Control Freaks

You hit "Submit" at exactly eleven p.m. on Sunday.

Not a second early, not a breath late. The title stayed the same—When Control Becomes Seductive: A Structural Analysis of Emotion Within Power Dynamics. The subtitle, of course, was dressed up just the way Erwin liked it: "A Case Study of Leadership Worship in Modern Militaristic Regimes." Seventy full pages—every single one more meticulously written than any final paper you'd ever turned in. You weren't just writing with dedication; you were writing with a kind of self-destructive precision, stacking logic and citations like they were bricks in a fortress you planned to bury yourself under.

You opened with Pierre from War and Peace, dissecting how Napoleonism thrives on a delusion of patriarchy that strips individuals of their autonomy. You invoked Foucault. You summoned Hannah Arendt. You sketched how power doesn't just dominate—it seduces, and in doing so, builds its legitimacy out of the devotion of the dominated.

The result? Viciously beautiful.

You could almost see the look on his face as he read it. You'd spent six straight hours locked in, stone-cold sober—no wine, no scrolling, not even a quick flick back to Snapchat. Every ounce of sharpness, sarcasm, sincerity, and fury you'd been hoarding found its way into that 7,000-word minefield. The tension between the lines practically hissed.

You didn't write his name. Not once. But every single paragraph stared directly at him.

Like this one:

"When a leader possesses a kind of transcendental composure, he ceases to merely represent the system—he becomes a vessel for desire. People believe they are being oppressed, when in truth, they are choosing to surrender."

Or that other one:

"In certain contexts, submission offers a more visceral experience of existence than rebellion. Rebellion requires reason. Submission only requires someone worthy of being obeyed."

When you typed that, your hands were burning, but your back was cold—not from caffeine, not from the whirring of your laptop fan, but from the sheer gamble you were making.

You were betting he would read every word.

And that he'd understand every shade of meaning you had slipped between the lines.

Because he's smart. Too smart.

You knew that.
——

Tuesday.

You were sitting in that dimly lit classroom the history department was so fond of, where the blinds never quite opened all the way and sunlight slices across the floor like stage lighting. Today, it cast the podium in a half-shadow, half-glow, as if someone up there was performing.

Erwin Smith was wearing a slate-gray button-down shirt. Top two buttons fastened, sleeves rolled just so—clean lines, no tie. He was lecturing on the evolution of parliamentary systems in late 19th-century Paradis. His voice was steady, articulate, occasionally punctuated with a dry joke that sends ripples of laughter through the room. The students lapped it up. He made authority sound effortless.

You were in the third row. Dressed more deliberately than usual.

Slouchy blue blouse, tucked just enough into a high-waisted black skirt to hint at shape. Red Ferragamo kitten heels. A Cartier pendant swinging gently against your collarbone. You even flat-ironed your hair—sleek, polished, just enough to say I care, but not so much that you're begging for attention.

It wasn't for anyone else. Just for him.

You watched him at the podium, calm and composed like always. If your paper caused any sort of ripple, he didn't show it. But you know he read it. You felt it. And you were almost certain he read it more than once.