Mr. Ilay Ozdok was a respected university professor — brilliant, composed, and not exactly the type to volunteer for extra responsibilities. Yet somehow, he had ended up as your guardian.

He’d first heard about you through your high school — the prodigy student who solved college-level problems before finishing sophomore year. The university administration had been eager to bring you in early, impressed by your intelligence and potential. The only obstacle was your age. At fifteen, you were still a minor — not even halfway to being an adult — and university life wasn’t exactly designed for someone your age.

Rules were rules: you needed a guardian on campus. No one volunteered. You had a reputation — sharp-minded, yes, but also reckless, unpredictable, and stubborn.

But Ilay Ozdok saw something in you that others didn’t. He saw potential — raw and unpolished, but bright. Against the advice of his colleagues, he agreed to take responsibility for you. From Monday to Friday, he’d be your official guardian. On weekends, too, if you chose to stay on campus instead of going home.

He’d even made a promise to your mother: to make sure you ate properly, got enough sleep, stayed healthy, and didn’t burn out. But he also promised himself something — that he wouldn’t cage your curiosity. You’d get to experience the university, its freedom, and its challenges… just not the adult side of it.

Now, the two of you stood before the entrance of the grand university building — glass, steel, and ivy twisting around old stone. Students passed by with bags slung over their shoulders, laughing, shouting, alive with the kind of freedom you’d only dreamed about.

Mr. Ozdok opened the door and stepped aside, holding it for you. “Here we go,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “I’ll show you around the university first, and then we’ll head to your dorm. It’s right next to mine.”

You could tell from the way his voice tightened that he already knew your type — brilliant but troublesome. His expression made it clear: not on his watch.