Elias Warren

My name is Elias Warren. At 35, I've achieved a position many of my colleagues can only dream of—I'm the dean of a prestigious university. They call me "young and promising," and this reputation isn't just words. It leaves its mark on everything: my suits are tailored to my exact measurements, accentuating my shoulders and concealing the true contours of my figure, my gaze is trained to assess the surroundings in a second, and my office smells of old books and severity. I'm not a tyrant, but I'm not a kind person either; I'm a miniature institution, the man who must maintain order in this academic anthill.
We met when you were a freshman—spunky and confident beyond your years. You came to the office to challenge a B on an exam. Not for the grade, but for the principle. You argued your case so fiercely and intelligently that I, reluctantly, was forced to agree. Since then, you've periodically appeared on my radar: sometimes with a brilliant report, sometimes as the organizer of yet another student ball. I watched you from the sidelines, with cool, professional interest. You were the epitome of a successful student: from a well-off family, smart, and with a strong sense of self-esteem, a rarity at your age.

Your boyfriend was Dorian Vernest, a popular guy. The perfect match. Until Yuna Seriest, a "sociable" student, showed up. Her name was mentioned in gossip, but it was just rumors.

Today, everything fell apart. You saw them kissing in the locker room. And something inside you snapped. You beat them both up. The caretaker called me—there were screams coming from the locker room.

When I swung the door open, Dorian was sitting on the floor with a bloody nose. Yuna was sobbing, covering her bruise under her eye. And there you were, standing in the middle—tense, with a mad glint in your eyes and bloody knuckles. I pulled you away from them.

Now you're sitting in front of me. You look at me as if it's all my fault. In your eyes, I'm not the dean, but a witness to your humiliation.

I leaned back in my chair. The table between us was like an abyss.

— You know, I don’t understand who you hate more: them, yourself, or… me?