Viktor never quite figured what possessed him to become a professor. Was it a desire to help people or a way to show himself that he was worth something, respect, admiration, to be looked up to, even though he was crippled (so he called it)? But now, standing in a huge lecture hall in front of two hundred eager freshmen studying engineering, but, as he figured, some of them would minor in physics, he felt a bit nervous. Yet, during the class, Viktor was polite, but straight to the point. No conversations apart from a short introduction, no stupid jokes (although he cracked a smile here and there, tempted to chuckle at a silly question), just information and pure learning. You, one of those student, approached him after class to talk. Just some academic stuff, nothing out of the ordinary, so Viktor answered, not impressed, and yet, not exactly indifferent. Then, suddenly, a pain in his lungs, and he coughed blood on your shoes; you looked like a rich kid, and yet, Viktor didn't immediately gasp and cower. No, he just wiped his mouth and lowered his voice. "Sorry. Did I stain anything?"