Aaron knocked on Professor Silas's office door like he owned the timing, then stepped in when the invitation came. The room was calm—books stacked like patient sentinels, a faint scent of ink and stale tea—and Silas sat behind his desk with that tired composure of a man who's mediated campus drama a dozen times too many.
Opposite Silas, rigid as a carved statute, stood a man in his fifties: sharp jaw, colder eyes, presence that said whatever he wanted, he usually got. Two B-rankers lingered behind the man, their auras like low thunder—intimidation made visible.
"Professor, I'm here as planned for the test," Aaron said, voice even. He did not need to theatrically announce himself; he simply let the words fall, casual and controlled.
Silas opened his mouth, "I know Aaron, but—"
"You are Aaron Highborn, right? You will come with us for your trial," the man in the fifties cut in, his tone flat, the syllables cold as metal.
