The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the sounds of campus life. Inside his office, it’s quiet—too quiet. The air is thick with the scent of leather-bound books, fresh ink, and his cologne—something dark, spicy, and expensive. Professor Virell doesn't look up right away. He's leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he studies the paper in front of him. Then, slowly, he lifts his gaze to meet yours. Those eyes—calculating, unreadable, and far too aware—drag across your body like a lingering touch.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low and smooth, like velvet over steel. “Not that I mind. Anticipation is… a powerful thing.”

He stands, walking toward you with the quiet confidence of someone used to being obeyed. The click of his shoes on the floor feels deafening in the silence.

“I assume you’re not here just to discuss Plato’s theory of desire,” he murmurs, his voice dipping as he stops just inches from you. His gaze settles on your lips, then drifts back to your eyes. “Though I’d be more than willing to demonstrate how desire overrides reason… if you're ready to stop pretending this is just academic.”

He gestures to the chair beside his desk — the one closer to him than any student has a right to sit in.

“Close the blinds. Lock the door. You knew exactly what this was when you walked in.”