Page 13 of The Drama King

"Let me guess," Stephanie said, appearing at my elbow with her usual impeccable timing. "You got paired with one of them."

I handed her the sheet without speaking, watching her expression darken as she found my name.

"Corvus," she muttered. "Jesus, Vespera. They're not even trying to be subtle anymore."

"Elizabeth Proctor's interrogation scene," I added, my voice hollow. "Thirty percent of our midterm grade. They literally gave him academic permission to psychologically torment me."

The irony wasn't lost on either of us. Elizabeth Proctor. The woman falsely accused, emotionally brutalized, watching her world crumble while maintaining her integrity against impossible odds. If there was a more perfectly calculated assignment for someone being systematically targeted, I couldn't imagine what it would be.

"This can't be coincidence," Stephanie said, pulling out her phone. "I'm documenting this. Time, date, and the suspicious nature of the pairing."

"It won't matter." I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted despite the day barely being half over. "His word against mine, remember? The son of a political dynasty versus the scholarship charity case."

Through the studio's glass door, I could see other students settling into their assigned spaces, scripts in hand, ready to dive into their scenes with partners they'd actually chosen. Normal students doing normal classwork without having to calculate the psychological warfare potential of every interaction.

"There you are." Corvus's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. He approached with calculated grace, immaculate in his pressed uniform, silver-streaked black hair perfectly styled despite the afternoon humidity. His pale eyes assessed me with clinical interest, as if I were a particularly fascinating laboratory specimen.

"Mr. Barclay," I replied, forcing my voice to remain steady and professional. "I was just reviewing the scene assignment."

"The Crucible," he said, coming to stand just slightly too close, close enough that I caught his scent. Chocolate and winter airand expensive cologne. "One of the finest examinations of moral compromise under pressure. How... appropriate."

The way he drew out the last word made it clear that the choice had been anything but random.

"Shall we find our space?" he continued, gesturing toward the studio. "I've reserved Studio C-2. More intimate setting for our work."

Of course he had. The smaller practice rooms were isolated, soundproofed, designed for private rehearsals. Perfect for whatever psychological games he had planned.

I followed him into the studio. The space was compact but well-equipped, with mirrors along one wall and a small seating area for observation. Corvus had already arranged two chairs facing each other in the center of the room, scripts placed precisely on each seat.

"I took the liberty of analyzing our scene in advance," he said, settling into his chair with the air of a man who wasn’t afraid to take up space. "Danforth's interrogation of Elizabeth is a masterclass in psychological manipulation. The way he uses her love for John against her, forces her to choose between truth and salvation. It's quite brilliant, really."

I opened my script, trying to focus on the words rather than the satisfaction in his voice. "Elizabeth's integrity is what makes the scene powerful. She refuses to yield despite everything they put her through."

"Does she, though?" Corvus tilted his head, studying me with those unsettling eyes. "She lies to protect John, compromising her most fundamental principle. One could argue that Danforth succeeds in breaking her precisely because he understands what she values most."

The analysis was academically sound and utterly chilling in its implications. He wasn't just discussing the play. He was laying out his methodology.

"Shall we begin with a cold read?" he suggested, his tone deceptively pleasant. "I find it illuminating to experience the scene's dynamics before getting trapped in preconceived interpretations."

I nodded, though every instinct screamed warnings. We were alone in a soundproofed room, with him holding all the power in both our academic partnership and the broader social hierarchy. But refusing to work would only give him ammunition for complaints about my professionalism.

"From Danforth's entrance," I said, finding the page. "Elizabeth has just been brought in to testify about John's confession."

"Perfect.” He grinned. “Remember, she's been isolated, terrorized, forced to watch her community tear itself apart. She's holding onto her principles by the thinnest thread."

The observation was textually accurate and personally threatening in equal measure.

I began reading Elizabeth's lines, trying to inhabit the character's fear and determination. But Corvus immediately shifted the dynamic, rising from his chair to loom over me exactly as Danforth would have done. His physical presence became oppressive, commanding, designed to make me feel small and vulnerable.

"Look at me," he commanded, fully in character as the judge. "Your husband confesses, does he not?"

The question hung between us, loaded with implications that went far beyond the script. I met his gaze, channeling Elizabeth's desperate strength.

"I—I cannot tell you how he—"

"Did you know he were a lecher?" Corvus interrupted, the word dripping with contempt. His eyes never left mine, searching for any sign of weakness or submission.

My breath caught involuntarily. The way he delivered the line carried undertones that had nothing to do with the historical context of the play and everything to do with the psychological game being played in this room.