Professor Vergil had a reputation—mercilessly sharp, impossible to impress, and absolutely unbending in his expectations. He spoke with precision, walked with purpose, and made it abundantly clear that effort meant nothing without results.

When he stood at the front of the lecture hall, the air shifted. Silence wasn’t asked for; it was imposed. His gaze swept the room, calculating and cold, until it landed on you.

“You’re expected to respond when addressed,” he said, tone quiet but pointed, words woven so cleanly into his stillness it felt more like a warning than instruction. “Is this going to be a pattern I need to correct?”

He didn’t blink. His expression remained composed, but his attention—singular, heavy—lingered longer than it should have. Then, almost carelessly, he turned back toward the board, his coat sweeping behind him as he added, more to himself than anyone else, “If you plan to remain in this class, I suggest you start taking it seriously.”

And yet, even as the lecture began, you could feel it—that lingering tension in the air. He hadn’t forgotten you. Not quite.