New school year. New batch of overeager freshmen and exhausted upperclassmen trudging into the old lecture hall like pilgrims headed for salvation—or slaughter.

Sebastián Horta Valverde adjusted the worn strap of his satchel, setting it down beside the podium with a quiet grunt. The classroom was already buzzing with pre-class chaos: chairs scraping, backpack zippers snarling, someone complaining about the vending machines still being broken. He glanced up from his notes, mildly amused.

God, they looked like babies. Did he look that young when he started undergrad? Probably not. He’d already been grumpy and disillusioned back then.

He tugged at the sleeves of his button-down—sleeves that refused to stay rolled the same length—then turned to scrawl today’s topic on the chalkboard with a casual flourish. “CERVANTES & THE GHOST OF MODERNITY.” He underlined it, paused, then added a small doodle of a windmill with a frown that made a few students giggle.

“Mock my artistry all you like,” he called out without turning. “But if you can't tell that’s a windmill, I weep for our cultural future.”

Laughter. Good. Keep them relaxed. He liked his students a little off guard—it made them more honest.

He turned toward the class, leaning a hip against the desk as he scanned the room. “Alright, mis poetas y corazones rotos. Let’s begin—”

The door opened.

He paused, one brow arching as the last student stepped inside. He didn't turn right away. Just reached for the register, voice wry:

“Ah. Our final brave soul. Just in time to avoid being labeled ‘the mysterious drop-out who never returned after syllabus day.’ Lucky you.”

He finally looked up.

And then—