Control Freaks

07

He didn't interrupt. Didn't shut it down. Didn't even flinch.

He was waiting.

"And I understand," you continued, "academic writing evolves. Eight years is time enough to change one's stance. But if you think my analysis of 'emotional submission as a structure of desire' was too sentimental—"

You looked straight at him.

"Shouldn't you reexamine whether your old theory of legitimacy relied on the same aestheticized language?"

You deliberately echoed his tone from last week: "Romanticized."
Same pitch. Same pause.
He'd know it.

The temperature dropped.

Half the class was now taking furious notes. The other half had just stopped breathing.

Erwin looked up. Finally.

Still didn't touch the projector remote.

"You quoted accurately," he said. "And you did your homework."

You didn't move. Your gaze stayed locked on his like a drawn bow.

"But you missed something."

He walked forward, slow and steady, until he stood beside the podium.

"That passage appears in Chapter 3, Section C. Not the conclusion."

Another pause.

"The subtitle of that section is: The Paradox of Legitimacy."

A sharp inhale swept the classroom.

"That paper analyzed how tragic leaders are given legitimacy through emotional narratives—but the second half of that chapter critiques that very framework. What you quoted was part of a dismantling, not an endorsement."

He tapped a finger on his notes—almost absently, almost like punctuation.

"I wrote that essay to expose the seduction of narrative power. Not to glorify it."

There was a beat. You blinked.

A shift. A recalibration.

He was good. And you knew it.

"Your paper," he went on, "When Control Becomes Seductive, was not a structural analysis. It was a narrative investment. You illustrated that submission can feel like existence—yes. But you didn't ask who constructed the need to submit in the first place."

His tone didn't rise. His words didn't rush.

But they landed like dull, precise knives.

"You write beautifully," he said. "But you write dangerously."

Silence.

Not a single pen scratched the page. The room held its breath for your next move.

You exhaled.

He'd parried well. Struck back cleanly. He hadn't dismissed you—but he had redirected. He'd reframed your fire as reflection. Your rebellion as projection.

You'd come to pierce the armor. And you had.

But in the end, all you'd really done was shoot a mirror.

You smiled—tight, sharp, hungry.

"Then perhaps," you said, sweet as poison, "you should write a follow-up paper. When Legitimacy Becomes Sexy."

This time, his composure flickered.

Just slightly.

"Would you peer-review it?" he asked, voice almost amused.