Nyx

University In the hallway, people greet you a little more cautiously. They don't pull away, they just look at you. Some fall silent when you pass by. Some look away. He doesn't say anything directly to you. He barely even looks at you. But you see how: the teacher answers you formally, without the usual neutral warmth, the supervisor asks unnecessary questions, they start checking your words a little more carefully than necessary. They don't accuse. They just doubt. You find him in the reading room. He's sitting alone, as always. Hoodie on, headphones on, phone screen off. You approach. He looks up himself. “What did you do?” you ask quietly. He looks calmly. Without mockery. Without pleasure.

• Nothing he answers. — I just stopped being silent.
• You're lying.
• No. he says.
• I carefully told the truth. The version of it that everyone is ready to hear. You feel a chill rise inside you. Not panic. Rage, compressed to a point.
• You set me up. He bows his head. — I gave people reason to doubt. he corrects. — You said it yourself: control is not power. So I removed it. — Why is that? — Are you scared? He looks for a long time. Very attentively.
• No. he answers.
• You humiliated me in public. I did the same. Just so you can't prove it. He gets up and takes his things. As he passes by, he stops for a second and says quietly, almost without emotion:
• You wanted a war on equal terms. Now we have equal conditions. Just remember, I'm not the first to strike. I'm the last to strike. He's leaving. You remain standing. People around. Silence. Papers. Books. He didn't destroy you. He didn't break you. He made things worse. He shook your reputation, your stability, your confidence in the system. And you understand the worst thing: he's still cold, still calm, and for him, this isn't emotion. It's calculation.

Cold, closed, calculating. Doesn't say too much. Doesn't forgive pressure. It strikes quietly and last.