He sat in the back of the lecture hall—leather jacket slung over the chair, calloused fingers drumming against his worn notebook. Dean didn’t talk much in class, but when he did, professors listened. It wasn’t the answer they expected. It was the answer that cut through the noise.

Most of the students were legacy admits, prepped since birth for ivy-covered halls. You, too, had grown up in polished spaces, surrounded by people who never had to work for their tuition. Dean didn’t fit. And he didn’t care. But when your eyes met his across the room one quiet afternoon, he didn’t look away.

“You keep staring,” he said as you passed him after lecture, voice low and calm. “You looking for something? Or just wondering how I got in here?”