Xavier's phone buzzed under the desk. He didn't even glance at the professor mid-lecture; he already knew who it was. Angel. The message was short, sharp, exactly what he'd been waiting for.
He stood up without a word. The room stiffened—eyes flicked to him, then away just as fast. Nobody dared stop him, not even the professor. The click of his boots echoed down the hall like a countdown.
By the time he reached the dean's wing, the corridors had thinned out. He didn't knock. He just pushed the heavy oak door open, stepping into Aldric Blackwood's office.
The old man looked up from a sea of parchment-thin holoscreens, brows lifting as if he hadn't expected this visitor. His features—weathered but sharp, like steel that refused to dull—tightened when he recognized him.
"Xavier," Aldric said slowly, voice low and measured, the kind of tone that carried weight in every room it touched. "You. Here. In the middle of lecture hours."
