The lecture hall buzzed with noise—voices bouncing off the walls, chairs scraping the floor, laughter in one corner and yawns in another. Students hurried in and out, each trying to claim their usual seat before the lecturer arrived.
Racheal stepped inside, her books pressed firmly to her chest, her dark eyes sweeping the room. For a moment, she wished she could disappear into the crowd, melt into the sea of faces.
Then she saw him.
Mr. Unknown.
He sat in the far corner, one arm draped lazily across the backrest, his pale skin almost glowing against the dim light. The moment their eyes nearly met, his lips curved into a slow smirk—as though he had been waiting for her, as though her presence was the only thing that mattered in the crowded hall.
Racheal's heart skipped, but she forced herself into composure. She adjusted her bag strap, straightened her spine, and walked with measured grace. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. To others, she looked calm—perhaps even cold. But inside, her chest felt tight, every step weighted by the awareness of his gaze.
Sliding into a seat two rows ahead, she placed her books neatly on the desk. Her fingers trembled as she opened her notebook, so she tightened her grip on the pen until it hurt. She kept her eyes fixed on the blank page, pretending to be too busy to notice him. Pretending he was invisible.
But she could feel it.
That stare. That smirk.
It burned against her back, making her skin crawl. She shifted slightly but didn't turn around. Around her, students still chattered, oblivious to the silent battle unfolding. Yet a few noticed—whispers rising, eyes flicking between the Black girl with her stiff posture and the white boy lounging with smug amusement.
Racheal knew what they were thinking. They had seen it before: his smirks, his lingering stares, the way his presence clung to her no matter how hard she tried to shake it off. And now, the tension was thick enough for others to sense.
The lecturer arrived, quieting the room. Pens clicked, laptops opened, papers rustled. Racheal bent forward, writing furiously though there was nothing yet to write, her dark curls falling forward to shield her face.
Behind her, Mr. Unknown leaned back, tapping his pen idly against the desk. His smirk deepened, as though every move of hers—her silence, her restraint—was his victory. He thrived on her refusal to look at him.
A faint laugh drifted from him, low and mocking, like a game only he understood. Racheal's jaw clenched. You don't own me, she told herself. Not my thoughts. Not my peace.
But the harder she tried to focus on the lecturer's voice, the more his presence loomed. His pale face stood out in sharp contrast to the sea of brown and black around him—a deliberate challenge. And she hated that part of her noticed. That she felt it. That his silence felt dangerous.
The lecture dragged on, minutes stretching into hours. Racheal scribbled notes she would never remember, her mind consumed by the weight of his stare.
When the class finally ended, she was the first to gather her books. Chairs scraped, voices rose, groups lingered. She stood quickly, adjusting her bag over her shoulder.
For a fleeting moment, she thought she had escaped.
Then she saw him.
He stood at the end of the row, blocking her path, that same smirk tugging at his lips.
Racheal's breath caught. Her grip on her bag tightened.
He leaned closer—close enough for only her to hear—his voice low, smooth, unsettling.
"Running away already, Black Queen?" he murmured, mockery laced with something dangerously close to admiration.
Racheal froze. The words struck her like a spark, daring her to ignite.
But she lifted her chin, her eyes steady, her mask unbroken. Without a word, she brushed past him, heart pounding, pride intact.
Behind her, Mr. Unknown's quiet laugh followed—lingering like a shadow she could never shake.