Gloria
The door clicked shut behind me.
I took the seat closest to the window, though the sunlight did little to chase the chill crawling down my spine. My classmates barely looked up—some were already scribbling notes, others whispering under their breath just as I entered the room.
I did my utmost best to keep my breath steady. I felt like I still did not want him to look at me. As if one wrong move would make him look at me with those frozen eyes.
But he didn't.
Ilian Valevsky stood at the board, back still turned to us. His handwriting was elegant and sharp, almost too precise for chalk. Not a single letter crooked. Not a single motion wasted.
It was unnerving how silent the room was.
Then he stopped.
He put the chalk down and turned, slowly—as if time obeyed him. My lungs forgot how to move again. It wasn't just his face. It was the presence like gravity warped slightly when he looked your way.
I fumbled inside my bag and brought out a random book. I had no intention of any interaction with him.
His eyes scanned the room, a flicker of recognition barely brushing mine before moving on. A pause—was it longer than it should've been? Then nothing. Just a teacher looking at his students. Just a girl trying to stay upright.
"History," he began, voice as low as thunder in the distance, "is not memorization."
I let out another breath. Why am I unnecessarily nervous? The only encounter I had with him was when he was staring at me before I knew him. As if he knew every inch of my soul.
I cursed under my breath. What am I thinking?
"It is not a list of dates or dead names. It is a war between memory and narrative. Between what happened and what was allowed to be remembered." He put his elbows on the edge of the table.
His eyes swept the room again. "You will not survive in this class if you think you can sleepwalk through it."
Then his eyes fell on me.
"You," he said. My blood froze.
"You fainted. Gloria, wasn't it?" Every neck turned. I hated the heat flooding my cheeks. I swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."
How in the world does he know the name of a new student? Where do I put my finger on his personality? In an hour, he has been jumping the lines between psychotic to scary like nothing.
And I believe this is not what you are supposed to think about a teacher on the first day of school. Great. So many warning signs on the first day.
Ilian Valevsky studied me like I was a paragraph written in code. "What's more dangerous, silence in history, or distortion?"
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The question wasn't unclear." His voice had no cruelty, just clean, surgical precision. "Silence... or distortion. Which one kills the truth faster?"
I hesitated. "Distortion, I think."
He nodded once. "Incorrect. Silence lets rot grow. Distortion only matters if someone's still listening."
The air shifted. Something heavy hung over the room. His eyes held mine.
I hated how the words made sense.
"Take notes," he said simply, then turned back to the board.
My fingers shook slightly as I opened my notebook. I didn't dare look back up at him. But my ears didn't miss the quiet way he said under his breath, not quite loud enough for anyone else:
"Your eyes were open the whole time before you fell." And I sucked in a breath.
_________
The bell rang loudly, taking me out of my daze. The last class ended as every student fumbled with their belongings to get home. Rustles of bags and kids hissed pass me as I silently put my articles in my bag.
I looked outside the window. It was about to rain soon and I had no umbrella for myself. What kind of tragic day is it today?
Not to mention, that it was also very embarrassing to have teachers coming in and out of class just to check up on me. The news of me losing consciousness first thing in the morning spread like wildfire across the school and it was getting harder for me to avoid the stares.
"Lord, have mercy," I whispered under my breath as I started to head out of the class.
"Hey," I stopped in my way and turned around to the voice.
A girl leaned on the doorframe like she belonged in every doorway she ever stood in. Her blazer was perfectly fitted but worn open, sleeves pushed neatly to the elbows. A thin gold chain sat against her collarbone, subtle and deliberate.
Nothing about her was loud, but everything asked to be noticed. "You forgot something," she said, nodding toward my desk.
I turned.
A folded handkerchief—deep purple, almost black in the shadow- sat where I'd been seconds ago. It hadn't been there earlier.
She was already walking over. "Definitely not yours. Way too broody."
"He leaves these around like breadcrumbs," she said, holding it out. "You should return it. He might actually speak a full sentence to someone under thirty."
I reached out, and took it carefully.
"Thanks..." I said, unsure.
She smiled, easy and unreadable. "And you're Gloria." She pointed to me. "Fainting debut?"
I tried not to groan. "Don't call me that."
She chuckled. "You didn't hear the worst from me."
The cloth was warm in my hand, and my heart skipped a beat. I was curious about the man with strange eyes, but encountering him right would bring up trouble, wouldn't it? I was internally conflicted. So curious yet scared as heck.
So much on the first day would call for a timeout.
"Nina Calloway," she said, tossing her bag over her shoulder. "I sit behind you. I'm usually the one muttering existential dread during lectures."
"I'll listen for it," I murmured.
She started walking away, then paused.
"Careful with that," she said, nodding at the handkerchief. "Returning things to Valevsky tends to change people."
She didn't wait for a response.
And I didn't realize, until after she was gone, that I felt... better.
----
The hallway was quiet. Almost empty. The storm hadn't started yet, but the school felt like it was bracing for it.
Nina's words echoed faintly.
Careful with that. Returning things to Valevsky tends to change people.
Yeah, that sure makes me feel better. I cursed under my breath and looked out of the window. The rainstorm would grow for sure, and without an umbrella, I wouldn't get to go home. I will just call Mom to pick me up.
I traced the edge of the folded handkerchief in my hand, thumb brushing the stitched initials. I.V. What could that mean? And how does she know that it belongs to him?
I bit my lip and headed towards the staff room.
The door to the room stood slightly open. A sliver of warm light spilled out onto the floor. I will leave the handkerchief on his desk. Quick. Simple. Just drop it off and go.
His voice wafted to my ears as I stilled in my spot right in front of the door.
Not the classroom version. Not the crisp, curated tone he'd used when lecturing. This was lower. Rougher. In Russian.
I froze.
His words weren't loud, but they didn't sound casual. There was no softness in them. They came like commands. Tight and measured.
Then a pause.
"Nyet," he said. "If they knew, we'd all be dead already."
Something in my stomach turned, and my instincts screamed that I wasn't supposed to hear that. My weight shifted too fast as I tripped over something behind me, and the purple handkerchief fell.
Thud. The table that I tripped over had a vase, which was now shattered on the ground. I gasped.
Silence.
Then footsteps. Approaching. I turned to leave, but the door opened before I could move.
He stood there, phone still in hand. His eyes caught mine. Not surprised. Not curious.
Just... unreadable.
The same eyes that held mine from the ground floor. I picked up and held out the handkerchief. His eyes scanned my every move.
"You left this," I said, my voice too quiet.
He didn't take it right away. He looked at the fabric, then at me, like he was calculating what I'd heard and what I might've understood.
"I don't understand Russian, and I won't tell anyone." My mouth betrayed me.
His fingers brushed mine as he took it. They were colder than I expected. "How did you know you weren't supposed to hear it?"
I bit my lip, and before I could remove my hand, he gripped it. His colossal, veined hands covered mine tightly. Before I could process the situation, he pulled me.
The grip was so tight, I didn't have the time to assess the strength with which he pulled me as I landed straight into his chest.
My vision was covered as the violent sound of the window shattering came from behind me, and the thunder growled.
I closed my eyes. Fuck. He smells like musk.