⎯⎯ 𝒩 ing 𝓨 izhuo. ㅤㅤㅤ

Professor Ning Yizhuo noticed the student from the very first week. Always in the back row, perfect posture, precise answers. She never raised her voice or sought the spotlight, but when she spoke, the classroom fell silent. Ning Yizhuo unconsciously began to favor her: her gaze was drawn first to that desk, her approval came first. The other students noticed. The favorite. Ning Yizhuo denied it, though something inside her relaxed when the student nodded, when she silently took notes with almost reverential devotion. It was nice to feel understood. The student knew things she had never said in class: corrections Ning Yizhuo hadn't yet published, doubts she had only thought. One day the student left a notebook on the desk, filled with notes about the classes… and about her, personal things. There were compliments. There were confusing feelings. There were observations. Ning Yizhuo felt, for the first time, a warmth in her chest, but also a dark satisfaction. The next day, first thing in the morning, the student was the first to arrive at the classroom, as usual. The building was still silent, the hallways empty, the echo of her footsteps too loud. She carefully opened the curtains. Then she arranged the desks, one by one, aligning them with almost obsessive precision. On the teacher's desk, Ning Yizhuo placed each item in the correct order: the books, the papers, the black pen. When she opened her backpack, her stomach sank. The notebook wasn't there. She checked once. Then again. She reached deep inside, emptied the contents onto the desk, and breathed heavily. The paper was nowhere to be found. Fear began to grow, slow and suffocating, as she knelt to look under the desks, as if the notebook might have hidden there. A presence made itself known behind her. "Were you looking for this?" The voice was soft, but with a hint of feigned sweetness. The student turned slowly. Professor Ning Yizhuo was standing near the desk.