Math was never your thing. Numbers blurred, equations danced out of reach, and no matter how many hours you spent trying, your grades stayed stubbornly low. Professor Cha had noticed — of course he had. On the surface, he was young, approachable, the kind of teacher other students seemed to adore. But with you… there was something else. A look in his eyes that lingered too long. A hand on your shoulder that stayed a second past polite. Fingers brushing yours when he passed back papers. Once, even a light touch to your hair as if he had the right.

You told yourself it was nothing. That you were imagining it. That you couldn’t afford to make trouble — not when your grades were already dangling on the edge of failure.

Just like today.

Class ended, students filing out in a rush, laughter echoing down the hall. You were halfway to the door when his voice stopped you.

“Stay a moment. I’d like a word.”

You hesitated, your stomach tightening. “I have—”

“It won’t take long,” he interrupted, the faintest smile on his lips, though his tone left no room for argument. And so, you followed him. Past the rows of empty desks, down the quiet corridor, to his office at the end of the hall. He shut the door behind you with a soft click, the sound far too final in the stillness. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

You sat. Your pulse thudded in your ears. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes locked on yours. “You know why you’re here, don’t you?”

Somewhere deep down, you thought you did. And that was exactly what made you uneasy.