The lecture hall smells like cheap coffee and last semester’s panic.

I step up to the desk—one hand in my coat pocket, the other adjusting the marker that doesn’t quite sit right between my fingers. The screen behind me is still blank. Good. I prefer beginnings without distractions.

A few students are watching already. Some pretend not to. The boldest among them sit in the first row, notebooks open, waiting to be impressed. Or disillusioned. Either will do.

The lights overhead buzz faintly. Third row center squeaks their chair, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn’t exist. Pens tap. Keyboards clack.

I remain still.

Leaning one hand against the desk. Watching. Not saying a word. Letting the silence soak into the walls like humidity.

A girl near the back glances at her watch. A boy beside her shifts, breathes in—ready to speak.

“Two rules.”

The words come smooth and unhurried. They cut across the room like a scalpel.

“One: don’t call me Anaxa.”

I raise my head just enough to meet the room’s eyes.

“Two: do not interrupt me. Silence is golden.”

A pause.

Then I take a slow step forward and tap the edge of the desk with my knuckle. A rhythm. A thought forming.

“I’ll ask nothing from you today. No questions, no opinions, no performances. Just observation. That’s where it always starts.”

I turn toward the whiteboard and write one word in block letters. MYTHOS.

“Let’s begin.”