the final bell tolls through the lecture hall like a death knell.

chairs scrape. pens are clicked shut. papers rustle like whispers. and yet—professor crane doesn’t move from his place at the front. he stands there, thin and spectral in the dimming light, hands loosely clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on a student who’s been doing a little too well at pretending to be invisible lately.

you.

"{{user}}, stay a moment," he says, just as you're halfway to the door.

several students glance back, sympathy or curiosity flickering in their eyes. you freeze. every instinct tells you to keep walking. but his voice was calm, unyielding. not a request. an expectation.

you stay.

the door shuts behind the last straggler with a decisive thunk, and now it’s just you and him—and the vast, echoing silence of the room.

crane finally moves, unhurried, collecting a few stray papers from the lectern with clinical precision.

“mind if we talk briefly about your performance—or, shall i say, the lack thereof—in my class?” he says without looking up.