Chapter 7. Intellectual Property

"Maya? What are you doing?" Larry hissed, grabbing the strap of my bag as I walked past our usual row.

I stopped, my stomach churning. "I... I can't sit there today, Larry. I have to sit in the front."

Larry’s jaw dropped. "The front? Are you suicidal? That’s the splash zone. That’s where he destroys people."

"I know," I whispered, pulling my bag free. "I’ll explain later."

I forced my legs to move. The walk to the front of the lecture hall felt like a walk to the gallows. I could feel Vanessa’s eyes drilling holes into my back. As I sat down in the empty seat right in front of the podium, I heard her scoff loud enough for half the room to hear.

"Teacher's pet," someone whispered.

I opened my laptop, staring at the blank screen, trying to steady my breathing.

At exactly 9:00 AM, the side door opened.

Professor Adrian Black walked in.

The change in the room was instant. Conversations died. Spines straightened. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit today, tailored to perfection, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders.

He placed his leather briefcase on the desk. He didn't look at the class immediately. He looked directly at the empty seat in the back row, then slowly, his gaze lowered to the front.

To me.

He didn't smile. He just gave a barely perceptible nod, as if acknowledging a soldier reporting for duty.

"Today," he began, his voice projecting clearly without a microphone, "we are discussing Mens Rea. The Guilty Mind."

He turned to the whiteboard and wrote the words in sharp, aggressive strokes.

"In criminal law, the act itself is not enough," he said, pacing in front of my desk. He was so close I could smell the faint scent of sandalwood. "You must prove the intent. The desire to commit the forbidden."

He stopped and leaned against his desk, crossing his arms.

"Tell me... can you desire something, plan it in your head, but not be guilty?"

The class was silent. It was one of his famous philosophical traps.

"Miss Vanderwaal," he called out, looking over my head.

"Yes, Professor," Vanessa answered smoothly. "One can desire an object, but the law only punishes the action or the conspiracy to take it. Thoughts are not crimes."

"Textbook answer," Adrian said, sounding bored. "Technically correct, but lacking... depth."

I heard Vanessa gasp softly. He never criticized her.

Adrian turned his attention back to the front row. To me.

"Let's look at it differently," he said softly.

He stepped off the platform. He was now standing right in front of my desk. I had to crane my neck to look up at him.

"Miss Lin."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Yes, Professor?"

"If a person writes a detailed scenario... a dirty, illicit fantasy... creates a world where rules don't exist... is that person guilty of wanting it to happen?"

The air left my lungs.

He wasn't talking about the law. He was talking about us. About the scene I wrote. About the scene he read.

"I..." I stammered. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

"Speak up, Maya," he challenged, dropping the 'Miss Lin'. "You seem to have a vivid imagination. Use it."

I clenched my hands under the desk. I thought about my writing. I thought about the comment from Titan_X praising my understanding of power dynamics.

I looked up, meeting his dark, intense gaze. I wasn't going to let him bully me. Not here.

"Writing is not action, Professor," I said, my voice shaking but clear. "It’s a safety valve. A person explores their darkness on paper so they don't have to act on it in reality. It’s not a confession. It’s... catharsis."

Silence stretched across the room.

Adrian stared at me. For a split second, the cold mask slipped. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating. It wasn't anger. It was something else. Fascination.

"A safety valve," he repeated slowly, testing the words.

He leaned down, placing his hands on my desk, trapping me in his space.

"An interesting theory," he murmured, his voice low and raspy, meant only for me. "But be careful. Sometimes, writing the fantasy makes the reality inevitable."

He held my gaze for a second longer than appropriate, then straightened up and turned away.

"Open your books to page 45," he commanded the room, his voice returning to ice. "Let's discuss Premeditation."

I slumped back in my chair, my body trembling as the adrenaline crashed.

The next hour was a blur. I took notes, but my mind was spinning.

When the bell rang, I packed my bag in record time. I needed to get out. I needed air.

"Miss Lin," Adrian’s voice cut through the noise of students shuffling out. "A moment."

I froze.

Vanessa walked past me, deliberately bumping my shoulder.

"Good luck," she whispered venomously. "You're going to need it."

I waited until the room was empty. The heavy silence of the lecture hall pressed down on me. Adrian was stacking his papers with slow, deliberate movements. He picked up a thick manila folder from his briefcase.

I walked up to the podium, hugging my bag like a shield. "Sir?"

He held out the folder. "For tonight. These are the transcripts for the Miller Case. Read them before you arrive at 6 PM. I don't want to waste time explaining the basics."

I took the heavy folder. "Is that all, Professor?"

"No."

He walked around the heavy desk until he was standing right in front of me. He was too close. Much too close for a classroom with a door that was currently unlocked.

He reached out, his hand hovering near my face, before he adjusted the collar of my cardigan. His knuckles grazed my collarbone, burning my skin through the fabric.

"Your answer today regarding the 'safety valve'..." he murmured, his voice low and raspy. "It was clever. But safety valves are designed to release pressure before it explodes."

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't look away from his dark, hypnotic eyes.

"I wonder how much pressure you can take, Maya," he whispered.

He leaned down, his lips inches from my ear. The scent of sandalwood and danger enveloped me, making my knees weak.

"In your story..." he paused, his breath hot against my neck, "...the Professor locks the door before he takes the student onto the mahogany desk."

My heart stopped. He remembered. He remembered every explicit detail.

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, a wicked, predatory smirk playing on his lips.

"Tell me," he challenged, his voice dripping with dark promise. "Should I lock the door now too?"