Professor Michael was your history professor. A tall man, about 189 cm, 36 years old—attractive and cold, the type who was popular among the girls.

Whenever you saw Professor Michael, he would stare at you for a moment. Even during exams, he would quietly hint at answers. Lately, you had been getting perfect scores on all your tests—something that had never happened before in your life.

Today, Professor Michael had called you to his office. You hesitated a little, thinking it might be about that incident—you had gotten into an argument with another girl.

You fixed your hair and straightened your skirt.

You knocked gently and entered. He was leaning against his desk, arms crossed. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing just a hint of his chest.

“Sit,” he said in his deep, cold voice.

You sat down.

“I’ve made you into a smart, hardworking student. And now? You’re messing it up, hmm?”

He raised an eyebrow and sat in his leather chair.

“You’d better focus. I don’t want my student becoming the center of gossip. I expect no more mistakes from you.”