We reached the lecture hall at 9:47.

The room was arranged differently than most of the academic spaces I’d seen at Halloran. No amphitheater seating, no corporate boardroom table. The desks were arranged in a rough horseshoe formation facing a central open space where a raised platform stood empty. The walls were lined with tactical displays showing terrain maps, building schematics, and what appeared to be historical footage from notable Hero operations. Everything about the room said this is where you learn how to think about violence rather than just perform it.

Students from both 1-A and 1-B were already filling the seats. I spotted Cain Revell in the back row, his amber eyes tracking the room with predatory stillness. His single dark wing was visible at his shoulder, not fully manifested but present enough to cast a faint shadow across the wall behind him.

Camellia Thorn sat near the windows, her constant smile in place as she chatted with Yuna Dusk, whose pale violet eyes tracked the conversation with serene attention. Dante Castor had claimed a seat near the front, his leg bouncing with the restless energy that seemed to radiate off him constantly. Every few seconds his fingers tapped against the desk in a pattern that matched no rhythm I could identify.

From 1-A, I noticed Quinn Adler already in position two rows back, her posture perfect and her tablet open to what looked like the course syllabus. Mira Castillo had taken a seat beside her, the two of them clearly comfortable operating as a unit. Sora Kaine sat alone in the third row, her expression as neutral as always, her hands folded on the desk in a way that communicated she was waiting rather than preparing.

From 1-B, I noticed Theo settling into a seat with his usual warmth, Lyra appearing in the second row so quietly that I almost missed her entirely, and Marco already deep in conversation with Caden about something that was making them both laugh.

Camille had taken a seat on the far side of the horseshoe, as far from my likely position as the room geometry allowed. She was scrolling through her tablet with aggressive focus, her jaw set in a way that suggested she was using the device as a shield against unwanted interaction. Petra had chosen the opposite extreme, positioning herself near the door with her planner open and her attention apparently consumed by whatever notes she was reviewing.

I took a seat in the middle of the horseshoe, close enough to the central platform to see whatever Dravid was going to demonstrate but far enough back that I wasn’t advertising myself as an eager participant. Felicity claimed the seat to my right. Rina appeared to my left a moment later, her sheep mug held between both hands like a comfort object.

"Morning," I said.

"Morning." Her purple eyes flicked toward the front of the room, then back to me. "Percy told me you’re trending on social media."

"Percy tells everyone everything."

"He means well." She took a small sip from her mug. "I watched the interview. You were good. Like you’d done it before."

"Practice."

"With who?"

"People who wanted things from me." I didn’t elaborate, and Rina didn’t push. That was one of the things I was starting to appreciate about her. She asked questions when they mattered and let silence fill the spaces where words would just complicate things.

At exactly 9:50, the lights in the room dimmed by about thirty percent. Not enough to create darkness, but enough to shift the visual focus toward the central platform. A few students who had been chatting went quiet. Others looked around for the source of the change.

Cole Dravid was standing on the platform.

He hadn’t entered through the door. He hadn’t walked across the room. One moment the platform was empty, and the next moment he was there, hands behind his back, cool grey eyes sweeping across the assembled students with an expression that suggested he’d been observing us for considerably longer than we’d realized.

"Good morning." His voice carried without effort, a flat baritone that filled the room without seeming to try. "For those of you from Class 1-B who haven’t had the pleasure, I’m Cole Dravid. I teach Combat Theory and Tactics for both first-year sections, and I serve as homeroom instructor for Class 1-A."

He moved to the edge of the platform, his steps making no sound on the raised surface. The man was dressed in the same dark, perfectly fitted attire I’d seen during previous glimpses. Charcoal jacket, crisp collar, the Halloran faculty pin exactly where it should be. His blue-black hair was gathered loosely at the nape of his neck, a few strands falling forward across his face in a way that looked accidental but probably wasn’t.

"This class is about how to think about combat. Not how to win fights. Not how to maximize your Aspect output. How to think." He paused, letting that distinction settle.

"The difference matters. A fighter reacts. A tactician anticipates. Every Hero who has survived long enough to reach the top twenty in any major nation did so because they understood that the engagement begins before the first punch is thrown and ends long after the last construct dissipates."

He turned and gestured toward one of the tactical displays on the wall. The screen flickered, then showed aerial footage of a city intersection where two figures were engaged in what looked like an extremely one-sided confrontation. One of the figures was massive, some kind of Branded individual with rock-like skin and arms the size of tree trunks. The other was a woman in a dark costume who appeared to be running circles around the larger opponent without ever actually engaging directly.

"Sigma." Dravid indicated the smaller figure. "Rank 34 nationally. Aspect classification: Channeler, specializing in spatial displacement. She can teleport short distances, approximately fifteen meters maximum, with a three-second cooldown between jumps." He indicated the larger figure.

"Monolith. Unranked Villain, Branded classification, permanent geological transformation of dermal and muscular tissue. Estimated strength output exceeds anything Sigma can produce by a factor of roughly twelve."