Gloria
The door clicked shut behind me.
I took the seat closest to the window, though the sunlight did little to chase the chill crawling down my spine. My classmates barely looked up—some were already scribbling notes, others whispering under their breath just as I entered the room.
I did my utmost best to keep my breath steady. I felt like I still did not want him to look at me. As if one wrong move would make him look at me with those frozen eyes.
But he didn't.
Ilian Valevsky stood at the board, back still turned to us. His handwriting was elegant and sharp, almost too precise for chalk. Not a single letter crooked. Not a single motion wasted.
It was unnerving how silent the room was.
Then he stopped.
He set the chalk down with a soft click. Not abrupt but measured. Like he had all the time in the world, and none of us dared to rush it.
When he turned, the air shifted. His gaze cut through the rows, and my chest forgot the rhythm of breathing.
The room suddenly felt smaller. Dust drifted lazily in the thin shaft of light spilling through the tall windows. The air smelled faintly of varnished desks and chalk dust, sharp and dry in my throat. I could hear the faint buzz of the overhead light, the scrape of someone's shoe under a desk.
Every sound was amplified, except my own heartbeat, which roared too loud to belong to me.
It wasn't his face alone... it was the presence. The weight. Like the floor tilted when his eyes swept the room, and gravity shifted to wherever he stood.
I busied myself with my bag, pulling out a notebook I hadn't planned to open. My fingers fumbled against the zipper, knuckles knocking the desk. Pretend and disappear. Stay small, and maybe he won't notice.
"History," he said, his voice smooth but edged, "is not a subject. It's a witness."
The sound of his voice coiled through the silence. It wasn't raised, but it carried in a way that made me sit straighter, listen harder.
"A witness can be questioned. Silenced. Forced to lie. Your job is not to repeat what you're told—it's to see who tried to bury it."
His words hung in the air like smoke. Heavy. His voice was like creame spilled over silk.
I felt the tension ripple through the class, students shifting, pens hovering over paper. I kept my eyes on the blank page in front of me, willing him to move on.
"You," he said.
The single word snapped through me like a wire pulled too tight. My head jerked up before I could stop it.
Ilian Valevsky's gaze locked on mine. Steady and not cruel, but definitely not soft. Just impossibly direct.
My stomach sank. My palms dampened against the paper.
"You fainted, didn't you?"
The whole class turned toward me, thirty pairs of eyes pressing into my skin. Heat rushed up my neck to my cheeks, betraying me.
"Yes, sir," I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Was it his motive to embarrass me like this?
His eyes scanned me, not mocking. Rather as though I were a puzzle he was halfway through solving.
"Do you know why people faint, Gloria?"
The way he said my name—low and precise—made the syllables feel heavy. My throat tightened.
"I—I'm not sure."
"It's the body's rebellion," he said simply. "Too much weight. Too much noise. It shuts down to survive."
The words landed differently than I expected. Not a reprimand. Not ridicule. Almost like an explanation meant for me alone.
Something in his voice—just a shade—sounded like he understood more than he should.
Then sharply he said, "But survival and living are not the same thing. Don't confuse them."
A chill crawled through me. My pen slipped from my fingers, clattering softly against the desk.
Mr. Valevsky didn't waver. "History doesn't faint. People do. Remember that."
He turned back to the board, chalk scratching once more, the sound grating against the silence he'd left in me.
My pulse throbbed in my throat. My body sat frozen, but my thoughts spun in reckless circles. Why did it feel like he was speaking directly to me and no one else? His eyes and his behavior directed the situation as if him and I were alone in the room.
And then, just as the words threatened to dissolve into questions I couldn't answer. I caught the faintest murmur.
Quiet. Almost swallowed by the scrape of chalk.
"You didn't close your eyes. You were watching the whole time."
My breath caught, sharp and shallow, and I gripped the edge of my desk as if it could hold me steady.
_________
The bell rang loudly, taking me out of my daze. The last class ended as every student fumbled with their belongings to get home. Rustles of bags and kids hissed pass me as I silently put my articles in my bag.
I looked outside the window. It was about to rain soon and I had no umbrella for myself. What kind of tragic day is it today?
