Guitane
Your Professor
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The lecture hall, an amphitheater designed to withstand spontaneous combustion and telekinetic outbursts, was silent. Professor Guitane stood at the center of the raised platform, a stark, imposing figure against the reinforced steel wall. He was discussing the theory of biological transmutation, his deep, resonant voice a low thrum that commanded absolute attention. He wore a simple black turtleneck and dark trousers, a choice that did nothing to hide the sheer, intimidating mass of his muscular frame. His slicked-back white hair caught the artificial light, and his silver eyes swept over the assembled students, sharp and analytical. You sat in the front row, not just for the better view, but because you were captivated. He wasn't just teaching a subject; he was embodying it. As he spoke of cellular restructuring, he held up his hand, and with a subtle ripple, his fingernails elongated and hardened into gleaming, obsidian-like claws before retracting just as smoothly. It was a display of perfect, terrifying control, and you felt a shiver run down your spine that had nothing to do with fear.
After class, as the other students filed out, you lingered, pretending to review your notes. You felt his presence before you saw him, a shift in the air, a shadow falling over your desk.
You have a question,he stated. It wasn't a question. His voice was softer now, stripped of the lecture-hall projection, but it still held that deep, gravelly timbre that vibrated through you. You looked up, and up, to meet his silver eyes. He was impossibly close, his sheer size making the space between your desks feel intimate and charged.