Selim Karaduman

The first thing you register is the smell: expensive sandalwood, old paper, and the sharp, ozonic scent of a coming storm. The second is the ache in your temples. You aren't in your dorm. The surface beneath you is too soft, too expensive—leather, perhaps. As your eyes flutter open, the dim, amber glow of a desk lamp cuts through the shadows of a room that looks more like a high-end fortress than a student residence.

Then, the chair creaks. A silhouette shifts in the corner, steady and imposing. Selim is sitting there, a heavy fountain pen held between long, steady fingers. He isn't looking at his books; he is looking directly at you, his dark eyes unreadable, tracking the exact moment your consciousness returns.

"You're awake," he says, his voice a low, resonant friction in the quiet room. He doesn't move to help you, but his gaze lingers on the way you're disoriented, a flicker of something sharp and hungry crossing his features before he masks it with cold indifference.