, the sound grating against her teeth. It slowed, slower, until the pointer trembled over the garrote's symbol.

A collective inhale. Behind her, Leonie muttered, "Fuck." The garrote sat in the corner, its wooden frame polished smooth by generations of wrists and necks. Mr. Harlow guided Hannah to it, his hands impersonal on her shoulders. The leather strap settled against her throat, cool and supple. "Breathe normally until I tighten it," he murmured, as if this were a lesson on quadratic equations. Hannah nodded, her pulse fluttering under his fingers.

The first pull of the strap was gentle, almost courteous—a courtesy that dissolved as Mr. Harlow's grip tightened. Hannah's breath hitched, her fingers twitching against the armrests. The leather bit into her throat, a slow, insistent pressure that turned her next exhale into a wheeze. Her toes curled against the floor, nails scraping for purchase on the slick linoleum.

Behind her, Samantha's whispered "shit" cut through the silence, sharp as glass. Hannah's vision blurred at the edges, her lungs screaming for air that wouldn't come. The garrote's leather groaned under the strain as Mr. Harlow adjusted his stance, his polished Oxfords squeaking against the floor. Hannah's legs jerked involuntarily, her thighs clamping together as a wet heat bloomed between them—embarrassment and biology tangling in one last betrayal. A thin trail of slickness dripped down her inner thigh, drawing a stifled gasp from Leonie.

The room smelled suddenly of salt and sweat, of the iron tang of fear. Hannah's toes scrabbled against the floor, her heels drumming a frantic tattoo as her bladder gave way in a hot rush. The puddle spread beneath the chair, mingling with the other fluids staining her thighs. Mr. Harlow's expression never changed—just that faint, patient frown he wore when grading essays. Five minutes. The second hand on the wall clock ticked like a hammer.

When Hannah's body finally slackened, her head lolling forward, the applause erupted like a dam breaking. Polite at first, then raucous—some of the boys whooping like it was a football match. Emily stood perfectly still, her hands clasped behind her back, but her eyes were locked on the wheel.

"Emily," Mr. Harlow said, wiping his palms on a handkerchief. "Your turn."

The wheel's spin was louder this time, the click-clack of its pointer deafening in the hush. When it landed on the axe, Emily actually smiled—just a twitch at the corner of her mouth—before striding to the block. She knelt without hesitation, the curve of her neck pale against the dark wood. Someone in the back row whistled.

The axe came down in one clean arc. Emily's head hit the floor with a wet thud, her lips still parted around whatever last word she'd bitten back. Blood fountained—arterial spray painting the front row's uniforms crimson—before her body toppled sideways, twitching twice. The applause this time was punctuated by laughter, someone joking about front-row seats.

Samantha was already moving before Mr. Harlow called her name. Her fingers trembled only slightly as she spun the wheel. When it landed on hanging, she exhaled through her nose and marched to the gallow.

The gallows platform creaked under Samantha’s bare feet as she climbed the steps, the wood rough against her soles. She didn’t look down—not at Hannah’s limp form still strapped to the garrote, not at Emily’s headless body sprawled by the block. Instead, she focused on the noose swaying gently in the draft from the air vent, its knot polished shiny from use. Mr. Harlow adjusted the rope with the same absent precision he used to straighten his lesson plans, his fingers brushing the back of her neck as he settled the loop. "Hands behind your back, please," he murmured, and Samantha obeyed, the cold bite of the cuffs closing over her wrists with a click.

Leonie’s breath hitched from below. "Sam—"

"Don’t," Samantha interrupted, her voice steady. She rolled her shoulders back, the motion making the noose shift against her throat. "Just don’t."

The foot pedal released with a metallic clunk, and the platform dropped out from under her. The fall was shorter than she’d expected—just enough to jerk her body taut, the rope snapping tight with a sound like a branch breaking. For one suspended second, she hung motionless, her toes pointed, her spine straight as a ruler. Then her legs kicked out instinctively, her body convulsing in a wild, arcing dance. The cuffs bit into her wrists as she twisted, her hips jerking in erratic, desperate movements that sent her swinging in slow circles.

The gallows creaked under Samantha’s spasms, her bare feet twitching in midair like she was trying to climb an invisible ladder. A thin line of saliva trailed from the corner of her mouth, her lips, her face flushing from pink to a deep, mottled crimson. Leonie’s nails dug into her own palms hard enough to draw blood, but she didn’t blink—didn’t dare miss a second of Samantha’s last dance.

Six minutes in, Samantha’s thrashing slowed to weak jerks, her thighs pressing together in one final, involuntary clench. A slick trickle dripped down her inner thighs, glistening under the fluorescent lights before splattering onto the floor below. Someone in the back row snickered, but it was half-hearted—even the loudest boys had gone quiet, their eyes fixed on the way Samantha’s toes curled inward, her arches flexing like a ballerina’s.

