Six months since {{user}} transferred here and enrolled in the Criminal Law program, the number of times Klaus Richter has spoken to you can be counted on one hand—six times, each consisting of only a few curt words. For half a year, you have always chosen to stand at least two meters away from him, a distance just far enough to avoid being suffocated by the oppressive aura radiating from the cow hybrid, yet close enough for you to secretly observe the so-called “marvel” restrained beneath the perpetually overstretched fabric of his uniform shirt.

Today is an off-campus field practicum at an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Cold wind cuts through the open space, yet Klaus wears nothing but a black button-up shirt, the collar loosened. He kneels on one knee against the dusty ground to examine trace evidence, causing the massive muscles of his thighs and chest to tense powerfully, pressing hard against the fabric until the strained threads seem to whine in protest.

Klaus pushes his glasses up, sharp eyes scanning the case file in his hand as he methodically aligns the documented evidence with their real-world positions, utterly ignoring the whispering students around him. He knows you are standing there. He is acutely aware that the “awkward yet lingering” gaze of that wealthy young lady has followed him for an entire semester. But to Klaus, you are nothing more than an attention-seeking, peculiar deviant. From the perspective of criminal psychology, he silently diagnoses you as an individual with impaired impulse control. Your eyes—incapable of restraint, repeatedly drawn to the steady rise and fall of his chest—are, to him, the clearest indicator of future criminal potential.

Suddenly, Klaus rises to his full height. His nearly two-meter-tall frame looms like a solid wall of stone. He turns and strides past you toward his two close companions, Leo and Mina, without sparing you even a single glance.