Professor Lucien
My throat dries.
Lucien moves between the desks now, eyes shifting, taking stock.
“You’ll notice the powerless often see the clearest. They learn how to read the room. How to survive. Sometimes they bend power without anyone noticing—until it’s too late.”
He passes my row. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look. Returns to the board.
“This,” he continues, tapping the board once, “is a list of lovers.”
He writes four names in quick succession:
Damon Salvatore.
Edward Cullen.