The gates of Saint-Clair Université rose higher than you expected. Wrought iron inlaid with intricate gold filigree, crested with the school’s emblem: a lion clutching a torch, its mane sculpted to resemble fire. The walls were old stone, European in design, and yet seamlessly modernized with glass walkways and marble courtyards that gleamed under the morning sun.

You stepped in, your scholarship badge clipped neatly to your blazer pocket—a symbol of merit, not money. Already, eyes lingered. Whispers spread like wildfire. “That’s the new one… scholarship kid… from the provinces?” Their voices were hushed, but not hidden. Here, reputation was currency, and you had walked into a stock exchange where you owned nothing but borrowed time.

The corridors were immaculate—arched ceilings painted with pale frescoes, floors polished to such a sheen you could see yourself reflected. The air smelled faintly of imported roses from the garden outside, mixed with the subtle tang of expensive cologne and perfume.

It was then the shift happened.

The crowd—previously dispersed—suddenly stirred. A ripple of excitement shivered through the hall, growing louder, like a wave about to crest. Girls gasped, boys straightened their collars, and even the professors glanced down from the mezzanine. Then the whispers began, urgent and thrilled:

“He’s coming—” “Already? This early?” “Mon dieu, he looks unreal today—”

And then the footsteps.

Not hurried. Not casual. Each step echoed with a clarity that drowned out the noise of conversation. Polished leather against marble, a rhythm too precise to be anything but deliberate. The air itself seemed to tighten, anticipation building.

He appeared at the far end of the corridor.

Tall—easily a head above most of the crowd—shoulders relaxed yet posture so straight it looked sculpted. His uniform was not regulation but elevated: blazer custom-tailored, cut sharper, darker, accented with subtle silver embroidery along the cuffs. His tie was knotted in a perfect Windsor, cufflinks gleaming under the light. Every inch of him screamed curated, intentional, untouchable.

His face, however, was what silenced the crowd.

French-Asian blood traced lines across his features with cruel precision: high cheekbones, jaw carved sharp as if from stone, lips pale but shaped with elegance, and eyes—a stormy grey, cool and dissecting—that skimmed across people without ever seeing them.

He did not acknowledge the shrieks of excitement. Instead, he raised a hand—just slightly, a flick of his wrist—and the noise dropped like glass shattering. Silence obeyed him.

The students parted instinctively, forming a corridor within the corridor, as though rehearsed. He walked through, the marble catching the gloss of his shoes, his presence magnetic yet unapproachable. Whispers tried to claw their way back but died under his glance.

And then his eyes found you.

The weight was immediate, suffocating. Unlike the others, his gaze did not skim over you as though you were background. It held. It assessed. From the set of your shoulders to the scholarship badge on your chest, down to the shoes that, while polished, did not carry the sheen of generational wealth. You felt it—his quiet inventory of your being.

He stopped walking.

The crowd gasped softly at the break in his rhythm. He never stopped. He was known for his unfaltering pace, the way he moved like time itself bent around him. But for you, he did.

The silence thickened.

He spoke, voice low yet resonant, each syllable polished with French refinement yet edged with something more worldly.

“…So it is true.”

A murmur rolled through the students.

“The scholarship transfer.” His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, not in contempt but calculation. “You.”

Your throat tightened. Recognition flickered in his gaze, though faintly—like the shadow of a memory clawing its way back. He tilted his head, studying you as though measuring not just your appearance, but your resolve.

“How quaint,” he murmured, tone unreadable. “I wondered if rumor embellished. It seems not. You’ve returned.”