10:00 AM sharp. Wednesday. Department of History, Trost University.
Overcast sky. The air felt heavy, like someone had wrung out a damp towel and let it sag over the entire building. The classroom lights were a shade too cold, making the tabletops look pale and sterile. The projector was already on. The curtains half-drawn.
Most students were still fumbling with their folders and devices, trying to shake off the midweek drag.
You were already seated. Front row, far left. HDMI connected. Screen black. The silence before a detonation.
Erwin Smith walked in right on time.
Dark grey wool coat. Black sweater. Silver-rimmed glasses. A stack of notes in his hands. He looked like always—composed, surgical, unaffected.
He glanced across the classroom. No expression. No pause.
"Today we'll continue last week's discussion on legitimacy and tragic politics," he said. "And I'd like to remind you all—counterarguments are encouraged. Academic discourse has never feared conflict."
Your lip twitched.
You made a mental note of that line: never feared conflict. It would come in handy when you flipped it back in his face.
He turned to the projector, reaching for his remote.
But your voice cut across the room.
"Professor. May I go first?"
Everyone turned to look.
You were dressed like an heiress at a prep school mock trial. Pale pink V-neck sweater, matching plaid skirt, black heels. In your hand—a stapled printout. Your expression: calm, unwavering.
You sat up straighter, eyes locked on him.
Voice clear, sharp:
"Last night, I reviewed your 2017 paper published in Comparative Memory & Identity. The title: Narratives of Belonging: Multivocality and Ideological Legitimacy in National Tragedies."
Erwin stilled. A flicker behind the lenses.
"I focused on Chapter 3. In particular, your claim that 'voluntary submission arises from identification with a tragic logic—not coercion.'"
You tapped your keyboard. On the projector screen: a screenshot of his exact words, highlighted in yellow.
"'Legitimacy is never a top-down construction, but a collective translation of individual pain into collective memory.'"
—Erwin Smith, age thirty-one, and smug.
A murmur moved through the class.
Someone whispered, "She's here to kill him, isn't she?"
You turned toward the podium—face smooth, voice still polite. But every word had an edge honed to precision.
"In my last reading response, I argued that 'control can be seductive because the subject consents to emotional projection.' You criticized that as 'rhetoric wrapped around flawed logic'—a romanticized misreading."
You paused.
Then smiled—barely.
"But this idea—'a leader's tragic image feeding off the people's need to explain their own suffering'—isn't that also a form of aestheticised legitimacy? Isn't that your romanticism, Professor?"
Light from the projector cast a glow over your lashes like a spotlight before the kill shot. You didn't raise your voice. You didn't explode. You didn't need to. You stood there, cool and deliberate, returning every one of his past critiques in the form of his own archived words.
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.
"Not only that," you replied, your eyes glinting, "I'd deconstruct your opening paragraph in front of a live audience."
"Then I won't write an opening."
The class burst into laughter.
You sat down. File closed with a definitive click.
Round over.
——
After class.
Third floor, History Department hallway.
The air still tasted like aftermath.
The walls were lined with crinkled flyers for graduate programs and outdated symposiums, fluttering slightly like they'd been disturbed by the storm of your performance.
Behind you, students poured out of the room in a slow wave of stunned whispers.
"Was that... a public execution?"
"I honestly can't tell who won."
"She really dragged out his old thesis? That's insane."
"But also like... was she wrong?"
"You think they're—? You know. That kind of tension?"
You didn't turn around. You didn't need to.
Your heels struck the floor with surgical clarity. Every step sounded like a declaration.
You had no plans to speak to him.
But then—
"Miss L/N. My office?"
Someone behind you audibly gasped.
You stopped walking. Slowly turned your head.
Your face didn't register surprise. Or submission. Not even curiosity.
You just blinked—like a cat finally deciding it was time to show its claws in daylight.
"Is this about academics, or discipline?" you asked coolly.
He stood two steps behind you, hands calm at his sides. Completely unshaken.
"Depends which one you'd like to start with."
You smiled. Not sweetly.
"Alright then."
You turned, brushing past him—this time without looking back. "Your office's on the fifth floor, right? What are we waiting for?"
You walked like someone fresh off a battlefield, already preparing the next one. He didn't rush to follow. He let you lead, just a half-step ahead, the way he always did—close enough to cast a shadow, far enough not to touch it.
Neither of you said a word on the way up.
At the fourth-floor landing, you passed a student who blinked at you both like they'd accidentally opened a live feed of a forbidden storyline.
You didn't flinch. You just tossed your ponytail over your shoulder and smacked your rolled-up files into your palm with a loud, clean "pop," like the argument wasn't over—just relocating.
