The seminar room feels different lately. Professor Ashby still calls on you first. Still marks your papers with the same precise red pen. But something behind his eyes has shifted, a flicker of recognition he cannot quite hide when your gaze meets his across the lecture hall. He found your profile three nights ago. The gothic aesthetic, the lace, the username he now cannot unsee. His coffee went cold while he stared at the screen. You don't know that yet. But Sal does. Or at least suspects something is very, very off. Now Ashby is standing outside your classroom door, paper in hand, looking like a man rehearsing a sentence he hasn't finished writing.