The next day, Rohan appeared in the elective classroom for World History, deliberately taking a seat in the very center of the first row.
Matsumoto Masako's classroom was arranged differently from others: world maps and historical timelines were posted on the walls, and in one corner stood a small bookshelf crammed with paperbacks that looked well-thumbed. A few potted plants sat on the windowsill, their leaves thick and glossy, clearly tended with care.
When the bell rang, Professor Matsumoto entered the classroom precisely on time, bringing with her an aura of efficiency and intellect. She was a Japanese woman in her early forties, standing over 170 centimeters tall, with a slender and well-proportioned figure. Though her frame wasn't as broad as Dr. Carter's or Shivani's, she possessed a distinct, graceful poise characteristic of Eastern women.
She wore a tailored dark gray suit skirt that fell to her knees, paired with a simple white blouse and an elegant silk scarf tied at the collar. Her hair was jet black, neatly pulled back to reveal a smooth forehead and a clean hairline. With single eyelids and delicate features, she wasn't the type to stun at first glance, but a small teardrop mole near the corner of her eye and a pair of delicate black-framed glasses perched on her nose added a unique, intellectual, and composed charm to her appearance.
Her teaching style was crisp and passionate. At that moment, she was dissecting the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution. When she mentioned Robespierre, her sharp gaze swept across the classroom like a searchlight, finally settling on the unfamiliar, bruised face seated conspicuously in the front row.
"So, what exactly was the essence of the Reign of Terror?" she suddenly asked, her eyes locked on Rohan. "You don't seem to be a registered student in this class, do you?"
Rohan stood up, deliberately scraping his chair against the floor to produce a slightly grating sound. The move successfully drew the attention of everyone in the room—including Professor Matsumoto's sharp, hawk-like brown eyes behind her glasses—more intently toward him and the unmistakable bruise on his face.
"The Reign of Terror... was an extreme state where violence was employed in an attempt to maintain the purity of revolutionary ideals," Rohan continued, his voice louder and clearer than usual in a classroom setting. "But ultimately, such unchecked violence often turns on the very creators and followers of the revolution, just as it consumed Danton and eventually Robespierre himself."
He paused before adding, "Also, yes, I'm not formally enrolled in this course. But I have a strong personal interest in history, especially the intellectual history of modern social transformations, through extracurricular reading."
Professor Matsumoto studied him for about two seconds. Her gaze seemed to carry a tangible penetrating force, sweeping over his bruised eye, his feigned composure, and the deliberately emphasized "extracurricular interest" in his words.
Then, she gave an almost imperceptible nod.
"A very precise summary, touching on the core historical paradox. It seems the quality of your extracurricular reading is quite high." Her voice was steady, revealing little emotion. "Your name?"
"Rohan Sharma."
"Please take your seat, Mr. Sharma."
Throughout the class, Rohan could feel Professor Matsumoto's seemingly casual glances landing on him several times, especially when he was taking notes or listening intently.
The bell rang, signaling the end of class, and students surged toward the door like a receding tide. Rohan deliberately slowed his pace as he packed his books.
Sure enough, when the classroom was nearly half empty, Ms. Matsumoto's cool voice came from the direction of the lectern:
"Mr. Sharma, please stay for a moment."
Rohan walked toward the lectern, holding his books.
Ms. Matsumoto was bent over, tidying up her open lesson plan and several thick reference books, not looking up immediately.
As she straightened her materials, she leaned forward slightly. The tailored waist of her suit skirt cinched tightly, accentuating her slender waist, while her hips appeared round and firm. Her legs, encased in dark gray stockings, were straight and slender, with delicate ankles.
Rohan quickly averted his gaze, silently chiding himself. He realized that Dr. Carter's teasing from the day before had made him increasingly attentive to women's feet, and he forced himself to look away.
"What happened to your face?"
The question came so directly, without any preamble.
Rohan's prepared excuse caught in his throat.
"I got hit playing basketball," he finally said, his voice drier than he intended.
Ms. Matsumoto finally looked up. She removed her glasses, pinched the bridge of her nose, and put them back on. The motion made the mole near the corner of her eye seem to jump at the edge of the frame.
Her gaze was as sharp as a scalpel, as if it could peel away the layers of a lie and cut straight to the truth.
"How old are you?" she asked, her voice still steady. "You look… younger than most twelfth graders. Not even fifteen or sixteen?"
"I am fifteen, ma'am. I skipped two grades."
"Fifteen," Ms. Matsumoto repeated, thoughtful.
"A top student with such a… petite build," she chose her words carefully, each syllable landing clearly. "Were you bullied in basketball class? Targeted on purpose?"
