Pilot
The humidity of the city felt like a physical weight as Abigail Vance pushed through the heavy oak doors of Hall 4. After eighteen years in a quiet suburb, the grand, sterile corridors of St. Jude's University felt like a labyrinth designed to swallow her whole. She checked her crumpled schedule: Advanced Biochemistry — Room 302. Abigail stepped inside. The air was thick as if it was pregnant with something, the scent of the floor wax and old paper was a chronic reminder of the decades of rigid tradition she was about to disrupt. She moved to the third row, which she felt was the perfect spot to start the treacherous journey to academic success despite the constant drumming that was probably audible from her chest, a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The proxemic distance between her and the empty mahogany podium felt like a vast, uncharted tundra. She sat, her spine a straight line of nervous electricity, her notebook a white flag of surrender on the desk. She opened her notebook, the blank white pages mocking her nerves. Then, the side door clicked open, and the air grew heavier and the tension grew thicker. Although he seemed young enough to be apart of their class, his Stoic posture distinctly showed that he was the professor. Abigail recalled the whisper she heard from the giggling hens of year 2 students on registration day in the hallways that the biochemistry professor was notorious for being strict, unprofessional and hard to impress. All these influenced the idea that he was a man in at least his mid 40s. In no lifetime had Abigail expected a man half the age of her expectation.
The proxemic tension shifted instantly. Professor Thorne entered. He didn't maintain the "public zone" of a lecturer; his gaze traveled across the room like a physical touch, closing the gap until his eyes were positioned on her. This felt like he was directly standing over her. His eyes, twin buret tubes, cold and transparent, measuring his worth in drops. He wore a crisp black shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that looked more suited for manual labor than slide rules. This was Mailel Thorne. At twenty-four, he moved with predatory efficiency. His gaze was now fixed on the digital tablet in his hand until he reached the podium. He saw the way her fingers trembled slightly against her pen and the wide, unspoiled curiosity in her gaze. To him, she wasn't just another student; she was a sudden, erratic pulse in his carefully calibrated life. "You're early, Miss?" Professor Thorne said. His voice was a low baritone that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of his bones, which ended with a pint of curiosity. "Vance.... Abigail Vance," she replied. Her voice was a soft vocal flutter, a bird hitting a windowpane. "Did you know that early is a sign of anxiety, Miss Vance?" he stated with a hint of mischievousness, stepping away from the podium and into the "sodium zone" of the front row. "I didn't want to miss anything Professor" Abigail replied which earned a deep chuckle from Professor Thorne.
Walking up to the third row, he positioned himself over her desk. The proxemic shift was now deemed personal, as now the professor, who was known to be standoff, was now drawn like a moth to the flame towards the soft, innocent beauty who came to class early. Barely eighteen inches separated his cedar-scented heat from his porcelain stillness. " Biochemistry is the study of change..." his voice trailed in a low conspirational tone." But some reactions are radioactive. They don't just change the elements; they melt away the container," the professor continued in a low tone, his eyes now directly searching for a hint of fire behind Abigail's innocent window. He picked up a stray pen from her desk. His fingers brushed the wood where her hand had just been , which may have been a slip in the professor's professionalism, as it lasted a second too long to be professional.
The bell rang which quickly reminded the two of their surroundings after what felt like they were both drawn out of this world where the unspoken terms between the two would hold a certain weight, one that weighed more than whatever today's class was going to be about. The harsh metallic vocalic scream that shattered the silence. The hallway erupted with the heavy chronic thud of a hundred students rushing to beat the clock. Mailel straightened instantly, his face putting back his mask of ice. The intimate "personal zone" evaporated, replaced by the cold "public" distance of the superior. As the lecture room filled," Find a station in groups of five," he commanded, his voice now a sharp, rhythmic vocalic whip. Now Abigail was, without notice, drawn from the atmosphere that felt still to what was now reality. Looking down she realized that her pen was now gone. And just like that, the man that almost took a part of his soul started introducing himself to the rest of the class, but not too much, brief, short, sharp in a tone that the students knew not to ask any follow-up questions. " We'll start the first Lab, divide the task found in your syllabus amongst your group members" he commanded.
Questions swirled in Abigail's and Mailel's heads like a whirlwind wind, as no amount of words could satisfy what had just happened But regardless, the show must go on.
