Prologue
"In biology," a voice so calm but carrying easily through the room, "there is a hierarchy. A structure that governs all living things. A system that decides who survives, and who exists only to be consumed."
He pauses, letting the silence stretch. The picture on the board lightens, for everyone to be staring on.
"We call it the pyramid."
His polished shoes click softly against the floor as he moves between the rows, each step slow, deliberate. The sound echoes measured, controlled.
Black trousers, neatly pressed to his hips. A white shirt tucked perfectly into place, a dark tie resting against his chest like a drawn line. He lifts a hand to adjust his glasses, light catching on the lenses, beneath the classroom lights.
"At the very bottom," he continues, "are the
organisms that give more than they ever take. They exist to feed the system. They survive only as long as something stronger allows them to."
His gaze sweeps across the room.
"Above them," he says, turning slightly, "are those who learned to take advantage. The opportunists. The hunters in training. Stronger, faster, smarter but still expendable."
Another step. The sound of leather against tile is sharp now.
"And at the very top," he finishes, stopping at the front of the class, "is the predator."
He smiles then slow, almost pleasant. Dimples appear, softening his expression in a way that feels entirely wrong for the words he's speaking.
"The predator does not ask. It does not hesitate. It does not question morality or fairness. It simply takes what it needs to survive."
Eyes are fixed on him, every student caught in the gravity of his presence. Some caught in the sight of him.
"That," he says quietly, adjusting his glasses once more, "is how nature maintains balance. And whether you like it or not... every single one of us belongs somewhere on that pyramid."
He lets the quiet linger for a moment, allowing the weight of his words to settle naturally.
"Does anyone have a question?" he asks, voice even, almost inviting.
For a second, no one moves. Then a hand rises from the middle row hesitant, uncertain, but determined.
"Yes?" he says, turning with an encouraging nod.
The student clears her throat. "If the pyramid is about survival... what about the one's at the top, what are they? Just...better?"
The teacher smiles slightly, and steps forward. His shoes make a soft, rhythmic sound against the floor everytime he moves, hands loosely folded behind his back.
"That's a good question," he says. "And an important one."
He pauses, choosing his words carefully.
"The top of the pyramid isn't about being better," he explains. "It's about adaptation. About understanding your environment and responding to it. Every level has its role. The base supports the structure, and without it, everything above collapses."
He gestures lightly, to the board as he goes through the images.
"Predators aren't villains. Prey aren't weak. Each exists because nature found a balance that works...at least for a time."
The student nods slowly, tension easing from her shoulders. The teacher offers a small, thoughtful smile.
"So when you look at the pyramid, don't think of it as a measure of worth," he says. "Think of it as a system of connection. Every part matters."
The bell rings, bright and clear.
The mood shifts instantly chairs scrape back, bags are slung over shoulders, quiet conversation bubbles up again. The heaviness fades, replaced by the familiar energy of dismissal.
The teacher steps back toward his desk, straightening his notes.
"Alright," he says calmly, adjusting his glasses. "Class dismissed."
Students file out, some still thinking, some already laughing, the classroom slowly emptying until only the echo of footsteps remains.
He remains in the room for a few minutes longer. At a single glance, one would notice the freckles dusting his skin, the neatly kept dark-brown hair, the glasses resting low on his nose—everything about him composed, deliberate.
Eventually, he reaches for his bag, methodically packing his materials away. The room feels suddenly too large as he leaves it behind, crossing the hall and slipping into his office. The door closes softly.
Before long, he is seated at his desk, head bowed over papers once more, the world tightening back down to ink, and quiet thoughts. But not for long.
"Alessandro."
The colleague's voice draws his attention as she comes to a stop beside him. He acknowledges her with nothing more than a brief nod, eyes never leaving the paper in his hands as he reads.
"I heard the students have been choosing your lessons over Liam's," she says, crossing her arms lightly. "I don't think he's going to like that."
Alessandro finally looks up at her, paper still between his fingers. He adjusts his glasses with a habitual motion and shrugs, unbothered. A moment later, he sets the paper down on the office table and moves toward the coffee machine humming quietly across the room.
"It wasn't my intention," he says calmly.
The machine beeps, coffee spilling into the cup as he turns back, leaning against the edge of the table. "I suppose the students just enjoy my lessons."
Glinda smirks, amused by the pause in his voice.
"Or," she says lightly, "they just think you're hot."
Alessandro frowns, brows knitting together as he lifts the cup to his lips. He takes a sip, clearly unimpressed.
"For God's sake, Glinda," he mutters. "That's disgusting."
She only laughs, entirely unbothered, and moves closer before dropping into the chair beside him.
"I'm just saying," she continues, tilting her head. "You've got that whole nerd look going on—and apparently that's very in these days."
She waves a hand dismissively, a grin still on her face as flashbacks cross infront of her eyes.
"I overheard two girls talking about it yesterday."
Then she turns around. "But what do I know?"
Alessandro exhales through his nose, gaze drifting back to the paper on the table—unconvinced, uncomfortable, and very much wishing he'd chosen tea instead of coffee.
The office had settled into a gentle quiet. Soft music played in the background, barely more than a whisper, as Alessandro read through the papers spread neatly across his desk. The rhythm of the melody blended with the faint rustle of pages, creating a calm, studious stillness.
It didn't last long.
The door burst open so suddenly that the music seemed to shrink in on itself. Alessandro's head lifted at once. In the doorway stood the university janitor, chest heaving, face flushed, as if he had just run the length of the entire campus.
"Oh God, Mr. Will—" Glinda's voice came sharp with surprise. She hurried toward him, concern overtaking the teasing lightness she usually carried. "Calm down, calm down," she urged, already guiding him forward and patting his back gently.
Alessandro only raised an eyebrow, watching the scene unfold, confusion flickering behind his lenses.
Glinda helped the breathless man steady himself. "What happened?" she asked quickly. "Is everything okay?"
Mr. Will didn't answer right away. Instead, he kept staring—past Glinda, straight at Alessandro. His eyes were wide, almost unsettled, as though he were still trying to process what he had seen.
Alessandro's posture stiffened slightly. The old man's gaze lingered on him, heavy, searching.
Finally, Mr. Will lifted a trembling hand and pointed.
"Mr. Sergio..." he said between deep, uneven breaths.
Alessandro straightened at once, ears pricking at the sound of his name.
"Your car," the janitor continued, inhaling sharply, "the one parked in front of the university... it's blown up."
For a moment, everything inside Alessandro seemed to stop.
The color drained from his face, leaving him pale and unmoving. Goosebumps prickled across his skin as a cold, unfamiliar dread settled deep in his chest. His breath caught somewhere between inhale and exhale, refusing to move.
He didn't speak. He couldn't.
"And... and I don't know why," Mr. Will went on shakily, "but someone sprayed words over it. I couldn't tell if it was cursing or... or a name. It looked more like a name."
Glinda guided the old man to the chair and quickly handed him the glass of water from the table, murmuring reassurances. The glass trembled slightly in his hands.
Alessandro finally moved.
Slow, controlled steps carried him forward until he stood directly in front of the janitor. His hands had curled into tight fists at his sides, knuckles whitening.
"What name?" he asked quietly.
Mr. Will swallowed, still catching his breath. "We couldn't fully read it," he admitted, voice wavering. "But it looked like something in Italian... and the word Valerio."
The word hung in the air like a fracture.
And in that instant, it felt as though something inside Alessandro's world had quietly, irrevocably collapsed.
