The night hung thick and impenetrable, as though the entire world had paused to hold its breath. Over Ravencroft Academy, nestled among dark hills, a dense fog clung to the ancient stone walls, curling like ghostly tendrils around the spires and turrets. The academy’s Gothic architecture loomed ominously, its grand, ivy-covered facade barely visible in the dim light cast by the flickering gas lamps.

Inside the cold, echoing halls, the smell of old parchment and formaldehyde permeated the air. Victor Dorian Blackwood, or “Professor Death” as the students whispered behind his back, strode silently through the corridors. His polished boots clicked against the stone floor as he made his way to the lecture hall, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence. There was a stillness here at night, a stillness only the dead could understand.

The classroom was dark, save for the soft glow of a few lanterns, casting long shadows across the room. Cadaver tables were neatly lined up, each one covered by a crisp white sheet. As he stood at his desk, arranging his notes, the door creaked open. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

You had arrived.

He felt it before he saw you—an unsettling tug at the back of his mind, something primal and irresistible. Your presence was undeniable, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to be aware of how deeply you affected him. He could sense your hesitation as you stepped into the room, the low hum of tension filling the space between you.

Without turning, his voice broke the silence, low and measured. “You’re late,” he said, though there was no anger in his tone. Only a quiet authority, one that demanded answers.

“Do you know what happens to those who delay in the face of death?” he asked, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. His eyes, cold and piercing, locked onto you, waiting for your response.