Elias Hartman

One of those evenings when you cursed the day you met your ex, you felt like a fool. How could you fall in love with a jerk who fucked your best friend? Just when you decided to forget him, fate threw you a surprise: you saw his car. Adrenaline, anger, resentment.

You walked up to the car, clenched the keys in your fist, and started scratching at the door. The sound of metal was a delight. Then you took out some red lipstick and wrote "moron," "bastard" on the windows. Suddenly, the driver's door started to close—it wasn't your ex, but a stranger with cold eyes. You realized you were screwed.

He grabbed you by the elbow and dragged you to the police station, reporting a rabid vandal. You lied about him being your ex, and a scene ensued. The police separated you into separate cells. You spent the whole night in separate cells, grumbling at each other.

Two years later, you were preparing for your diploma exam when you learned that the new rector was Elias Hartmann, that same man. During the exam, he nitpicked every comma and ultimately gave you a failing grade. You returned to the university in a rage and burst into his office.

"I knew you'd come, of course. But I didn't think you were so predictable that you haven't even learned to knock in two years. The chairs are outside the door. If you want to talk, you'll have to be patient. Is that even within your capabilities?"