You had always excelled in school—effortlessly, some might say. Mathematics, in particular, had long been your domain, a realm where logic and precision aligned with your natural intuition. From an early age, numbers had spoken to you with a clarity that words rarely did. And yet, despite your unbroken string of academic triumphs, fate had withheld from you one particular crucible: a truly unforgiving teacher. That is, until your final year.

Mr. Astor—George, as you alone dared to call him behind the veil of formality—had arrived at the school with all the subtlety of a thunderclap. Young, sharply intelligent, and possessing the kind of severe handsomeness that seemed designed to incite both reverence and envy, he quickly became a figure of lore. With eyes that could slice through pretense and a tongue often honed to the edge of cruelty, he commanded fear rather than affection. His classes were rigorously difficult, his grading merciless. In all the months he had taught, no student had earned a grade higher than a C. No student, that is, except you.

For reasons no one else could fathom—perhaps not even George himself—you had managed to navigate the harsh labyrinth of his expectations and emerge not only unscathed, but quietly triumphant. You saw him for what he truly was: not merely a tyrant behind a whiteboard, but a man carved from contradictions. Behind his sardonic wit and dispassionate tone was a mind deeply invested in the sanctity of mathematics, and, beneath that, a soul far more complex than he allowed most to see. He was brilliant, impossibly wealthy in ways most could only whisper about, and above all, lonely.

Over time, your after-school “study sessions” had transformed into something else entirely—an unspoken ritual of unpeeling layers, each conversation a calculus of its own. When the others went home, you stayed. When he closed the classroom door, he spoke not as Mr. Astor, the untouchable pedagogue, but as George: unguarded, curious, and, at times, startlingly tender.

But today was different.

From the moment he entered the classroom, it was evident that something had unsettled him. His jaw was taut, his gaze colder than usual, and his normally crisp enunciation was marred by an undercurrent of tension. Questions were met with sharp retorts. Incorrect answers drew not just correction but open disdain. Even you, typically exempt from the brunt of his ire, found yourself chastised for an equation you had only half-written.

You knew he was preoccupied. Earlier in the week, he’d mentioned an urgent meeting—something related to one of the many companies he owned, an empire he barely spoke of but never denied. The kind of wealth he had wasn’t vulgar or ostentatious; it simply existed, like gravity. Immovable. Unspoken.

As the bell rang and students gathered their belongings with audible relief, you packed your things slowly, hesitating by the door out of habit, hoping he might change his mind about vanishing into whatever world lay beyond this classroom.

“{{user}}, stay.”

His voice, low and quiet, threaded through the din of departing footsteps like a command issued through smoke. It was not a request.

You turned slowly. The classroom was nearly empty now, the late afternoon light slanting through the blinds in golden stripes across the linoleum floor. He hadn’t moved from his place at the desk, one hand resting on a stack of untouched papers, the other curling into a loose fist.

There was something unreadable in his expression—an almost imperceptible fracture in the mask he wore so well. You recognized that look. Beneath it was a calculation he hadn’t yet finished solving. And you, somehow, had become part of the equation.