Chapter Text
The night had sharpened around him the moment he stepped out of the bar, as if the world had inhaled and held its breath. The door swung shut behind him with a muffled thud, sealing away the warmth, the sweat, the chatter, and the terrible pop song someone had put on repeat. What replaced it was silence.
Five stood there for a second, adjusting to the bite of late autumn air slashing across his cheeks. A violent gust rushed down the street, pushing dry leaves in frantic spirals around his shoes. He closed his eyes for a second, swaying slightly. The whiskey humming in his veins made the wind feel louder, brushing under his suit jacket like fingers made of ice.
He smelled of smoke. His fingertips were still faintly warm from the cigarette he'd crushed beneath his heel before leaving, and a faint burn lingered in his chest—the familiar aftertaste of nicotine mixed with poor decisions.
He tugged on his tie, already loosened, letting it hang around his neck. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the line of his throat to the cold. His suit jacket—dark, tailored, elegant but rumpled by the hours—shifted in the wind. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, pushing back the strands that had fallen stubbornly over his forehead. Two locks refused to stay in place, framing the sharp lines of his face. His eyes squinted against the sting of the night.
He needed quiet. He needed empty streets.
So he walked.
His boots struck the pavement steadily, crushing leaves and echoing through the deserted street. The city had that damp smell particular to late autumn : wet brick, cold metal, a hint of exhaust from a car that must have passed minutes earlier. It grounded him.
He didn’t check the phone vibrating incessantly in his pocket. He knew who it was. And he knew he’d regret ever handing out his number again.
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and kept walking, letting the night swallow him. He didn't choose this route consciously: his feet simply carried him, weaving through dim alleys and narrow side streets, always toward the quietest parts of the city. The moon, pale and frail, struggled behind passing clouds. Streetlights flickered intermittently, like they were shivering too.
Then he noticed her.
She stood dead-center in the middle of the street, perfectly still, as if the world had paused around her. The glow of a distant streetlamp cast a fragile halo over her figure, catching the white fabric of her dress and turning it almost luminescent against the dark.
Her hair—blonde, bluntly cut just above her shoulders—danced in the wind like something weightless. Her skin, warm-toned and smooth even under the harsh lighting, reflected the faint shimmer of the night.
Five slowed, blinked once as if recalibrating his vision. He came to a stop a few meters from her, one eyebrow raising not out of concern but mild, bored curiosity.
“You’re out late,” he said, voice edged with the lazy bluntness of someone who’d been drinking but wasn’t quite drunk.
“Yeah,” she said softly, the word carried by the wind. “So are you.”
Five almost huffed a laugh. Not amused, simply exhaling disbelief. “Don’t stand in the middle of the street unless you want to get hit, stranger” he answered.
The corner of her lips twitched into something like a smirk. “I like the middle,” she replied.
Of course she did.
He tilted his head, studying her again, properly this time.
The way her dress fluttered against her legs, too thin for the season. The way her shoulders lifted subtly with the cold, though she tried to hide it. The distant gleam of her eyes—sharp, honey-brown, too awake for the hour— focused but not quite grounded. He spotted the faint smear of red near her toes, the way they curled slightly on the pavement.
“Barefoot?” he asked, nodding toward her feet, his voice dropping into a quieter register without him meaning to.
She lifted one foot lightly, glancing down at it as if noticing the blood for the first time. Then she shrugged.
“Comfortable,” she just said.
Five breathed out sharply, almost a laugh, almost a scoff.
“Weird.”
Her response came in the shape of a laugh. The sound slipped into the air, mingling with the faint hum of neon lights and the rustling leaves dragged by the wind.
He stepped past her. He was too exhausted to deal with a crazy woman staying in the middle of the street at this hour.
“Lila! Where the hell are you?” a voice called from a distance, dramatic, unmistakable.
Klaus.
Then another voice, annoying, more frantic: “Lila, seriously, this is not the moment to disappear-”
Diego.
Five paused.
He rolled his eyes. Of course. Of course, the universe would place his brothers on the exact same street at the exact same inconvenient second.
He didn’t need to turn around to know what direction they were coming from. He could practically feel Klaus’s chaotic energy bouncing off the walls and Diego’s irritation slicing through the air like one of his knives. And Five’s alcohol-softened brain had exactly zero interest in dealing with either of them tonight. No need for Klaus’s questions.
Not after three—or four? Or five?—whiskeys. Not when he smelled like smoke and exhaustion. And definitely not in front of a strange crazy barefoot girl in a short white dress.
“I’m here!” she called back, her voice carrying down the street.
The moment she turned toward the voices, Five blinked, quickly disappearing before either of his brothers could round the corner and spot him.
He reappeared in the shadow of a building half a block away, leaning against the brick as he watched from a safe distance.
“I just…” He watched Lila speak, confusion flickering across her face as she turned, her eyes landing on empty air. “…nevermind.”
Five studied the way she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, the way her shoulders rose and fell as she breathed, the faint smile she offered to his brothers. The wind whipped past him again, colder now, sending a shiver up his spine. He pushed himself off the wall, turning away from the scene, letting the night swallow him once more.
The rain had been falling since dawn, a persistent drizzle that wrapped the university campus in a gray veil and filled the morning with the scent of wet stone and cold air. Lila stepped carefully across the slick pavement, her breath forming pale clouds in front of her as she tightened the belt of her black perfecto. The leather was damp at the shoulders, rain clinging to it in small beads. Beneath it, she wore a simple black T-shirt and fitted black trousers, the fabric stiff from the cold. Her boots clicked softly against the puddles gathering between the bricks.
