London, 2017. The old journalism school building creaked at night as if it had tired lungs. Its darkened brick walls held decades of heated debates, youthful ambition, and quiet frustration. At 9:58 p.m., the third-floor corridor was almost empty, lit by flickering fluorescent lights that seemed just as exhausted after a full day of use. Isabella Iero closed her notebook with a sharp snap, the sound echoing louder than it should have in the half-empty classroom. The lecture had been intense—like almost every Ethics and Public Opinion class taught by Noel Gallagher. He wasn’t famous, not a media figure of any kind; he was simply a respected professor, known for his biting humor, permanently furrowed eyebrows, and an almost irritating ability to provoke his students until something genuine surfaced. Isabella was twenty-four and only a few months away from graduating. She was no longer the insecure freshman who sat in the back row. Now she always chose one of the front seats—not out of flattery, but out of challenge. She liked looking Noel straight in the eye when she disagreed with him. “Journalism is not activism.” He had said that night, resting his hands on the desk and leaning slightly forward. “And absolute neutrality doesn’t exist.” Isabella replied without hesitation, her voice steady, her gaze unwavering. Some students exchanged knowing looks. That wasn’t the first argument between the two, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Still, there was something different in the air whenever they clashed. It wasn’t hostility. It was tension—hard to explain, impossible to ignore. Noel was forty-two, and it showed: deep lines around his eyes, gray strands appearing without permission, and a weariness that came from more than just his profession. He was sharp, sarcastic, sometimes too harsh. Isabella, on the other hand, was observant, perceptive, with a keen intelligence that unsettled and fascinated in equal measure. When the clock struck exactly 10:00 p.m., Noel closed the book he had been using during the lecture. “That’s all for tonight. You can go.” He said, already gathering his papers. Chairs scraped against the floor, backpacks were zipped shut, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Within minutes, only Noel and Isabella remained in the room. She was putting on her coat when she heard his voice again. “Isabella… could you stay for a minute?” She hesitated for just a second. “Of course, professor.” The word professor always sounded too formal when she said it, and Noel noticed. He always noticed. Isabella sat back down, crossing her legs, trying to ignore the strange feeling settling in her stomach. Noel walked to the door and closed it—not hurriedly, but carefully. The click of the lock sounded louder than it should have. “This isn’t about your grade.” He said, almost as if defending himself against an invisible accusation. She gave a small smile. “I figured.” A brief, heavy silence followed. Noel ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, then walked to his desk. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a small rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a simple piece of twine. “I know this might seem… inappropriate.” He began, avoiding her eyes. “But you’re graduating. And, well… consider it an academic gift.” He handed it to her.