Disclaimer: The author's imagination and passion are the only sources of inspiration for this novel, which is a work of dedication. Parallels between these pages and the past or present may be apparent to some readers, but they are completely coincidental. You are free to interpret this art anyway you see fit, and it is meant for your enjoyment.
The humid air of Quezon City clung to the skin like a damp shroud. For Kryztal Sydrin, the heat was barely a footnote compared to the electric hum of nerves vibrating in her chest. Today was the day. Standing before the iconic Oblation statue at the University of the Philippines, she took a deep breath.
"Kaya mo 'to, Kryztal," (You can do this, Kryztal,) she whispered to herself.
She smoothed down her outfit. She had chosen a simple, cream-colored ribbed knit top and high-waisted trousers. It was modest, or so she thought, but the way the fabric hugged her frame left little to the imagination. Her breasts, naturally full and heavy, strained slightly against the material, creating a shadow of cleavage that she nervously tried to tug upward. With her waist-length, ink-black hair flowing behind her like a silken cape, she looked less like a student and more like a phantom of beauty.
"Kryztal! Huy!"
A hand grabbed her shoulder. It was Ria, her only trusted friend since high school. Ria was the polar opposite—loud, energetic, and currently staring at Kryztal with wide eyes.
"Girl, ang ganda mo masyado. (Girl, you're too beautiful.) Are you sure you're ready for the Architecture building? The guys there are vultures," Ria teased, though her eyes held a spark of protective concern.
"I'm just here to study, Ria. Huwag mo nga akong biruin. (Don't tease me.) I just want to survive History of Architecture," Kryztal replied, her pale, glassy grey eyes fixed on the path ahead. They were eyes that rarely blinked, giving her an ethereal, almost doll-like appearance.
"Good luck then. I heard the professor for that subject is a total terror. Strict, cold, and gwapo pero nakakatakot. (handsome but scary.) See you at lunch!"
The lecture hall was steep, smelling of old paper and floor wax. Kryztal found a seat in the middle row, pulling out her sketchbook. She felt the weight of stares from the male students around her, but she ignored them, focusing on the scent of the room.
Then, the door clicked shut.
The chatter died instantly. A man walked in, his presence so heavy it felt like the atmospheric pressure in the room had shifted. Alexander Santillan didn't look like a teacher; he looked like an apex predator dressed in a charcoal-grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal corded, vascular forearms. He was 6'2", a towering monolith of a man. His jet-black hair fell slightly over his forehead, partially obscuring eyes that were the color of warm, burnt honey.
He didn't look at the class. He walked to the lectern, his movements eerily silent for a man of his size.
"I am Professor Santillan," he said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that vibrated in Kryztal's very marrow. "In this room, we do not discuss buildings. We discuss the souls of the eras that birthed them. If you are here for an easy grade, umalis na kayo ngayon pa lang." (Leave as early as now.)
He finally looked up. His gaze swept the room like a searchlight, cold and indifferent. Until it hit the middle row.
Until it hit her.
Time didn't just slow down; it stopped. Alexander's honey-gold eyes locked onto Kryztal's silver ones. He saw the way her ink-black hair framed her face, the way her pale skin seemed to glow in the dim light of the hall. But then, his gaze drifted lower. He saw the curve of her breasts, the way the knit fabric struggled to contain her.
In an instant, a sharp, white-hot ache ignited in his crotch. It was sudden, violent, and utterly unprofessional. His cock throbbed painfully against the zipper of his slacks, reacting to her with a primal intensity he had never experienced in his thirty years of life.
Putangina, (Fuck,) he thought, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the podium.
He forced his eyes back to his syllabus, his throat suddenly dry. She is a student. She is a child. Stay professional.
"Open your books to page ten," he snapped, his voice harsher than intended.
Throughout the hour, Alexander was in a living hell. Every time he turned to write on the chalkboard, he could feel her silver eyes on his back. When he walked down the aisles, he purposely avoided her row, yet his nostrils flared, catching a hint of her scent—vanilla and something metallic, like rain on stone.
He was a man of logic, of straight lines and reinforced steel. But looking at Kryztal, he felt his foundations cracking. He found himself wanting to roar at the boys sitting near her to look away. He wanted to drape his blazer over her to hide those curves from everyone but himself.
Late that night, in a sleek, minimalist house, Alexander sat in the dark. The only light came from the moon spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He was breathing hard, his head leaning back against the leather of his designer chair. His hand was buried deep inside his unzipped trousers, his fingers slick and moving with frantic, desperate speed.
"Kryztal..." he groaned into the empty room.
The image of her in that cream top was burned into his retinas. He imagined her sitting on his desk, those silver eyes wide with fear and wonder as he tore that knit fabric apart. He imagined the weight of her breasts in his hands, the tips of his fingers brushing against her nipples until they peaked.
Hinding-hindi pwede (It can never be), he told himself, even as his hips jerked upward.
He was obsessed. He had spent the evening looking up her student file. Kryztal Sydrin. 18 years old. Valedictorian. He had memorized her address, her blood type, the names of her parents, Ford and Lizza. He was already a stalker in spirit, a protector in his own twisted mind.
As he reached his peak, his body tensing into a rigid line of agony and ecstasy, he didn't feel relief. He felt a terrifying hunger. He didn't just want to masturbate to the thought of her. He wanted the reality. He wanted to feel her heat, to hear the wet sound of his cock sliding into her, to taste the salt on her skin as she moaned under his weight.
He cleaned himself up, his eyes turning sharp and predatory in the dark.
"Jonathan," he said, picking up his phone and calling his assistant.
"Yes, Sir?" Jonathan's voice was groggy.
"I want the seating chart for my freshman class changed. Put Ms. Sydrin in the front row. Right under my nose."
"Sir? Is there a problem with the student?"
Alexander looked at his reflection in the glass. He looked like a man possessed.
"No," Alexander whispered, a dark, dangerous smile tugging at his lips. "Gusto ko lang siyang bantayan nang maigi. (I just want to keep a very close eye on her.)