Rohan's breath hitched for a moment. He didn't confirm it, but he didn't deny it either. He stood there, fingers unconsciously picking at the edge of his backpack strap.
Ms. Matsumoto sighed. The sound was light, yet heavy with meaning.
She set down her lesson plan, placed her hands on the edge of the lectern, and leaned forward slightly. The posture made her seem less like an aloof teacher and more like an elder willing to listen.
"Listen," she said, lowering her voice so only the two of them could hear. "I won't force you to say anything. I won't be like some teachers who demand evidence, witnesses, written reports—those procedures aren't always meant to protect the victim, but to protect the system itself."
She paused, her deep brown eyes fixed on Rohan:
"But if you need to talk, if you need an adult to truly listen instead of just going through the motions, my office door is always open. Understood?"
Rohan felt his throat tighten. He nodded, his movements stiff.
"And," Ms. Matsumoto's tone softened slightly, as if sharing a secret, "my daughter is in the student council. She's a grade above you, named Alisha. If you encounter problems at the student level—the kind teachers can't directly intervene in—sometimes the student council can be more effective. Of course, this is just a private suggestion."
She pulled a sticky note from her shirt pocket, quickly wrote down a string of numbers, and handed it to Rohan:
"This is my email. No appointment needed—just send a message."
Rohan took the note. The paper still carried the warmth of her fingertips and the faint scent of ink.
He looked down at the neat handwriting, feeling a warm current spread from his chest—ever since meeting Dr. Carter, no, ever since that unspeakable illness had "flared up," everything truly seemed different.
In just one month, he had gained the first adult who actively showed concern for him, and now there was a second—just as Dr. Carter had said, as long as he appeared before the right people.
"Thank you, teacher," Rohan's voice was sincere.
Teacher Matsumoto nodded and resumed organizing her teaching materials, as if the conversation had never happened.
"Hurry and go have lunch, Mr. Sharma. You have classes this afternoon, right?"
Rohan turned and left the classroom. At the doorway, he glanced back. Teacher Matsumoto was standing by the window, her back to him, gazing out at the campus.
Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting a faint golden halo over her dark gray suit skirt.
Her posture was upright, her shoulders relaxed, one hand unconsciously stroking the leaves of a potted plant on the windowsill.
Like a scene from a classical oil painting, it inexplicably brought Rohan a sense of peace.
These mature women, each of them possessed an inner world that was so captivating...
The seventh therapy session.
Rohan recounted the conversation to Dr. Carter.
That day, Dr. Carter's stockings were a rich, deep purple, adorned with extremely subtle diamond patterns that could only be seen up close, like some mysterious totem.
As she listened, she leisurely unwrapped a brand-new pair of latex gloves, her movements slower than usual, as if savoring every detail of his words.
"Matsumoto Masako," she repeated the name, as if searching for something in her memory.
She tore open the packaging, took out the latex gloves, but didn't put them on immediately. Instead, she placed them in her palm, gently kneading them.
"Her daughter is... Alisa Matsumoto. Student council president. Last year's 'Student of the Year' at South Bay High School."
"That sounds about right," Rohan replied.
His gaze involuntarily followed her movements as she put on the gloves. The soft snap of the latex tightening was unusually clear in the quiet clinic.
"I haven't paid much attention to student council affairs. Mom thinks it's a 'waste of time.'"
Dr. Carter carefully smoothed the edges of the gloves until they fit snugly around her wrists.
"You should pay attention," she said, her voice carrying a hint of something Rohan didn't understand—like caution, or perhaps... rivalry? No, that couldn't be.
"Alisa Matsumoto is an interesting figure. She transferred from a top private elite school in Japan. Her father, Matsumoto Kentarō, is a senior diplomat at the Japanese Embassy in the UK."
"She's a special presence at South Bay High—excellent grades, top-tier in sports, strong leadership. Most importantly, she has connections. Even someone like Max Taylor treads carefully around her because her father's influence reaches all the way to the school board."
Rohan was surprised.
A pure-blooded Japanese with both parents being Japanese, yet given an English name like "Alisa"—it spoke volumes about how Westernized her diplomat father was. It was the complete opposite of his mother, Shivani, who clung to tradition, even stubbornly upholding Hindu values.
But what intrigued him even more was Dr. Carter's source of information.
"How do you know all this in such detail?"
He couldn't help but ask, "Does your assistant's... extra duties include going undercover in a high school, or even re-enrolling as a student?" He naturally made the joke, something unimaginable in the past.
Dr. Carter paused.
Her movement to put on the second glove halted, fingers suspended mid-air.
