The walk to campus felt like navigating a dreamscape that was rapidly turning into a fever. Henry's body was a map of the previous night's transgressions—the muscles in his thighs ached with every step, a constant, pulsing reminder of the way he had straddled that man, and his throat felt tight, a reminder of the girth he had tried to accommodate.
In his pocket, the ten thousand dollars felt like a lead weight, a dirty secret pressed against his hip.
The university was buzzing with the chaotic, high-frequency energy of the first day of the third year. Students in fresh hoodies and smelling of expensive lattes crowded the limestone plazas. For Henry, the scenery was a blur. He just needed to get through this first lecture. Ethics and Advanced Jurisprudence. It was a heavy hitter for the start of the semester, a required course that everyone whispered about with a mix of awe and genuine dread.
He pushed through the heavy oak doors of Lecture Hall 4B, a massive, tiered auditorium that smelled of floor wax and wood. He climbed the stairs to the very back row, seeking the anonymity of the shadows, sliding into a corner seat where he could disappear.
The room was packed. The air was thick with the low-mutter of a hundred different conversations.
"I heard he's a monster," a girl in the row in front of Henry whispered to her friend. "My brother took his class last year. He failed forty percent of the cohort on the midterms alone."
"He doesn't even use a microphone," her friend replied, shivering. "He just expects you to be silent enough to hear him. And if you're late? Don't even bother turning the handle. He locks the door from the inside."
Henry leaned his head back against the cool stone wall, closing his eyes. Frank Miller. The name was legendary on campus. The King of the Law Department. A man who demanded perfection because he supposedly lived it. Henry had heard the stories, but as a scholarship student who spent most of his time in the library or at work, he had never actually seen the man.
The chatter in the room suddenly died.
The heavy door at the front of the hall swung open. A man stepped in, his leather briefcase hitting the podium with a sharp, authoritative thud.
Henry's eyes snapped open. His heart revolted, slamming against his ribs so hard he felt faint.
Standing at the front of the room was a masterpiece of cold, professional discipline. He was wearing a navy blue three-piece suit, tailored so perfectly it looked like armor. His hair was slicked back, not a single strand out of place. His jaw was a sharp, unforgiving line, and his eyes—those flinty, dark eyes—scanned the room with the detached precision of a judge.
It was him.
The stranger from the club.
The stranger was Professor Frank Miller.
Henry felt the blood drain from his face. His vision tunneled. The memories of the night before—the raw, animalistic friction, the taste of him, the way Frank had looked while he was coming, lost in a primal haze—clashed violently with the man standing there now, opening a leather-bound planner with surgical calm.
I have to leave, Henry thought, his breath coming in shallow, panicked stabs. I have to get out of here.
Henry grabbed his bag, his hands shaking he nearly knocked over his water bottle. He slid out of his seat, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the linoleum as he turned to bolt for the exit at the top of the stairs.
"The student at the back."
The voice was a low, rolling baritone that filled the hall without effort. It was the same voice that had commanded Henry to ride him, but now it was infused with a terrifying, academic ice.
Henry froze, one foot in the aisle, his back to the podium. The entire room turned to look at him.
"Sit down," Frank Miller said. It wasn't a request. "The semester has begun. I do not tolerate movement in my hall once I have taken the podium. And unless you intend to drop this course and forfeit your degree, you will stay for the opening exam."
"Exam?" someone whispered in the front row. "On the first day?"
"Opening exam," Frank repeated, his gaze finally lifting to find Henry.
Henry turned slowly, his face burning, his legs feeling like jelly. He looked down the long, tiered rows, meeting Frank's eyes. He expected a flicker of recognition. A smirk. A sign that the man remembered the way Henry had screamed for him just hours ago.
But there was nothing.
Frank's eyes were like two polished stones. He looked at Henry as if he were just another face in a sea of mediocre students. There was just the cold, piercing gaze of a superior officer looking at a recruit.
"Sit. Down," Frank said again, his voice dropping an octave.
Henry collapsed back into his seat, his head spinning. The students around him began to whisper frantically.
"That's him. That's definitely him."
"He looks even meaner than the rumors."
"Did you hear? He doesn't even give make-up exams. If you miss today, you're out."
Frank reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick stack of papers. He began to walk up the center aisle, handing the stacks to the students at the end of each row to be passed along. He moved with grace, the fabric of his suit rustling softly.
As he reached the back row, he stopped at Henry's aisle.
Henry held his breath, his pulse a frantic drum in his ears. Frank reached out, placing the stack of exam papers on the desk in front of Henry. His hand was inches away. Henry could smell him—the hair shampoo and the expensive soap. The scent was a physical assault on his memory.
Frank simply placed the papers down and continued his walk, his voice echoing through the hall.
"You have sixty minutes. This exam will determine your placement and whether you have the foundational knowledge to survive this course. I suggest you focus. I do not reward effort; I reward results."
Frank walked back down to the podium, checked his watch, and sat down behind his desk. He picked up a red pen and began grading something else, completely dismissing the room.
Henry stared down at the paper. The questions were complex, dense, and demanding. But he couldn't see the words. All he could see was the man at the front of the room—the man who had paid him ten thousand dollars for his service.
The man showed no memory of him. It was a total, professional erasure.