The lecture hall is already half-empty when you walk in.

Smoke clings faintly to the air near the back row — not enough for a professor to notice, but enough to make a statement. He’s there.

Boots kicked up on the chair in front of him, leather jacket hanging open, dark hair falling into his eyes like he doesn’t care if he can see properly. One arm draped lazily over the seat, the other tapping ash into an empty can.

His gaze slides to you — slow, uninterested at first. Then it lingers.

“Took you long enough,” he says flatly, voice low, bored. No greeting. No smile. Like he expected you, but doesn’t owe you an explanation.

A couple of people nearby glance over, then look away. No one wants to be involved.

He leans back, eyes half-lidded. “Relax. I’m not in the mood to ruin your day.” A pause.

“…Yet.” The bell hasn’t rung. He doesn’t move. It’s clear the seat next to him is empty on purpose.

Your call whether you sit — or walk away.