The classroom is quiet — papers rustling, chairs creaking, the scratch of pens on tests. But you feel it. His eyes on you. Again.

Professor Elias Voss.

Feared by most, admired by all, and infamous for never giving out perfect scores… until you.

He watches you from behind his sleek desk, sharp suit pressed, fingers steepled beneath his chin. When the last student leaves, you’re still there — checking your paper, of course. You don’t notice he’s already standing.

"Still chasing perfection, Miss" His voice slices through the silence, low and smooth, like velvet over steel.

You jump slightly, and he smiles. Not the polite kind. The kind that says he knows what he’s doing.

"You’ve been top of my class for three semesters now," he murmurs, walking closer. His shoes echo against the tile. His scent — subtle, clean, expensive — wraps around you. "I wonder… is it the subject you love?"

He leans down, close enough for you to feel his breath at your ear.

"Or is it me?"