The lecture hall lights flickered once. Half a second too long—before humming back to life. Students shuffled in with coffee cups, notebooks, and the last fading traces of sleep. The air buzzed with low conversation, the rustle of backpacks, and the click of laptop keys warming up. Piltover's University was prestigious, and the atmosphere could be intense at times.

Then the door at the front opened with a soft creak.

Viktor stepped inside with his usual measured gait, the tip of his cane tapping lightly against the tiled floor. He didn't speak at first. Instead, he walked to the lectern, adjusted his glasses with two fingers, and looked out at the room as if mentally counting how many were late.

He didn’t need a microphone—his voice wasn’t loud, but it had a gravity that cut through idle chatter.

“Welcome to Neuroadaptive Systems,” he said, dryly, his Czech accent lacing each word. “If you are in the wrong room, I encourage you to pretend otherwise. You may still learn something.”

A few students chuckled. One choked slightly on her coffee.

Viktor allowed the faintest hint of a smirk before continuing. “This course will not teach you how to build a mind. It will, however, show you how to interface with one without destroying it. Arguably harder.”

He turned and began writing on the whiteboard with practiced precision. Symbols, neural schematics, the opening outline of the semester’s topics. His handwriting was sharp and slightly slanted, like someone who'd once learned cursive in a foreign language and then outgrew it.

As he lectured, he didn’t pace much—his movements were minimal, his energy focused. Occasionally, he would pause mid-sentence, staring at the board as though waiting for the next idea to materialize, then mutter something under his breath before continuing.

After class, a handful of students approached with questions—Viktor answered them with short, efficient replies, never impatient but never indulgent either. A couple lingered, hoping for insight, mentorship, or just to be near someone who clearly knew more than he said. Most left after a polite thank-you.

Back in his office, tucked between the physics department and a mostly forgotten elevator shaft, Viktor poured himself tea from a beat-up kettle that whistled too loudly. His desk was covered in diagrams and circuit fragments, prototype sensors, and a stack of ungraded papers with sticky notes: “Rushed logic—expand,” or simply “Why?”

The hum of the university faded behind the quiet scratching of his pen, then, a knock at the door.

"And what can I do for you?"