The air in the lecture hall is thick—not just with heat, but with voices, whispers, and the low hum of students waiting for the professor to arrive.
I slide into my usual seat beside Miriam, stretching out my legs as I set my phone on the desk. Around us, the murmurs swell and fade like an ocean tide. I don't have to listen to know what they're about.
Me.
Their voices are background noise, familiar as the scrape of chairs and the shuffle of books. I don't flinch. I don't shrink. I just exist, the way I always have.
Miriam nudges me, lowering her voice. "I swear, these people don't get tired."
I smirk. "Neither do I."
The door swings open, and the whispers snap into silence.
A new professor steps in—a tall, stern-looking woman in a crisp navy blazer. She's not like Professor Mick with his easy-going charm. No, this one carries herself with sharp precision, her heels clicking against the tiled floor like punctuation marks.
She sets her folder on the desk and surveys the class. "Good morning. My name is Professor Adegbite. I'll be handling today's discussion, and I expect engagement."
Her gaze is cutting. Assessing. Then, without preamble, she writes on the board:
"Media, Morality & Manipulation: Who Controls the Narrative?"
Murmurs ripple across the room.
"Society thrives on perception," she begins, turning to face us. "The media dictates our villains and our saints. But is morality absolute? Or is it simply a tool used to control the narrative?"
I feel Zion's presence before I see him.
Across the room, he sits with Segun and Michael, one long leg stretched out, his fingers drumming lazily against the desk. But his eyes—those eyes—are already on me. Watching. Calculating.
Stephen, sitting just a row ahead, turns slightly, his gaze landing on me with easy familiarity. He grins. "This should be interesting."
I roll my eyes. "Try not to embarrass yourself."
The discussion starts slowly—safe, predictable arguments about ethics in journalism, sensationalism, and clickbait culture. But then, the professor's voice cuts through:
"Let's make this real. Let's talk about moral double standards."
The air shifts.
Professor Adegbite folds her arms. "Society condemns women for behavior it excuses in men. A man with experience is worldly. A woman with experience is tainted. A man's mistakes are overlooked. A woman's mistakes are permanent stains."
A few students chuckle. Others shift in their seats. I stay still, waiting.
Stephen is the first to speak. "The media plays a huge role in that. They control who gets forgiveness and who gets crucified. People eat up scandal like it's their daily bread."
Professor Adegbite nods. I don't know why but suddenly she points at me and asks me what I think. There it is
I lean back in my chair, letting the room settle into anticipation. "It's simple," I say. "Society likes to believe in redemption, but only for the people it deems worthy. Everyone else? They become cautionary tales."
A few heads turn. A few smirks appear.
Zion's voice cuts in, smooth, deliberate. "Or maybe some actions just have consequences."
I don't even have to look at him to feel the weight of what he's saying.
I tilt my head. "Some actions?"
Zion doesn't blink. "Yes. We can't pretend that reputation doesn't matter. You can't do whatever you want and expect the world to see you the same way afterward."
A few students murmur in agreement. Some just watch.
I smile, but it's the kind that doesn't reach my eyes. "Sounds like you're saying some people deserve to be dragged through the mud while others get to walk away clean."
His jaw tightens. "I'm saying that the world doesn't owe anyone a fresh start just because they want one."
Something hot rises in my chest. Anger. Not just at his words, but at the truth inside them.
Stephen leans forward, his voice casual but firm. "So you're saying people should just accept being villainized forever? That they should just roll over and let society define them?"
Zion's gaze flickers to him. Just for a second. But I see it.
Before he can respond, a voice from the back cuts through the air like a blade.
"Like that girl who had her sex tape leaked."
The room goes silent.
A slow, cruel laugh follows. I don't turn around, but I already know who it is—Adaobi, one of those girls who never miss a chance to remind me what the world thinks I am.
She leans forward, eyes bright with fake innocence. "I mean, isn't that a perfect example? The media doesn't just show morality, it decides who has it and who doesn't."
A few giggles. A few whispers. A familiar burn in my chest, but my face stays perfectly still.
Zion stiffens. His fingers stop drumming. His gaze is locked on the desk like he wants to crush it.
Stephen, on the other hand, turns fully around. "That's funny," he says smoothly. "I don't remember the guy in that video getting his name dragged through the mud. Just the girl."
The laughter dies.
Adaobi's smirk falters. "Well—"
"Well, what?" Stephen leans back. "Or does morality only work one way?"
The tension in the room shifts. It's different now.
Zion exhales sharply, gripping the edge of his desk. His eyes flick to Stephen, then to me. There's something unreadable in his expression.
Professor Adegbite clears her throat. "A fair point. But let's not derail the discussion into personal attacks."
Too late.
The whispers don't stop. The snickers don't fade. And even as the professor moves the debate along, I can feel the weight of Zion's stare.
Stephen leans closer to me, lowering his voice so only I can hear. "If looks could kill, I'd be dead."
I smirk, picking up my pen. "Careful, Stephen. You might be playing with fire."
He grins. "Maybe I like the heat."
Miriam groans. "Jade, please. No more complicated men."
Too late.