Brooklyn College, 11:08 AM
*
Sunlight spilled lazily through the half-opened windows, slicing across rows of plastic seats like it owned the place. The curtains—cheap, beige, and aggressively ugly—flapped just enough to let the heat slap everyone's neck, but not enough to offer any relief. Brooklyn College had AC, allegedly. Somewhere. Maybe in the Dean's bathroom.
The lecture hall held 52 students, though only about 17 of them were even pretending to be conscious. The rest? Zombies. Half-awake boys rocking crusty hoodies, girls with last-night's eyeliner still fighting for dominance, and one guy literally eating Cheetos out of his laptop case. Because why the hell not?
At the front of the class—standing like a goddess who got tired of Olympus and decided to teach a Gen Ed elective—was Professor Callahan.
Black pencil skirt that broke the Geneva Conventions. Heels clicking like she walked on judgment. Her white shirt was neatly tucked in, buttons screaming for mercy, and her lips moved in elegant fury as she broke down theoretical physics like it was foreplay.
Her voice was syrup and sarcasm—smooth, rich, and slightly threatening.
"Let's break this down one more time. The Multiverse. Inter-dimensions. InterWorld. They are not the same, people. And yes, you in the back, I can tell you're imagining me as a succubus and not listening. Focus."
Boys in the third row were dying. Flatlined. Not from boredom—but from the strain of trying to look studious while discreetly staring at her thighs. It was a masterclass in fake concentration. Pens hovered, unmarked notebooks open, eyes glassy with lust and regret.
At the farthest back corner, half-shielded by curtain shadows like some noir detective with anxiety, sat him.
Name? Not important yet.
Aura? Sleep-deprived Greek tragedy with a Wi-Fi addiction.
He slouched like the desk owed him rent. His black hoodie was pulled halfway over his face like he was mourning his GPA. The only reason he wasn't snoring was because he'd passed that stage an hour ago and hit existential autopilot.
His ears, though were still worked. Kind of.
He caught fragments of the lecture—something about dimensional overlap, paradox drift, and the economic theory of world-hopping logistics—but honestly? His brain was toast. Not even toasted, just burnt as hell, left in the oven of all-nighters and the hellfire of daily uploads.
He'd spent all night writing. Again.
A novel nobody had asked for,
read by people who only clicked for the tags,
judged by readers who hadn't even made it past chapter three.
Every ding from the system felt like judgment. Every comment like a punch to the ego.
"Update faster!"
"Your MC's too op too quickly."
"Why are you writing this if you can't handle the pressure?"
He blinked. Barely. Eyes redder than a demon's Tinder profile. But even in this semi-dead state, his brain still caught it—
"The difference," Professor Callahan continued, hips swaying as she turned to the board (gasps from the third row), "is fundamental. The Multiverse refers to multiple distinct universes, each with its own timeline, Earth, rules, maybe even pizza. Inter-dimensions? That's when you're still in the same universe but vibing in a higher or hidden layer—dreamscapes, shadow zones, emotional hellholes, your ex's moral compass. InterWorld, however, means traveling between entirely different worlds—not copies of Earth, not dream planes, but standalone realms. Sovereign. Wild. Economically unpredictable. And if you ever get access to a system that lets you move across those? You better charge rent on your soul."
Silence. Then a pop from someone's gum. One guy dropped his pen in surrender.
Professor Callahan smirked. She knew. She knew most of them weren't listening. She knew the thighs were distracting. But damn it—she also knew how to teach.
In the corner, hoodie boy chuckled to himself. Just a little.
Because her last sentence? That hit too close to home.
He already was charging rent on his soul. And he still couldn't afford peace.
*
Something light flew through the air—a purple Expo marker, lobbed with the precision of a woman who'd done this before. It smacked Hoodie Boy right on the forehead with the elegance of karma and caffeine withdrawal.
"Pete," Professor Callahan said sweetly, "if you're done spiritually projecting into the astral plane of your nightmares, maybe tell us what I was just explaining?"
His head jerked up. Eyes half-lidded, dark bags so heavy they needed a checked luggage tag. His hoodie drooped like his GPA. He blinked twice, as if rebooting his brain from Safe Mode.
"Huh?"
