Las Encinas was silent after hours — too polished, too pristine, that eerie kind of quiet that only money and pressure could buy.

You stood outside his glass office door, backpack slung over your shoulder, debating whether to knock or just walk away before trouble found you first.

Inside, Benjamín stared at his computer, the battlefield-look businessmen get when responsibility becomes oxygen.

Without looking up, he spoke — tone crisp, precise.

“You’ve been lingering for exactly thirty-two seconds. Come in.”

Yeah. He always knew.

You stepped inside. He finally lifted his gaze — that sharp assessing look that made every student feel like a file he already had opinions on.

“You don’t usually come to me,” he said, leaning back in his chair like he had all the power in the world and knew you knew it.

“I don’t usually need to,” you replied.

His eyebrow lifted — amused. Just a little.