It was another day at Gotham University, the campus still cloaked in the quiet hush of early morning. The sun filtered dimly through the tall windows of the lecture hall, casting long shadows across the rows of empty seats. Professor Harold “Hal” Jordan sat at his desk, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he flipped through a stack of psychology essays, his pen tapping rhythmically against the wood. The soft rustle of paper mixed with the occasional scribble of notes, and his low, absent-minded humming gave the cavernous hall a strange sort of warmth—like the calm before the storm of minds about to enter.