Professor Callahan smiled. Not the "I'm angry" kind. The "this poor soul is hanging by a thread and I'm gonna enjoy it" kind.
"Tell me, Pete. What were you doing all night? Don't say dreaming about me, I'm not billing for that."
The class collectively ooohhhed. It echoed like a middle school fight was about to break out. One of the gym rats in the front shouted:
"He was totally watching porno and using you as the main character."
Laughter exploded across the room. Peter didn't even flinch.
"Nah," he muttered, rubbing his forehead where the marker struck. "I use Pinterest girls for that. I actually like her."
The class gasped like someone had leaked the school's Wi-Fi password. Even Professor Callahan looked caught off guard. A slow, amused smirk curved on her lips.
"Well, that's… flattering. I think. Don't mind them. Just answer the question."
There it was. That voice. The gentle one. The one that didn't belong to someone who could roast a whole class with a look. That soft tone she used when she actually cared—and damn it, that's what made her dangerous.
Peter glanced at her again, her eyes shining like she actually gave a shit about his answer. About him. About everyone, even that dickhead with a vape addiction two seats ahead.
"If only she cared less. Like just a bit less. Maybe I'd have a chance."
He sighed.
And like clockwork, his imagination betrayed him.
*
In his mind, he was rich. Insanely rich. Movie-villain rich.
Hair sleeked back, trimmed by angelic barbers, designer suit hugging him like ambition itself. He stepped out of a gunmetal-gray hypercar, something with gullwing doors and an engine that purred like seduction. He walked into her class, sunglasses sliding down slow like every K-drama protagonist ever, and said:
"Professor Callahan… I've bought this college. But I'd rather just buy dinner—with you."
She gasped. The room gasped. Someone fainted. Probably the guy with the Cheeto laptop case. She clutched her pearls that weren't even there.
"Peter…"
He smirked. "Yeah?"
"Peter. Can you answer my question? The entire class is waiting."
The illusion shattered like a $5 wine glass at a college party.
Peter blinked. "Yeah, yeah, I got it."
He sat up, stretched his neck, and smirked like someone who just remembered he's a fantasy writer, a manga junkie, and a passive member of seventeen worldbuilding Discord servers.
He cleared his throat.
"So, the Multiverse is a structure made of multiple independent universes. Each could have its own laws of physics, timelines, and versions of Earth—or none at all. That's where you get shit like 'Earth-75' with flying dolphins or 'Earth-9' where Spider-Man's a raccoon."
"Inter-dimensions on the other hand are layers within a single universe. Think dream worlds, spirit zones, astral trash bins. Same universe, just different frequencies. Like if reality had a secret Spotify playlist."
"As for InterWorlds? Those are standalone worlds. Like, not other Earths. But entire civilizations with their own myths, gods, economies, maybe their own anime. They don't mirror our world—they just are. And you can trade between them if you're lucky or dumb enough to try."
Silence.
Professor Callahan tilted her head. A slow smile unfurled like a plot twist.
"Well, damn," she murmured. "Looks like someone was listening. Or dreaming really accurately."
Peter shrugged, lips twitching. She was smiling. Actually smiling, like she was proud. And that? That made his sleep-deprived brain throw a little party inside his chest.
"I fucking made her smile. I can die now. But like, in a cool way."
A girl suddenly stood up and declared in a stage voice:
"That's my Oppa!"
Everyone turned like the classroom had just glitched. The girl, wearing two different socks and a Hello Kitty lanyard, smiled like she was announcing a pregnancy. Proud. Loud. Unapologetic.
Peter groaned and rolled his eyes so hard they almost popped out the back of his head.
"Sit down, Lilith," he muttered, shooting her a wink that meant: You're embarrassing me, sis. But I love you.
She pouted hard enough to start a pity cult and sat down with the weight of a woman deeply wronged by society.
Professor Callahan, still smiling, clapped once and said:
"Well done, Peter. And thank you, Lilith, for the… enthusiasm."
The class laughed. Peter smiled. Somewhere deep inside his hoodie, a spark of pride bloomed.
Now if only he could explain to the world why his best fantasy ideas came while half-asleep in a sweatbox classroom with a goddess in heels and a clingy sister-fanclub president seated two rows behind him.
*****
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