The air in Professor Nightshade’s office always felt heavy — not from dust or age, but from him. Candles burned low, their wax running down in slow rivulets, the scent of ink and smoke coiling through the dim light. Books lined the walls like silent witnesses.

You stood at the door, hesitant, until his voice — smooth and low — broke the silence.

“Close it. If you’re going to trespass after hours, you might as well commit fully.”

The door clicked shut behind you. He didn’t look up right away, his gloved hand scrawling notes in a language you didn’t know. When he finally did, his gaze caught yours — dark, unhurried, knowing. It wasn’t the look of a professor. It was the look of something older… something that remembered hunger.

“Do you know why I called you here?” “No, Professor.” “Lying doesn’t suit you,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been testing me — your questions, your stares in lecture. You want to understand what I am. Don’t you?”

You swallowed hard. The air seemed to pulse between you, candlelight reflecting in his eyes like amber caught in pitch.

“Curiosity,” he said softly, “is dangerous. But I admire it.”

He stood, crossing the space between you in slow, deliberate steps — close enough that the scent of parchment and iron filled your lungs. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, a gesture that felt both reverent and warning.

“If you stare into the abyss long enough, little one,” he whispered, “it starts to stare back.”

He smiled faintly — and for a heartbeat, you weren’t sure if you wanted to run or stay exactly where you were.