Not to mention, that it was also very embarrassing to have teachers coming in and out of class just to check up on me. The news of me losing consciousness first thing in the morning spread like wildfire across the school and it was getting harder for me to avoid the stares.
"Lord, have mercy," I whispered under my breath as I started to head out of the class.
"Hey," I stopped in my way and turned around to the voice.
A girl leaned on the doorframe like she belonged in every doorway she ever stood in. Her blazer was perfectly fitted but worn open, sleeves pushed neatly to the elbows. A thin gold chain sat against her collarbone, subtle and deliberate.
Nothing about her was loud, but everything asked to be noticed. "You forgot something," she said, nodding toward my desk.
I turned.
A folded handkerchief—deep purple, almost black in the shadow- sat where I'd been seconds ago. It hadn't been there earlier.
She was already walking over. "Definitely not yours. Way too broody."
"He leaves these around like breadcrumbs," she said, holding it out. "You should return it. He might actually speak a full sentence to someone under thirty."
I reached out, and took it carefully.
"Thanks..." I said, unsure.
She smiled, easy and unreadable. "And you're Gloria." She pointed to me. "Fainting debut?"
I tried not to groan. "Don't call me that."
She chuckled. "You didn't hear the worst from me."
The cloth was warm in my hand, and my heart skipped a beat. I was curious about the man with strange eyes, but encountering him right would bring up trouble, wouldn't it? I was internally conflicted. So curious yet scared as heck.
So much on the first day would call for a timeout.
"Nina Calloway," she said, tossing her bag over her shoulder. "I sit behind you. I'm usually the one muttering existential dread during lectures."
"I'll listen for it," I murmured.
She started walking away, then paused.
"Careful with that," she said, nodding at the handkerchief. "Returning things to Valevsky tends to change people."
She didn't wait for a response.
And I didn't realize, until after she was gone, that I felt... better.
----
The hallway was quiet. Almost empty. The storm hadn't started yet, but the school felt like it was bracing for it.
Nina's words echoed faintly.
Careful with that. Returning things to Valevsky tends to change people.
Yeah, that sure makes me feel better. I cursed under my breath and looked out of the window. The rainstorm would grow for sure, and without an umbrella, I wouldn't get to go home. I will just call Mom to pick me up.
I traced the edge of the folded handkerchief in my hand, thumb brushing the stitched initials. I.V. What could that mean? And how does she know that it belongs to him?
I bit my lip and headed towards the staff room.
The door to the room stood slightly open. A sliver of warm light spilled out onto the floor. I will leave the handkerchief on his desk. Quick. Simple. Just drop it off and go.
His voice wafted to my ears as I stilled in my spot right in front of the door.
Not the classroom version. Not the crisp, curated tone he'd used when lecturing. This was lower. Rougher. In Russian.
I froze.
His words weren't loud, but they didn't sound casual. There was no softness in them. They came like commands. Tight and measured.
Then a pause.
"Nyet," he said. "If they knew, we'd all be dead already."
Something in my stomach turned, and my instincts screamed that I wasn't supposed to hear that. My weight shifted too fast as I tripped over something behind me, and the purple handkerchief fell.
Thud. The table that I tripped over had a vase, which was now shattered on the ground. I gasped.
Silence.
Then footsteps. Approaching. I turned to leave, but the door opened before I could move.
He stood there, phone still in hand. His eyes caught mine. Not surprised. Not curious.
Just... unreadable.
The same eyes that held mine from the ground floor. I picked up and held out the handkerchief. His eyes scanned my every move.
"You left this," I said, my voice too quiet.
He didn't take it right away. He looked at the fabric, then at me, like he was calculating what I'd heard and what I might've understood.
"I don't understand Russian, and I won't tell anyone." My mouth betrayed me.
His fingers brushed mine as he took it. They were colder than I expected. "How did you know you weren't supposed to hear it?"
I bit my lip, and before I could remove my hand, he gripped it. His colossal, veined hands covered mine tightly. Before I could process the situation, he pulled me.
The grip was so tight, I didn't have the time to assess the strength with which he pulled me as I landed straight into his chest.
My vision was covered as the violent sound of the window shattering came from behind me, and the thunder growled.
I closed my eyes. Fuck. He smells like musk.