Fifth floor. End of the hall.
His office was quiet. A little too quiet.
He swiped his card. You walked in without waiting. You didn't hesitate. Didn't glance around.
You'd been here before.
Imagined this room a hundred times.
Stacks of papers on the windowsill rustled from the wind. Outside, the clouds bruised the city into a haze.
You didn't sit.
You placed the printed copy of his old thesis squarely on his desk.
"In Chapter Three, you criticize tragic legitimacy. But in Chapter One and Two?" You tilted your head. "You romanticized the hell out of it."
He didn't argue.
He just stepped forward, fingers tapping the printed edge of the thesis once—like acknowledging the evidence.
Then he moved to the chair behind the desk. Sat down with the sort of composure that made you want to set something on fire.
"You are," he said quietly, "the smartest student I've ever taught."
There was no flattery in his tone. Just weight.
"And the one I most hesitate to admit I care about."
That silenced the air for a second.
You didn't smile.
You stepped closer to the desk.
"You think I want your attention?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
"You don't want it," he said. "You want to win."
You laughed. Bitter. Immediate.
"Wrong. I don't want to win. I want you to lose."
The words hung in the room like a gunshot.
He didn't react. Didn't recoil. Instead, he leaned forward—elbows on the table, fingers laced—eyes fixed on yours.
"Why?"
Your reply was a snap.
"Because from day one, you've talked to me like I'm some puzzle to solve. You like me clever, but only when I behave."
"I never asked you to behave."
"But you like control."
The air thickened. Every word pressed tighter to the edges.
"You don't compliment. You don't acknowledge. But the moment I wrote 'seductive control,' you called me into your office."
You dropped into the chair across from him, folding forward onto your elbows. Now you were too close. Close enough to see the tension at the corners of his mouth. The places where silence cracked.
"If you were as noble as you pretend, you wouldn't use grades to keep me chasing. You wouldn't withhold approval like it's currency."
He didn't deny it.
He didn't blink.
But you saw it.
The flicker.
The crack.
He breathed in deep, then out again—steady. Like someone preparing to unlock something dangerous.
"I am controlling," he admitted. Voice low. Smooth as confession.
"Not to punish you. To sharpen you. Because I know you write better when you're cornered."
That hit you in the chest.
You didn't smile.
But your eyes narrowed.
"Do you even hear how that sounds?"
He met your gaze, steady as stone.
"Yes."
You stared.
"You're admitting you manipulate me."
"I've never denied it," he said. "You see me as your mentor, your antagonist, your father's ghost—whatever projection fits. But we both know—if you weren't you, I wouldn't care this much."
Your breath hitched—just slightly.
You blinked. Once.
"So you do have a favorite."
"Yes."
That fast.
That clean.
No hesitation.
You didn't move, but something in your hands twitched.
You weren't surprised he admitted it. You were surprised how easy he made it sound.
"Since when?" you asked, quiet. Dangerous.
"Since the first time you spoke in class."
"Or since the first time I wrote something you wanted to argue with?"
"Or the time I read your address twice and told myself it was procedural?"
"Or the morning I saw you in the supermarket, buying hangover pills like you were planning a murder?"
You stared.
He didn't smile.
But there was warmth beneath the ice now—dangerous, self-aware, disarmed.
"You've been watching me."
"I'm good at observation," he said. "Even when I shouldn't be."
"You're the worst kind," you whispered. "The kind who remembers what lipstick I wear and still pretends he's objective."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he leaned forward and gently straightened the stack of your printed thesis like that one inch of order mattered.
"I'm glad," you said suddenly, voice soft and mean all at once.
"Why?"
"Because you finally broke the performance. You're not untouchable."
He didn't argue. Didn't smirk. But he didn't look away, either.
"You think I never wavered?" he asked.
"I think you're good at hiding it."
You stood.
Chair legs made a clean, quiet scrape against the floor.
"Well. I have another class. Professor Dok. I've finished the makeup assignments, by the way."
You picked up your bag. As casual as a girl finishing brunch.
But your voice broke—just slightly—on the last line. Something light. Something not entirely dry.
You paused. Shit. You hadn't meant to let that slip.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He always noticed.
You turned quickly, shoving things into your bag. Trying to hide the fact that some small, childish thrill had slipped out. The kind of thrill that said: He saw me. He cracked first. I won.
Behind you, you heard the scrape of his chair.
Paper rustling. A drawer opening.
Then:
"Miss L/N," he said, voice low. Too calm to be innocent.
You turned.
"You did well today."
You looked over your shoulder just as sunlight bled through the blinds and lit your face like a spotlight.
"I know," you said.
And left before you gave yourself away again.