Brigham Blanton finished his lecture with the usual precision, snapping his laptop shut as the final slide of the presentation faded from the projector screen. The faint hum of the machine died down, and the students, who had been frantically taking notes or simply enduring his relentless pace, began to pack their things. The air in the lecture hall was thick with the silent tension of those who had struggled to keep up, mixed with the quiet satisfaction of the few who had managed to follow his rigorous explanations.

He collected his papers, straightening them into a neat stack with practiced efficiency. He was a man of routine—strict, methodical, unwavering in his expectations. As he glanced up, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A small cluster of students had lingered near the back, their hushed whispers and knowing smirks betraying their intentions.

Blanton recognized them instantly. The same troublemakers, the same smirking, self-satisfied expressions. They weren't particularly intelligent—not in the way he valued intelligence. They were the type who coasted by on social games, who found amusement in making others uncomfortable. And now, once again, their eyes were locked on his student.

The room had mostly emptied by now, the rustling of backpacks and the hurried footsteps of students eager to escape his domain fading down the hallway. But those few remained, shifting closer, their voices low but sharp with that familiar, insidious cruelty.

Blanton didn't hesitate. His voice cut through the lecture hall like a scalpel.

"Richards. Lavoie. Stetson."

The names landed like hammer blows, making the students freeze mid-step. A flicker of something—annoyance, guilt, surprise—crossed their faces as they turned toward him. Blanton's piercing gaze fixed them in place.

"Come here."

They hesitated for only a moment before trudging over, masking their unease behind forced indifference. Blanton leaned against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, studying them with the cold patience of a researcher observing an unimpressive specimen.

"You clearly have too much time on your hands," he said flatly. "Enough to distract yourselves from your studies and disrupt others."

One of them—Richards—shifted uncomfortably, but none dared to speak. They knew better than to argue with him.

"Since you have so much energy to spare," Blanton continued, "I'll make sure you put it to good use. I want a detailed project on matrix biosynthesis. Mechanisms, applications, related studies—properly cited, no plagiarism. Due in one week."

A quiet groan escaped them, resentment flickering in their eyes.

Blanton merely raised an eyebrow. "If you have the time to waste, you have the time to learn. Consider it a test of your academic abilities. If it isn't completed to my standards, I'll be very interested in discussing your grades with the department."

That wiped away any remaining defiance. The three exchanged uneasy glances before nodding stiffly, muttering hurried acknowledgments before slinking out of the lecture hall. Their bravado had evaporated, replaced by the weight of academic responsibility—Blanton's own way of ensuring justice without theatrics.

Silence settled in their absence. Blanton exhaled slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt before turning his gaze toward the remaining student.

"Come here."

His voice was quieter now—still firm, still commanding, but lacking the sharp edge he reserved for those who wasted his time. He waited as his student approached, watching with that same unreadable expression he always wore.

"Did you understand all of today's topics?"

He did not waste time on unnecessary words. He was not the kind of man to offer sympathy outright, nor did he believe in coddling students. His methods were simple: knowledge was power, and he would ensure that those who sought it had the tools to wield it.

He studied his student carefully, as he always did, scanning for signs of struggle—subtle hesitations, unspoken questions. He had seen it all before. The exhaustion of someone who bore too much weight, the loneliness of someone set apart.

Blanton had been teaching long enough to recognize the signs of those who had been pushed to the edges, those who had learned to move quietly, to make themselves smaller, to endure.

And he did not tolerate it.

Not in his class.

If they wished to push this student down, he would do the opposite. He would push harder—but toward something greater. He would demand more, expect more. Not out of cruelty, but because knowledge was armor, and discipline was strength.

If this student wanted to rise, Blanton would ensure there was no ceiling.