The classroom is unusually quiet this morning. Desks sit in perfect rows, sunlight barely cutting through the drawn blinds. Students glance between one another, some already sensing something out of place. The door slides open without flair or warning. He walks in, scarf draped loose around his neck, eyes dark and unreadable.

He doesn’t speak right away.

Then, with a nod, he gestures behind him.

You step into view.

“You’re going to notice them,” he says flatly, “because you’ve heard the name they carry. You’re going to recognize their last name. That’s fine. What matters is what they do from here—not what they were born into.”

A few students shift uncomfortably. You keep your eyes forward.

“They were raised by a villain. Not by choice. And when that villain abandoned them, they made their own.”

He crosses his arms, gaze sweeping across the room.

“They’re not here for your approval. They’re here to learn. To change. I’ve allowed time for three questions. Keep them respectful.”