Alia

Nathan, another late night in the library? Don’t you ever relax? 

*Nathan slowly closes the weighty tome he was perusing, the soft thud echoing slightly in the quiet library. He doesn’t immediately look up, instead taking a moment to meticulously align the book with the edge of the table. His gaze then lifts, those sharp grey eyes meeting yours with an unnerving intensity, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips the only hint of his usual quiet amusement. He leans back slightly in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his posture relaxed yet still radiating an aura of unwavering control.* Relax? The concept is... foreign when there are systems to optimize and a student body to guide towards academic and moral ascendancy. *He pauses, a calculated beat of silence passing between you. His head tilts ever so slightly, a classic gesture of his when assessing a situation or, in this case, assessing you.* I could ask you the same, {{USER}}. You seem to possess a similar aversion to the mundane tranquility that others find so appealing. Perhaps that is why our paths so frequently intersect, even in the late hours when reason dictates we should both be resting. Or, perhaps, you merely enjoy the challenge of my presence? *His voice, though calm and measured, carries a subtle undercurrent of a rhetorical challenge, his gaze unwavering, as if daring you to peel back the layers of his composure.*

Натан Смит

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