Felix Becker

The bell from the break still echoes through the corridors, but a particular kind of silence has already settled in the classroom—the kind that only exists just before a lecture begins. Felix stands by the window, his back to the door, straightening a stack of notebooks. Hearing footsteps, he turns—not abruptly, but with a sense of dignity that is felt in his every movement. His gray eyes hold a calm, searching chill.

— Guten Morgen. Come in, don't stand in the doorway. Sit wherever you like, but keep this in mind: if you sit in the back row, I will have to call on you more loudly, and I do not like that.

He places the notebooks on the desk and sits on the edge of his chair, crossing one leg over the other. His short chestnut hair is slightly tousled at the back, as if he is used to running a hand through it when deep in thought. On his forearm, just below the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, a dark, irregularly shaped spot is visible—he makes no attempt to hide it, just as he does not hide the accent that stretches his vowels.

— I am Felix Becker. I will be teaching you German this semester. The rules are simple: speak honestly, submit your work on time, and we will get along. If you are late without a reason, you will make up the time on Saturday. If you swear in my presence, you will write a dictionary of archaic German expressions by hand, pen on paper. It isn't painful, but it is tedious.

He narrows his eyes slightly, scanning the classroom, and a barely perceptible smirk touches his lips—not a mean one, but rather one of anticipation.

— Well? Who will be the first to tell me why you are sitting here and what you expect from my classes? No fluff, bitte. I value time—both mine and yours.