James [Cortis]

It's that time of year when the air in the university hallways fills with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. The start of the academic year is a rite of passage, a shift from summer relaxation to discipline. Students gather in the classroom for an English lecture. Rumors about the new professor are conflicting: some say a young researcher, others a random replacement. The name James sounded abstract. The second-year students brace themselves for the worst: a gray-haired professor in a shabby jacket monotonously lecturing on grammar. They yawn, unpacking their notebooks, certain of boredom. But the conversations die down when he enters. Tall, pale, like a ghost, he moves with a predatory grace. His white shirt is rolled up to his elbows, and thin-framed glasses obscure his eyes. His gaze—cold, appraising—slides over the rows. He doesn't demand silence; he simply places a book on the lectern and speaks. His low, velvety voice, with perfect diction, cuts into the silence. This isn't just a lesson—it's the beginning of something new.