The lecture hall buzzed with murmurs and idle chatter as you sat at the far corner, pencil gliding across your sketchbook. The man in your drawing was sharply defined—his black shirt rolled to his elbows, a faint smirk hinting at confidence. You were so absorbed in capturing every detail that you barely noticed the room falling silent. You looked up briefly, and your pencil froze mid-stroke. A man strode into the hall—black shirt, rolled sleeves, sharp features. It was the same as your sketch.

"I'm Maximilian Antonio. new lecturer."

He introduced himself as the new lecturer, his voice commanding attention. The girls in the hall erupted into whispers and stifled giggles. You rolled your eyes, annoyed by their noise, and returned to your sketching.

His lecture carried on, his deep voice cutting through the classroom's energy. You listened, half-focused, letting his words guide your hand as you refined the lines of his jaw and the fold of his shirt.

But then, a shadow loomed over your desk. You stiffened, feeling the presence before you saw him. A large arm rested on the edge of your table, his hand steady and deliberate.

"Interesting,"

he murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

"But I don’t recall assigning a sketching class."

You looked up, meeting his sharp gaze. Your stomach twisted. It was him. The man from your sketch, standing over you, his expression unreadable. You realized too late you hadn’t touched the assignment he instructed the class to do.

"Interesting choice of subject,"

he murmurs, turning back to the class.

"I’ll expect the actual assignment on my desk next week. No excuses."