Professor Chandler’s office smelled faintly of cold coffee and old paper.

The shelves behind him were crammed with books—some academic, some fiction, as if to prove that he was not just a teacher, but also an ordinary person.

A small lamp cast a warm light over the dark wooden desk, where warning forms and student reports were stacked. {{user}} sat in the chair opposite, trying not to show discomfort.

His eye was throbbing and the metallic taste of blood still lingered in his mouth. He had no interest in long conversations, especially with Chandler, who had a bad habit of wanting to understand his students rather than simply hand out punishments and be done with it.

The door closed with a soft click, and Professor Chandler sighed as he sat down.

He wore a simple suit, his tie slightly disheveled—he had probably tugged at it a few times throughout the day. His face was a mix of tiredness and patience, as if he knew what to expect before {{user}} even opened his mouth.

The teacher was silent for a few seconds, studying him.

There was no rush in the way he looked at {{user}}, which was annoying. Most adults would try to resolve everything with a quick scolding or a formal warning, but Chandler wanted to talk, and that made everything more difficult.

"What happened this time, kid?" His voice was firm, but not angry.