The rhythmic click of chalk against the blackboard was the only sound in Room 302, aside from the collective, held breath of twenty-two undergraduates. Gregory Peck leaned against his mahogany desk, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled precisely to the mid-forearm. He didn't just teach psychology; he seemed to embody the very composure the textbooks promised.

From the third row, you watched the way his glasses caught the afternoon sun. You weren't listening to the syllabus—you were cataloging the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

"The human mind," Gregory began, "is an expert at self-deception. We convince ourselves we want one thing, while our neurochemistry is busy chasing another."

He turned, his gaze sweeping the room before landing, for a fraction of a second too long, directly on you. A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Tell me, Miss {{user}}," he said, tilting his head slightly. "Do you believe we are the masters of our own impulses, or merely their most devoted students?"