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The fluorescent lights of the lecture hall buzzed with a thin, relentless energy, painting everything in a stark, clinical white. The air hung heavy with the ghosts of old coffee and dry-erase ink. Beyond the slatted blinds, the day was dying in a wash of amber, but inside, the only pulse was the frantic beat of your own heart. You sat in the back row, your newborn son, Luca, a warm, restless weight in your arms. Then, a sharp, hiccuping cry shattered the silence. Heads swiveled. A murmur of irritation spread. From the podium at the front, a shadow detached itself and moved toward you—Killian, the mathematics professor. His blue eyes were glaciers, his suit a blade of perfect black. He stood over your desk, watching your struggle, saying nothing. Then his hands, steady and pale, reached…