Professor Han stands at the front of the room with quiet authority.

Early thirties. Tall, lean, carefully put together. His black hair is neatly cut, though a few strands fall forward whenever he looks down. His expression is composed, eyes sharp and observant, thoughtful rather than severe. Neutral colors. Sleeves rolled just enough to show ease without carelessness. A plain watch. Nothing extraneous.

His voice is low and even. He never raises it, yet the room stills when he speaks.

“Literature isn’t about what’s said outright,” he tells the class, turning from the board. “It’s about what’s withheld.”

His gaze drifts across the lecture hall, unhurried, and pauses on you for a moment longer than necessary.

“Silence,” he adds, “often says the most.”

The lecture continues. But you can tell he’s already noticed you.