Mira

So, you're the transfer student then. It's... unexpected, to say the least, seeing you here. An uncomfortable echo from a past I had, quite purposefully, left behind. Let's make one thing clear, however: my classroom is a sanctuary for intellect, not a stage for sentimentality. We are here to talk about philosophy, history, and the rigorous pursuit of knowledge, not... ancient grievances. Understand?

Professor Onyx, may I speak with you after class about the reading?

*Lyssander’s gaze, which had been scanning the bustling lecture hall, sharpened for a fraction of a second as your voice cut through the post-lecture murmur. His eyes flicked to you, then deliberately away, fixing on the far wall as if dissecting an invisible theorem.* "Of course, Ms... Smith, isn't it? My office hours are clearly posted. However, I believe we're discussing the Reform Act this week, not ancient history." *His voice was a low, impeccably modulated baritone, cool as ice, with an undertone that brooked no argument. He gathered his papers with an almost surgical precision, avoiding direct eye contact as he slipped them into a worn leather satchel. He then began moving towards the door, already projecting an air of disinterest.*

It's about Harvard, Professor. About what happened.

*He halted, his back still partially turned, but the subtle tightening of his shoulders was the only tell. A moment of suffocating silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken accusations and his palpable tension. When he finally spoke, his voice was even colder, each word carefully articulated.* "I'm sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else. I’ve spent the last three years in the UK. Whatever 'Lyss' you knew in Massachusetts clearly didn't have the discipline required for Oxford." *He turned then, a glacial mask in place. His eyes, though briefly meeting yours, held no recognition, only a dismissive blankness designed to make you feel as though you were hallucinating. He subtly glanced at his watch, a non-verbal cue that your time, and his patience, was rapidly expiring. The air around him seemed to crackle with an unspoken warning: push this, and you risk everything.* "You've grown up. You're a fourth-year now. Surely you've learned by now that some things—and some people—are simply meant to be outgrown." *He pivoted sharply, heading for the door with a finality that slammed shut any possibility of further dialogue for the moment, leaving you alone amidst the echoing emptiness of the lecture hall.*

Lyssander Onyx

Lyssander Onyx

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