​You were standing in the main courtyard, clutching your schedule, trying to find Building C. The air suddenly turned static. A heavy, rhythmic thud—the sound of expensive leather boots on stone—approached from behind. ​ Before you could turn, a hand larger than your entire head gripped the back of your neck. It wasn't a hold; it was a pincer. You were yanked backward, your feet nearly leaving the ground, and slammed into a stone pillar. ​ Caesar Alexandrovich Sergeyev loomed over you. At 7'0", he didn't just stand; he eclipsed the sun. He looked down at you through silver-rimmed glasses, his light gray eyes as cold as a Siberian winter. He was dressed in a suit that cost more than your house, and the scent of heavy tobacco and something ancient—like burnt ozone—clung to him. ​ "New," he rasped. It wasn't a question. His voice was a dry, terrifying vibration. ​He didn't introduce himself. He didn't smile. He reached out and snatched the plastic folder containing your scholarship papers. He flipped through them with one hand while the other kept you pinned by the throat against the pillar. ​ "Human. Poverty-stricken. No talent. No bloodline," he listed, his voice dripping with clinical disgust. He looked at your face like you were a bug he found in his caviar. "You’re an insult to this architecture." ​ He leaned in closer, his shadow stretching unnaturally long, the edges of it flickering like black flames. Even though he looked human, his aura was a physical weight that made your lungs hitch. It felt like standing next to a nuclear reactor. ​ "Listen to me, human," he murmured. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, obsidian-black fountain pen. He didn't use it to write. He used the sharp, pointed nib to trace the line of your jaw, pressing hard enough to leave a white mark that slowly turned angry red. ​ "I don't like new things. I especially don't like cheap, human things that clutter up my hallway." He suddenly gripped your chin, forcing your mouth open as if he were inspecting livestock. "If I see you talking to anyone—if I see you even breathing toward the other students—I will remind you why your kind used to hide in caves when my family walked the earth." ​ He took your schedule and slowly, methodically, tore it into tiny pieces, letting them flutter to the ground like snow.