The consultation room fell silent for a few seconds, only the hum of the air conditioning filling the space. Then she resumed her motion, pulling the glove snugly over her hand, the latex tightly contouring the shape of her slender fingers and knuckles.
"I did have her spend some extra time," Dr. Carter's voice was calm, but Rowan could detect a subtle tension in it.
"Medical professionals also need to understand community information, the environments where their patients live, Rowan. Especially when such information might affect a patient's mental health or treatment outcomes."
She turned and walked toward the instrument table, her back to Rowan. Her posture remained upright beneath the white coat, but the line of her shoulders seemed somewhat stiff.
"And," she added, her voice dropping lower, almost as if speaking to herself, "among all my patients, I care about you the most. Our relationship is... special."
She turned back to face him.
She had already put her gold-rimmed glasses back on, her clear blue eyes behind the lenses meeting his directly, without any evasion:
"It's not just a typical doctor-patient relationship. I feel like... like a blood relative. An elder willing to go the extra mile, to spend an extra hour for you. Do you mind?"
Rowan's heart skipped a beat. A blood relative? The term stirred a strange flutter within him—warm, yet tinged with a sense of forbidden edge.
After all, no "blood relative" would wear stockings, look at him with that kind of gaze, allow his hand to caress the inside of her thigh, or indulge his perverse foot worship.
Desire easily overwhelmed reason.
The craving for attention outweighed the unease of having his privacy invaded.
After all, he was already accustomed to his mother's boundary-less, high-pressure surveillance.
At least Dr. Carter's "attention" came with gentle touches, ambiguous glances, and secret games that made his heart race—he longed for more, after freely savoring her stocking-clad feet.
"Of course not," Rowan said, his voice firmer than expected. "I... I'm grateful."
Dr. Carter smiled.
The smile was faint, but the slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes softened her entire face instantly. She walked up to Rowan, and as she leaned in, her knees, sheathed in deep purple stockings, nearly brushed against his leg.
He was truly, utterly captivated by this blonde doctor.
"Then," she whispered, her breath warm, "the daughter of Teacher Matsumoto—Alisa. You can try to approach her. Again, no need to directly ask for help or reveal your situation. Just let her notice your presence, your value."
"Your high school grades were even better than mine back in the day, weren't they?" Her fingers reached for his zipper, fascinated by the boy's intelligent mind and the savage strength hidden beneath his frail appearance.
The sound of the zipper sliding down was unusually clear in the quiet consultation room.
"An excellent mind, a unique perspective, and..." Her fingers closed around him, the slight coolness of the latex contrasting sharply with the heat of his skin, "this... astonishing talent. You have so much worth being seen, Rowan. Don't keep hiding in the shadows."
After the session ended, as Rowan slumped in the chair, panting, Dr. Carter wiped the semen from her hands with a tissue, her back turned to him—her voice still carrying a barely perceptible tremor:
"Remember, Alisa Matsumoto likes intelligent people. She appreciates those with thoughtfulness and depth. The Student Council's Academic Committee is recruiting new members soon. You should try out. With your grades, you'll easily pass."
She felt both excited and disappointed—disappointed that the boy hadn't licked her feet today. She had even sprayed perfume worth thousands of dollars on them in advance.
Meanwhile, Rowan closed his eyes, a vague figure appearing in his mind: tall, with black hair and a cool, detached aura.
Did Alisa perhaps have a mole at the corner of her eye, just like Ms. Matsumoto?
"I will," he murmured.
In that moment, he felt a strange connection—Dr. Carter's guidance, Ms. Matsumoto's sense of justice, and that yet-unmet Alisa Matsumoto.
These people were like a net, pulling him bit by bit from his mother's tight control, from Max's shadow, toward an unknown but perhaps broader world.
And in his hand, he still held that note. Masako Matsumoto's email address, written in neat handwriting, with the faint scent of ink.
And the sheen of Dr. Carter's stockings, still imprinted on his retina.
So, Rowan began to take notice of Alisa Matsumoto.
She was indeed a striking figure.
In the crowded hallways, she was like a moving island—people naturally made space for her but dared not approach or speak to her casually.
She was much taller than Ms. Matsumoto, even taller than his mother, Shivani, estimated to be close to 178 centimeters. Her posture was upright, with the long, lean proportions characteristic of a track and field athlete.
She wore her uniform impeccably: a pristine white shirt, a neatly tied necktie, and a gray pleated skirt whose hem swayed rhythmically with her steps.
Her hair was jet black, cut into a stylish, practical short bob.
Her face inherited her mother's East Asian features but with sharper, more defined lines: single eyelids with slightly upturned outer corners, a nose bridge higher than Ms. Matsumoto's, and thin, well-defined lips.
