His fit was on point as usual. He wore black, Tom Ford tailored slacks, a black button-down collar dress shirt that molded to his arms, blackGucciloafers, and that signature goldPhiring glinting every time he moved his hand. Professor Sullivan didn’t have to raise his voice when he entered. Shit, he was the volume. Every student in that room adjusted to it—whether they meant to or not.
“Let’s talk about morality,” he said, voice low but sure. “Is it absolute… or does it bend?” Professor Sullivan stepped behind the podium, resting one palm on the edge, gaze sweeping the room without landing anywhere too long. “Is right always right?” he asked. “Or does it depend on who’s watching?”
A few students shifted in their seats, some looked confused, while others were thoroughly intrigued.
“Think about it,” he continued. “If someone steals food to feed their starving child… are they a criminal, or a parent doing what’s necessary?”
“They’re both,” a voice from the left side offered. “It’s wrong, but it’s understandable.”
Professor Sullivan half-nodded. “Morality is often based on consequences. Not action. Society likes to play judge dependingon who’s standing in front of the jury,” then his gaze moved, landing on her. “Ms. Sinclair,” he said, slow like he already knew what she’d say. “What’s your take?”
The air shifted, but Nuri didn’t blink. She straightened in her chair, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I think morality is internal. A compass, not a crowd decision.”
A few students murmured, but Professor Sullivan didn’t look away.
“So you believe people always know the difference between right and wrong?”
“I believe we know when we’re betraying ourselves,” she said, tone smooth but weighted. “Even if no one’s around to witness it.”
The tension was soft, but thick…layered with something that had an underlying meaning.
Professor Sullivan circled the front of the room slowly, like a lion that wasn’t hungry, but liked to see who flinched first.
“So what about when wrong is necessary?” He asked. “When it protects something, or someone you love?”
“Then you’re still choosing,” Nuri replied, chin lifted. “And choices have cost. Doing the wrong thing for the right reason doesn’t make it right… it just makes ityours.”
The class was silent now, and no one dared interrupt because this wasn’t a debate anymore. This was a conversation between two people who felt more than they said. Who were sayingother thingsunder the weight of big words and clean diction.
Professor Sullivan paused by her desk. He didn’t speak for a moment. Just watched her. Not inappropriately. Not obviously. It was in a way that said, I see you.
“Strong answer,” he finally said. “But remember this…sometimes survival forces people into spaces where morality is luxury. Not everybody can afford it.”
Nuri didn’t respond.
Not with words.
The look she gave him said everything.
The bell rang ten minutes later, but nobody moved until Professor Sullivan dismissed them, but Nuri stayed seated a second longer than she needed to. Then she stood, grabbed her bag, and walked out slowly– eyes locked the entire time. Her chin high, heels soft, and her heart louder than she wanted to admit. So much was left unspoken, and they both questioned if they’d ever be able to finish the conversation. Nuri still felt him watching her, and she loved that shit more than she’d ever let on in that setting.
Draped in a gold and black Balmain T-shirt that fit his frame just right, paired with Balmain black jeans andUnicornlow sneakers, Silas was fine as hell, light flex. He embodied the aura of the man who had the city in the palm of his hand. A black diamond chain rested across his chest, catching the light with every movement. Matching bracelet, and an iced-out black diamondPatekon his wrist. Even the time agreed that he was that nigga.
Silas didn’t step out often. That kind of luxury came with room to slip, and he didn’t leave space for none of that. Tonight he needed freedom, even if it came dressed in basslines and liquor. He stood in the mirror, and slid his soft-bristleTorinobrush over his deep, spinning waves–eyes low, movementssmoother than the black and gold.Balmainshirt stretched across his chest.
He spritzed Bond No. 9Lafayette Street,then stepped back, nodded. He was always intentional about the vibes he gave off, always.
Rich.
Boss.
Unreachable.
Right before he dipped, his phone chimed just before he slid his wallet into his back pocket.
“Yo.”
“What’s good fam?” Memphis spoke above the noise of the club roaring behind him. “It’s thick in here. You en route?”
