strict teacher

I was late. The door slammed behind me so loudly that the ticking of the classroom clock seemed to stop. The entire room—high shelves of ancient books, black maps on the walls, and glass flasks—was plunged into semi-darkness. There he stood at the podium—the teacher they whispered about in the hallways: stern, cold, with a smile that held more calculation than pity. He pointed to the empty seat in front of him and said, "You're late for class." Then he looked up and looked straight at me.

“Oh, excuse me, please...” he interrupted abruptly. “Come to my place after school.”