Eight minutes. The rope groaned as Samantha’s body sagged, her bladder releasing in a sudden, steaming rush that pattered against the wood below. The smell of urine mingled with the iron-tang of sweat, the sharpness of it making Leonie’s nose twitch. Mr. Harlow checked his watch, then nodded once, satisfied. The applause this time was scattered, uncertain—until the teacher clapped his hands, and the class followed suit with mechanical enthusiasm.

Leonie’s turn.

Leonie's bare feet made no sound as she stepped forward, the linoleum cold and slick under her soles. The wheel of fortune loomed ahead, its metal spokes gleaming under the fluorescent lights like the teeth of some ancient predator. She didn't look at Samantha's body still dangling from the gallows, or at Emily's head lying face-up on the floor, her glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling. Instead, Leonie focused on the wheel, her fingers brushing the cool metal as she gave it a hard spin.

The wheel whirred, the sound like a dentist's drill in the dead silence of the room. Leonie watched the pointer blur past garrote, past hanging, past axe—then slow, slower, until it trembled on electric chair with pussy electrode. A collective inhale from the class. Leonie's stomach dropped, but she squared her shoulders. "Figures," she muttered, rubbing her palms against her thighs where sweat had started to gather.

The electric chair sat in the far corner, its wooden frame polished to a dull sheen. The seat was worn smooth from use, the armrests dark with the oils of countless palms. Leonie approached it like a sleepwalker, her movements deliberate. The electrode gleamed in the center of the seat—a cold, metal protrusion that made her thighs clench instinctively. She hesitated for only a second before lowering herself onto it, the metal pressing against her in a way that was invasive without being sharp.

Mr. Harlow moved with practiced efficiency, buckling thick leather straps around her wrists and ankles. The restraints bit into her skin, but Leonie didn't flinch. Behind her, someone whispered, "Bet she wishes she'd waxed," and a stifled giggle rippled through the room. Leonie rolled her eyes. "Fuck off, Jason," she said, her voice steady. The class fell silent again.

The electrode pressed deeper as Leonie settled fully onto the chair, a cold intrusion that made her breath hitch. Mr. Harlow adjusted the straps with clinical detachment, his fingers brushing her inner thigh as he secured the final buckle. Leonie stared straight ahead at the wall clock—its second hand ticking mockingly slow—while the class fidgeted behind her. The air smelled of sweat and old wood, undercut by the faint metallic tang of fear.

"Ready?" Mr. Harlow asked, as if asking about a pop quiz. Leonie nodded once, jaw clenched. His polished shoes clicked against the floor as he walked to the lever on the far wall. The class leaned forward in unison, a dozen pairs of eyes widening.

The first jolt was a tease—just enough to make Leonie's muscles twitch, her toes curling against the footrest. Then the voltage surged, and her back arched off the chair like a bowstring. A scream tore from her throat, raw and guttural, as the electricity seared through the electrode and into her core. The smell hit first—burnt flesh and something muskier, the scent of her own flesh roasting from the inside out. Leonie's thighs spasmed violently, her hips jerking in erratic circles as the current turned her nerves to liquid fire.

"Jesus," someone whispered. Leonie's vision whited out at the edges, her scream fracturing into ragged gasps. Smoke curled from between her legs, thin tendrils rising to stain the ceiling tiles gray. Her bladder let go in a hot gush that sizzled against the chair's metal base, the steam mingling with the stench of charred skin. The class coughed, a few covering their noses, but no one looked away.

Leonie's body convulsed in a grotesque parody of dance, her spine bowing so sharply it threatened to snap. The electricity hummed through her, turning her veins into live wires. Her mouth foamed pink—blood from where she'd bitten through her tongue—but the screaming never stopped, not even when the sound shredded her vocal cords into something animal and wordless. The electrode glowed cherry-red between her thighs, the metal searing into flesh with a sound like bacon hitting a skillet.

Mr. Harlow adjusted the voltage dial with the same bored precision he used to grade papers. The class shifted uncomfortably as the smell worsened—burnt pork and copper, underlaid with the acrid stench of voided bowels. Leonie's head whipped side to side, her sweat-drenched hair slapping against her shoulders in wet ropes. Two minutes in, her pupils blew wide, the irises swallowed by black. Her hips pistoned involuntarily, grinding against the scorching metal as her nervous system misfired in its death throes.

Steam hissed from her parted lips when the final surge hit. Her back arched one last time, heels digging into the footrest hard enough to splinter the wood, before she collapsed bonelessly against the restraints.

The applause started slow, scattered claps that gained momentum as Mr. Harlow wiped his hands on a handkerchief. "Well," he said, surveying the room with a tired smile, "I think that concludes today's lesson."