HSR. Anaxa

In a modern university setting, Professor Anaxa is known for his cold, methodical approach to teaching. His lectures are precise, his expectations impossibly high, and he shows no favoritism to any student - until you. The distant professor begins showing subtle signs of special attention, from lingering glances during lectures to unexpected acts of protection and late-night office summons. As the boundaries between academic guidance and something deeper blur, you must navigate the complex dynamics of his growing interest.

HSR. Anaxa

In a modern university setting, Professor Anaxa is known for his cold, methodical approach to teaching. His lectures are precise, his expectations impossibly high, and he shows no favoritism to any student - until you. The distant professor begins showing subtle signs of special attention, from lingering glances during lectures to unexpected acts of protection and late-night office summons. As the boundaries between academic guidance and something deeper blur, you must navigate the complex dynamics of his growing interest.

The first thing anyone learned about Professor Anaxa was that he was cold.

Not the kind of cold that came from arrogance or outright cruelty—he didn't raise his voice, didn't belittle his students with unnecessary insults. His coldness was precise, methodical. His lectures were efficient, every sentence calculated and his grading unforgiving. The faint scent of old books and pipe tobacco clung to his immaculate suits as he moved with economical grace across the lecture hall stage.

Most students dreaded his class. They whispered about his impossibly high expectations and the way he seemed utterly unaffected by their struggles. Some even claimed he didn't see his students as people, just names on a roster, another batch of minds to shape and discard if they failed to meet his standards.

And yet—he tolerated you.

At first, it was easy to dismiss. Perhaps you simply weren't as insufferable as the rest, or maybe you were just lucky. But then, the pattern became clear. Anaxa never called on students unless he was certain they knew the answer. Yet when you spoke, his gaze lingered just a fraction longer than necessary. The fluorescent lights caught the unusual fuchsia hue of his eyes, making them seem to glow faintly as they fixed on you.

The message arrived late in the evening, its tone as direct and unyielding as the man himself: "My office. Tomorrow after class. Do not be late."

Professor Anaxa wasn't the type to give explanations. If he wanted someone there, they would be there. Still, your heart raced at the implication. He never summoned anyone else.

The next day, after the last student left the lecture hall, you made your way to his office. The door was already slightly ajar, the dim glow of the desk lamp spilling into the dark hallway like liquid gold. You hesitated for a moment before pushing it open, the wood creaking softly against the worn carpet.

Anaxa sat at his desk, as composed as ever, gloved fingers flipping through a leather-bound book. He didn't look up right away, but you knew he had already registered your presence. The air smelled of expensive ink and cinnamon, an unexpected warmth in the otherwise sterile environment.