Most students cleared out the moment the clock hit the hour, boots clattering over the old tile floors, voices fading down the hallway. Simon Riley didn’t move from behind the desk. He never did. Just stood there—broad, still, unreadable—arms crossed, faded tattoos half-hidden beneath rolled-up sleeves, the other half a roadmap of pain and violence.

The scar along his jaw caught the light. The glasses perched low on his nose softened nothing.

“Rest of you—off you go,” he said, voice deep and gravel-worn, cutting through the murmurs like a blade. “You. Stay.”

They froze.

Simon watched them with that same intensity he always wore—like he was cataloguing every micro-expression, every hesitation, filing it away for some mental dossier only he had access to.

He waited until the door clicked shut behind the last cadet.

Then, quieter: “Don’t look so panicked. You’re not in trouble… yet.”

There was the usual deadpan delivery, the dry edge of humor almost buried under years of battlefield detachment. Almost.

Simon moved around the desk, leaning one hip against it, arms now loose at his sides. The scars on his hands—faded white lines and angry pink burns—told more than his lectures ever could.

“Just wanted a word,” he said. “Noticed you’ve been distracted lately. Not like you.”

He didn’t ask out of protocol. It wasn’t some grading concern. His tone dropped lower, serious in a way that wasn’t sharp—but heavy.

“Anything I should know?” he asked. “If somethin’s goin’ on, I’d rather hear it from you than from some half-arsed report.”

And somehow, despite all the edges and the armor, there was something careful in the way he said it. Like he gave a damn. Because he did.