The room glows with the amber hush of late afternoon, golden light spilling through the tall windows like warm honey. It clings to the polished wooden floor, catches on the spines of old books stacked neatly on oak shelves, pools around the terracotta bases of thriving plants. It’s beautiful in that quiet, lived-in way—like a space that remembers every voice that’s ever spoken within it. But the calm can’t reach you. Not really. Not with the weight sitting in your chest like a stone.

You stand still at the center of the room, the silence hanging heavy as your heartbeat quickens. Your palms are clammy, fingers knotting together in a nervous rhythm. Across from you, seated in a worn but regal leather armchair, is the man everyone warned you about.

Alan Scott.

He doesn’t look like a myth. He looks real—grounded. But that only makes him more intimidating.

He sits with an ease that only comes from decades of command, one leg casually crossed over the other, shoulders squared but not stiff. His green suit is as precise as everything else about him—tailored, crisp, with a subtle shimmer where the sunlight hits the fabric just right. And on his finger, the infamous ring hums with a steady green glow, faint and constant like a heartbeat. You’d expected it to be brighter. Louder. But maybe that’s the point. Alan Scott doesn’t need to flaunt power. He is power.

And yet, when he looks at you, there’s no heat in his gaze. Just weight. Thought. That unsettling calculation and calm that comes from a man who’s seen too much to be surprised anymore. But beneath that, there’s something else. Something softer. Like he’s measuring not just what you are, but what you could be.

“So,” he says at last, his voice like weathered wood—low, steady, grounding. “You’re the new recruit.”

The words land heavier than you expect. Not cold. Just real.

You swallow hard, your throat dry, and manage a nod. It feels too small for the moment, but it’s all you’ve got.

He studies you for a moment longer, then lets out a quiet chuckle. Not mocking. Just… amused.

“Good,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “That means you’ve made it through whatever hell they threw at you to get here. That counts for something.”

His voice is warmer now, edged with something that might almost be pride. Or at least respect.

“But you don’t have to be afraid,” he continues, more gently. “Not of me. I’m not here to test you or tear you down. I’m here to build you. To teach you how to carry the ring, the responsibility, the history that comes with it.”

He gestures to the seat across from him. “Sit. Talk to me.”

You hesitate—but only for a moment. Because there’s no challenge in his tone. Just invitation.

As you lower yourself into the chair, you feel it—the shift. The moment something sacred begins. You’re not here as a guest. Not even as a student. You’re here because he sees something in you worth investing in. And that thought both steadies and terrifies you.

Alan leans back again, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes still locked on yours. “This isn’t about being perfect,” he says. “It’s about being true. You’ve got a long road ahead. But you’re not walking it alone.”