[ENG.] Azazel - Lucifer's Son

2. Dimithryus Stan

"I can't believe it!" Danielle kept whispering, elbowing me sharply in the side to get my attention. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open, like she'd just watched a goddess step down from the ceiling.

A thick murmur rose, a low ripple sliding between the desks like an underground current made of curious glances, swallowed sighs, and half-finished sentences. The girls in the class seemed jolted by an invisible charge, a silent spark that lifted chins and straightened backs. Voices passed from mouth to mouth, fragments heavy with awe hanging in the stale classroom air like soap bubbles about to pop.

I looked up. And I saw him.

The figure who crossed the doorway did so with steady steps, squared shoulders, and an effortless sense of superiority. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a Gothic legend, one of those stories whispered in dim hallways. The cold morning light streamed through the tall windows, carving his features with ruthless precision: a sharp jawline, high cheekbones, tousled brown hair that defied order like branches in a storm. His eyes were the color of sage, deep and cutting, and he let them sweep over the students with the calm of a judge capable of weighing every soul without wasting a single word.

He shrugged off his long black leather coat in one smooth, automatic motion, as if he'd performed that gesture in front of countless audiences. The coat slid from his shoulders like the shadow of a predator stepping back from its prey, revealing a lean, sculpted frame wrapped in dark clothes that highlighted every decisive line. Heavy black combat boots, worn with time, struck the floor with a dull rhythmic sound, like a distant war drum. His presence seemed to fill every corner of the room, even the ones no one had noticed yet, pulling a near sacred silence down over us.

He turned toward the large chalkboard with precise movements and picked up a piece of white chalk worn almost to nothing. His fingers held it with unnatural delicacy, as if he were about to mark something permanent. Then, with confident strokes that bordered on satisfaction, he began to write. The letters scraped sharply across the board, shattering the moment like a window flung open.

Dimithryus Stan.

Danielle's eyes widened even more. She bit her lower lip, caught somewhere between dreamy and dangerous. "One thing's for sure, Jo: he knows how to make an impression," she whispered, leaning close enough for me to catch the sweet trace of her floral perfume.

I barely held back a smile, shrugging with the kind of casual indifference I'd practiced for years in front of mirrors and that fooled absolutely no one. "The only thing I know is you've finally found someone who can shut you up for five whole minutes. That's impressive," I murmured.

And yet, as I said it, my heart started beating faster than usual. There was something about that man, in the way he moved, in the way he seemed to claim space as if it belonged to him by right, that left a thin thread of unease. A wrong note inside a perfect melody. The kind of thing you can't ignore even when you try.

"Let's make a few things clear right now, gnats."

Dimithryus placed both palms on the desk. The wood creaked under his weight, as if it, too, sensed the restrained threat in him. His voice was rough, deep, edged with something almost predatory, the kind of tone that doesn't need to ask to be heard.

"During my class, there are no bathroom passes. Unless you suffer from chronic incontinence, which I admit I find highly unlikely."

He paused, raising his left eyebrow in a calculated arc of challenge, fixing us with those green eyes that seemed to cut straight through surfaces.

"There is no lunch break. You will not die after five hours without the cafeteria's questionable food."

A brief, deliberate pause.

"And don't assume I'm here by choice. I would much rather have an hour of fresh air and my freedom. But since you're enrolled in Applied Witchcraft, I believe you'll prefer to stay with me."

He finished and let the silence fall like a blade.

Danielle pressed a hand dramatically to her chest, pretending to faint, then leaned toward me, eyes sparkling. "He can absolutely say that. Now we just have to figure out whether that was an implicit invitation for me to stay after class."

Her words tore a laugh out of me that I desperately tried to disguise as a cough, lowering my head over my notebook.

Useless.

Danielle kept nudging me, needling me with commentary, until I gave in and let out what she called my "snort laugh," deep and completely uncontrollable. Heads turned toward me in perfect unison. Heat rushed to my cheeks. Across the room, Sebastian shot me a knowing look, shrugging like he'd already seen this coming. Here we go again, Jo.

I slid lower in my chair, hoping to disappear into my hoodie.

That was when I felt it.

His gaze.

The professor's eyes settled on me with an intensity different from the one he'd given the rest of the class. It wasn't annoyance. It wasn't curiosity. It was something harder to define, like he had recognized something in me that I hadn't even discovered yet. Or maybe it was just the cold reflection from the windows playing tricks.

I didn't understand it, but the moment carved itself into the space between us.

A crumpled piece of paper landed on my desk. I opened it without hesitation.

"Busted, dragă."

Sebastian, obviously.

I turned toward him and found that smug little smile he reserved for moments when he knew he was right. I blushed for the second time in three minutes.

I ignored the note and started twisting a strand of my hair around my finger, that automatic gesture I used whenever I wanted to look more distracted than I actually was.

Danielle, though, had no intention of backing off.

"I can't believe it, Jo. Did you really see him? The way he moves, the way he looks at us..." she whispered, eyes glowing like she was already writing an entire novel in her head. "He doesn't even seem real. It's like he just stepped out of a noir movie and into our painfully boring lives."

"Danielle, you're ridiculous," I replied, barely suppressing another laugh. "He's just a man."

"Just a man?" she repeated, theatrically offended. "Don't tell me you're immune to mystery, Jo. I know that underneath that straight-A composure there's still a part of you that dreams."

She nudged me again, smiling.

I watched her shake her head, her gaze glued to the imposing figure moving in front of the desk with the confidence of someone who'd already won before the game even started. I understood that for Danielle, this class would feel completely different from all the others.

And maybe, in her own way, she was right. That professor did seem to hide something deeper beneath that armor of cold authority.

He had presence, yes. But I couldn't understand why Danielle was so electrified. Maybe because it had been forever since our school had seen a face capable of bringing real change, not the kind that fades by the afternoon, but the kind that lingers.

Or maybe it was his indifference that drew her in, that air of someone who doesn't care about being liked because he doesn't need to be.

I've never understood superficial fascination, though I admit my judgment was rushed. I didn't know him at all. Maybe that armor was just a facade carefully built to keep people at a distance. Plenty of professors use the dictator strategy, performing icy authority and demanding respect instead of earning it, as if control could replace connection. Sometimes it's insecurity. Sometimes it's emotional laziness.

Or maybe, I thought as my eyes betrayed me and drifted back to Dimithryus Stan, it was something far more complicated than that.