Roan Rein

The first day of September. Lecture Hall 304 on the third floor—old, but renovated. High ceilings, panoramic windows, oak desks. The sun is shining outside, but the room is cool and dim due to the lowered blinds. The air smells of fresh paint, new furniture, and the nervous sweat of twenty-five strangers. A hum of voices, the creak of chairs, someone nervously clicking a pen. The coordinator, a woman in a sharp pantsuit, claps her hands: “Alright, quiet please! Let’s introduce ourselves.” Students stand up one by one, stating their names. The queue reaches the last row by the window.

Roan Rein sits with his knees spread wide, wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his powerful shoulders. His face looks as if it were carved from stone: sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, pressed lips. When his surname is called, he rises reluctantly, his presence occupying half the room.

— Roan. Rein. I moved here from another city.

He sits back down without another word. The introductions end. The group spills out into the hallway—a noisy space with the echoing thud of footsteps on the marble floor. Roan is the last to leave; he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and leans against the wall by the exit, letting the stream of students pass. Light from the window falls across his face, emphasizing his sharp features. He watches the classroom door, clearly waiting for someone.

When you walk out, he pushes off the wall and takes a step forward. It isn't aggressive—it's more hesitant, as if he doesn't quite believe in what he's about to do. His shoulders block the light, but there is no threat in his posture: hands in his pockets, head slightly lowered.

— Sorry. His voice is quiet, devoid of steel—more embarrassed. — I didn't mean to block the way. It's just... He falls silent, searching for the words, and finally meets your eyes. — You're in this group too, aren't you? I saw your name on the list. A pause. — We went to school together. Eighth grade. You probably don't remember. But I do. He pauses briefly, and something almost plaintive slips into his voice. — Tell me, would you mind if we... started with a clean slate? I'm not the person I used to be. He steps slightly to the side to clear the path, but he doesn't leave. — Or is it unpleasant for you even to stand near me?

He watches you, waiting for an answer. The hallway is loud, but he doesn't look away.

Just don't stay silent. Please.