Unfortunately, she didn't have her mother's mole at the corner of her eye, but there was a very faint scar near the end of her left eyebrow, likely from a childhood fall.
Rowan also learned from the Student Council bulletin board that Alisa Matsumoto was a key member of the school's track and field team. No wonder she had such long, powerful legs, and her steps were always steady and full of spring.
Her name frequently appeared on lists of sports competition winners, often accompanied by the note "broke school record."
Rowan chose a direct approach.
The Student Council's Academic Committee was recruiting new members, with the requirement being "top 10% of the grade or winner of an academic competition award."
Rowan not only met the criteria but exceeded them—his grades consistently placed him in the top three of his grade, and last year he had won a silver medal in the National High School Mathematics Competition.
The application process was almost laughably simple: he submitted his transcript and award certificates online and received an interview invitation the very next day.
On the day of the interview, Rohan made sure to arrive early at the student council office.
It was a spacious room, its walls covered with activity photos and certificates of honor. The long conference table was spotlessly clean.
Several potted plants sat by the window, similar to those in Mr. Matsumoto's classroom—clearly the same variety.
Elisa Matsumoto was seated at the head of the conference table.
She wasn't wearing her school uniform today, but a simple dark blue knit sweater paired with beige trousers and white sneakers.
Her posture was upright, hands folded on the table, her gaze calm as she watched Rohan enter.
"Rohan Sharma?" Her voice was softer than expected, yet still carried a natural sense of distance.
"Yes."
"Please, have a seat." She gestured to the chair opposite her. "I'm Elisa Matsumoto, head of the Academic Committee."
Rohan sat down, sensing her gaze lingering on his face for a moment—was she looking at the mostly faded bruise around his left eye? Or was she assessing him, this "grade-skipper"?
"Your application materials are impressive." Elisa opened the folder in front of her, containing printed copies of the documents Rohan had submitted. "Second in your grade, silver medal in the math competition, and your physics teacher even wrote a special recommendation letter, saying you have 'rare abstract thinking abilities.'"
She looked up, her obsidian-like eyes meeting Rohan's directly:
"But I have a question. The work of the Academic Committee isn't just about studying and solving problems. We need to organize lectures, plan academic events, and sometimes mediate disputes between students over studies. This requires communication skills, the ability to… interact with people.
Your recommendation letter mentions that you are 'introverted and prefer solitude.' Do you think you can handle a role that requires frequent social interaction?"
The question was sharp, hitting right at the core.
Rohan took a deep breath.
"I believe," he began slowly, his voice steady, "that the ability to interact with people doesn't necessarily mean having to be the center of a party. The social aspect of the Academic Committee is more about communication based on shared interests and professional knowledge. And in that regard…"
He paused, meeting Elisa's eyes directly, "I believe I can contribute value. As for organizing events—I can learn. I'm good at learning."
Elisa watched him quietly. Her expression didn't change, but Rohan noticed her fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the folder once, rhythmically, as if in thought.
The meeting room fell silent for a few seconds. Outside the window, sunlight shifted, and a beam of light happened to fall on Elisa's face, illuminating the faint scar at the end of her left eyebrow, giving it a soft silver glow in the light.
"Alright," she finally said, closing the folder. "Welcome to the Academic Committee, Sharma. The first meeting is tomorrow at four in the afternoon, right here. Don't be late."
She stood up and extended her hand. Rohan rose as well and shook it. Her hand was dry and warm, her fingers long and strong, the handshake just right—neither perfunctory nor overly firm.
"Also," Elisa released his hand and added, her tone still calm, "my mother mentioned you. She said you're a 'promising kid.'"
Rohan's heart skipped a beat.
Elisa had already turned toward the filing cabinet, her back to him as she said, "Remember to bring a notebook tomorrow."
When Rohan left the student council office, his steps felt unsteady. The hallway was bustling with people, noisy and chaotic, but he could hardly hear any of it.
His mind echoed with Alisa's words: "My mother mentioned you."
Teacher Matsumoto had mentioned him. During a family dinner? In casual conversation? In what tone? What had she said?
And then Dr. Carter's voice: "You have so much worth being seen, Rohan."
He looked down at his own hand—the one that had just held Alisa Matsumoto's. It still felt slightly warm, as if the heat from her palm lingered.
Then he began to look forward to the next session. What color stockings would Dr. Carter wear? What would she say? How would she touch him?
A complex, turbulent warmth surged within him.
Shame, excitement, anticipation, confusion, and a faint trace of guilt.
He quickened his pace toward the school gate. The afternoon sun stretched his shadow long, making it dance and warp across the corridor's tiled floor...
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