The campus buzzed with muted life: students huddling under umbrellas, the murmur of conversation blending with the pattering rainfall, the familiar scent of cigarettes, the low rumble of early-morning traffic bleeding in from the main road. It was the kind of morning that made everything feel slightly deflating. Oh God she hated schools.
She spotted Klaus first.
He stood under the overhang near the stone steps leading to the main building, one foot propped against the wall while smoking. He wore a long, mismatched coat of multiple fabrics—patchwork velvet, faded denim, and some material that shimmered iridescently when he moved. Under it, a chaotic combination of necklaces decorated his patterned shirt, half-tucked into his loose trousers. A pair of tinted round glasses sat crookedly on his nose. He looked like a walking thrift store and a fever dream stitched into one person, and he somehow made it work. He looked exhausted. Diego, standing next to him, was more subdued in movement, hoodie pulled over his head, dark pants and worn black sneakers marking him as someone who had also paid for the previous night.
“Morning,” Lila said, voice low as she approached. Klaus straightened slightly, just enough to flash a lazy grin, while Diego merely nodded, offering a half-smile.
“Survived the night?” Klaus asked softly, voice teasing but light.
“Barely,” she admitted, pulling back a strand of rain-damp hair sticking to her cheek.
They lingered only a few minutes before beginning the short walk to their classroom. The corridors inside the building were warm compared to the outside air, smelling faintly of old books and coffee that had gone cold. Students shuffled in every direction, chatter echoing off the high ceilings. Lila felt droplets of rain sliding from the tips of her hair to her collar, the cold sinking under her coat.
As they reached their classroom, the noise hit them immediately.
The room felt lived-in: chairs slightly uneven, desks polished smooth by years of restless hands tapping, every surface was cluttered with bags, water bottles, notebooks, and tangled earphones. The lights buzzed faintly above, the tall windows along the left side, fogged from the temperature difference outside.
Lila, Klaus, and Diego settled in the middle row. Klaus sprawled across his chair with his legs stretched out in a careless arc. Diego sat straight, hood still up, tapping a pen against the desk. Lila pushed her damp hair back behind her ears and let her bag slide to the floor.
Students filled the seats quickly, voices rising in a chorus of gossip, laughter, and complaints about the weather. Someone dropped his bag violently. Someone swore about forgetting an umbrella. Someone else played music too loudly through headphones, the bass thumping faintly across the room.
It wasn’t chaos, but it was close. And it was annoying, especially this early.
Until the door opened.
Silence fell instantly: a young man stepped into the room carrying a presence so sharp it seemed to cut cleanly through the noise.
He wore a black suit—perfectly tailored, pressed to precision, the fabric smooth and expensive-looking. The jacket hugged the lines of his shoulders, the trousers falling in a flawless crease. His white shirt was crisp, collar sharp, tie black and knotted with practiced efficiency.
But it wasn’t the suit that made Lila’s breath catch.
It was him.
His hair, dark brown and neatly styled, except for two rebellious strands that fell forward on either side of his face. They framed his features with a softness that contrasted the severity of his outfit. His jaw was sharp, cheekbones defined, expression unreadable. And his eyes—green, so so green—swept over the room with controlled attention, assessing, calculating, landing on every student for a fraction of a second but… A beat longer on Lila than anywhere else.
Her heart stuttered.
She knew that face. It was the man from last night, the one she thought about being a hallucination—a very pleasant one, by the way—and now he was here. Walking with calm, quiet confidence toward the front of the class. He's definitely too young to be a professor?
He stopped in front of the whiteboard, set down a slim stack of papers, and looked up at the class with a composed calm that silenced even the last lingering whispers.
“Good morning,” he said.
His voice was steady—low, clear, controlled with the kind of authority that didn’t need to raise its volume to command attention.
“I’m Five,” he continued. “I will be your professor for this semester.”
Lila blinked.
‘Five’? Is that a joke? What kind of parents name their kid like that? They must have really hated him...
“This course,” he went on, “is an introduction to geopolitics. We will study the structure of power, international relations, conflict dynamics, and the influence of economic and cultural forces on global balance. Attendance is expected. Participation is evaluated. Deadlines are non-negotiable.”
He paced slowly across the front of the room, the faint click of his shoes the only sound.
“You will learn to approach global issues with precision and critical thought. I expect preparation, discipline, and engagement.” He said.
Lila heard the words. But she didn’t absorb any of them.
Her focus was fixed entirely on him: on the way he moved, the steadiness of his posture, the meticulousness of his suit, the slight furrow of concentration in his brow as he spoke. The contrast between the mysterious man she’d seen the night before and the professor now commanding the room pulled her thoughts into a tight knot.
She couldn’t look away. It was ridiculous. And yet she couldn’t stop. But hey, at least it’s not that creepy, he’s the professor, she can stare as she wants.
Beside her, Diego leaned forward slightly, lowering his hood just enough to see better. He murmured under his breath, voice barely audible:
“Classic Five.”
Lila’s brows drew together.
Does he know him?
She turned her head toward him, confusion tightening her chest. But he didn’t elaborate, his attention was on the professor, eyes narrowed with a familiarity she didn’t understand.
Before she could ask him anything, Five continued speaking, beginning the outline of the semester’s first module. The class scribbled notes. Pages turned. Pens clicked. Klaus doodled something unintelligible on the corner of his notebook.
Lila didn’t write a single word.
She sat still, pulse fluttering beneath her skin, gaze locked on the man at the front of the room.
The rain outside continued to fall, tapping softly against the fogged windows, but she no longer heard it. She no longer heard the hum of ventilation, the shuffle of students, the faint scrape of chairs. All she heard was his voice.
And all she felt was the uneasy, undeniable pull that tightened around her chest the longer she looked at him.
She smirked.
This will be the most interesting year of her life.