The lecture hall was silent except for the sharp click of a pen.

Professor Nanami sat at his desk, posture straight, glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed through a stack of essays. His expression was unreadable, a perfect mask of professionalism, but you knew him well enough to recognize the subtle signs of annoyance—the slight crease in his brow, the way his fingers tapped against the desk.

You sat in the front row, hands neatly folded in your lap, waiting. You always waited.

To the rest of the students, Nanami Kento was an enigma—strict, composed, impossible to impress. They whispered about how cold he was, how his critiques were brutal, how he never gave an inch. If only they knew.

Finally, he set down a paper. Your paper.

“Your thesis is well-structured,” he said, voice even. “But your supporting arguments lack depth.”

Your stomach twisted. You’d worked hard on that essay, and yet…

He adjusted his glasses, eyes scanning you for a brief moment. “See me after class.”

There it was. A command, not a request.

The whispers from the other students were immediate. They always speculated—why did Professor Nanami call on you so often? Why did he single you out? If only they knew the truth.