My steps were hesitant as I crossed the doorway.
The house felt different from how it looked on the outside.
Not scary. Not dark. But… too quiet. Too clean.
Every corner was neat, almost unnervingly so—like a display home, not a place where someone actually lived.
No stack of magazines. No scattered clothes.
Only the faint scent of old wood, a trace of floor cleaner, and… the soft aroma of black coffee.
Aslan walked ahead of me into the living room.
A gray sofa. A small black metal coffee table.
A bookshelf filled with math journals—and… a few classic novels.
Who would've thought?
"Sit," he said curtly, pointing to the sofa.
I sat down slowly, awkwardly, feeling like an intruder in a secret base.
Aslan sat at his desk, took my answer sheet, and began checking it—each mark swift, precise, and merciless.
His hand moved methodically as he placed the paper aside, his eyes lifting to meet mine.
That look—sharp, dissecting—didn't just cut; it examined, like a surgeon who knew exactly where your weaknesses were.
"You may be an ordinary student," he said quietly, "but being ordinary doesn't mean you get to be careless, lazy, or irresponsible."
His words were cold. Sharp. But he didn't raise his voice.
And somehow, that calmness made them hurt even more.
"One mistake, and you think the world will forgive you? The world doesn't care."
I wanted to argue. But I had no strength left. So I just sat there, silent, under his gaze.
"Number one," he said after a pause. "Wrong. Just because you misplaced a parenthesis."
I looked down.
"Number two… also wrong. You forgot that a negative exponent turns a number into its reciprocal."
The sound of his pen scratching across the paper hit me like a hammer to the chest.
"Number three—half right. But the formula you used was sloppy."
I clenched my fists. His voice wasn't just firm—it was like a mirror reflecting exactly how not good enough I really was.
Then silence.
"Number four and five… correct."
My head shot up. Correct?
Aslan nodded once, setting down his pen.
I blinked.
"But still not good enough," he added flatly.
I swallowed, unsure whether to feel proud or more humiliated.
"Are you hungry?"
The question startled me. Again.
I opened my mouth to say no, but my stomach answered first—loudly.
Aslan closed his eyes for a moment—either holding back laughter or annoyance. I couldn't tell.
Without a word, he stood and walked to the kitchen.
I heard the sound of a cupboard opening, dishes clinking, then footsteps returning.
A moment later, a bowl of chicken soup appeared in front of me.
Simple. But warm. And… completely unexpected.
"This isn't a café," he said shortly. "But if you faint in my living room, I'm not taking responsibility."
I looked at the bowl, then at him.
Mr. Aslan didn't sit back down right away. He returned to the kitchen—doing who knows what.
Slowly, I reached for the spoon.
The soup was warm. Gentle.
And it tasted… far better than I ever imagined—especially coming from someone like Aslan.
Suddenly, he returned.
A glass of matcha was placed on the table in front of me.
"Someone gave it to me," he said flatly. "I don't drink matcha. Rather than letting it go to waste, you can finish it."
I tried not to grin. Deep inside, I was screaming: Sir, I'm a matcha lover!! You could give me a whole bucket, and I'd drink it all! In fact, if you'd allow me, I'd happily take over your entire stock of matcha in this house!!!
But of course, I didn't say any of that. I just nodded politely and whispered,
"Thank you…"
There was a brief silence. Then, out of curiosity, I asked,
"Sir… my mom said you're actually a friendly person."
Aslan glanced at me, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"That's because your mother was never my student."
I winced at his answer, sipping my matcha quietly while sneaking glances at him. He was back to whatever he was doing — papers scattered around, including my answer sheet, now covered in red markings. His expression stayed the same: cold, serious, sharp.
And yet, somehow, he didn't seem as harsh as usual today. Maybe it was the quiet warmth of his house… or maybe it was the bowl of soup still steaming in front of me.
"Sir…"
"Again?" he said without looking up, his tone flat but this time laced with a tired sort of humor.
I held back a smile.
"Did you cook this soup yourself?"
"No. I called a Michelin three-star chef just to make that."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
"I'm not joking," he said — with a tone far too monotone to be taken seriously.
"Then…" I hesitated. "Thank you. For… not letting me go home on an empty stomach."
"Just because you're lazy and careless," he said quietly, "doesn't mean you deserve to starve."
----------------
After I finished eating, I thought I could finally go home.
But apparently, the soup had only given me enough energy for the next punishment — because Mr. Aslan stopped me.
"You got three questions wrong," he said, tapping the paper with his finger. "And you're not leaving until you fix them."
I nearly stood up. "Right now, sir?"
"If it's tomorrow, then why would you even come here today?" he replied without looking at me.
I glanced at the door… then back at the sheet covered in red ink. My will to escape completely vanished the moment he lifted his head and gave me that signature look — cold, sharp, and far too intimidating to argue with.
So, after awkwardly washing my bowl in his kitchen, I sat back down at the table.
Pencil in hand, problem set in front of me, and my motivation to study… somewhere at rock bottom.
Mr. Aslan was still at his desk, but I could feel his eyes on me from time to time.
And when he realized I was completely lost — trapped between numbers, strange formulas, and the desperate urge to flee — or maybe because I'd been staring at the same question for far too long, like I was reading a weather forecast in another language… he finally sighed, defeated.
I heard his long exhale.
Slow footsteps. The sound of a chair being dragged. And before I knew it, he was right beside me.
"Move," he said curtly.
I shifted a little. He sat down, reached for my worksheet, and placed it between us.
"Where?" he asked, skipping any sort of preamble.
"Every part that has numbers and an X," I muttered softly.
He looked at me for a moment. Then back at the paper.
"Great. So basically, every part of it."
I bit my lip. But he began explaining.
His movements were quick, efficient. His tone stayed flat, but he went through each step slowly. His slender hand pointed at the numbers and symbols, scribbling on a blank sheet to illustrate concepts I was sure I'd never be able to grasp.
Sometimes I nodded, even though I didn't completely understand—and that was when he stopped. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Pretending to get it?"
I sighed. "Sort of."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if restraining himself from strangling my entire thought process. But strangely, he didn't get angry. He just took a breath, then rewrote the equations on a blank paper—this time slower, simpler, more… human. His hand moved deftly, his voice still even but the rhythm changed, almost as if he was adjusting to the sluggish tempo of my brain.
I didn't say much. He didn't talk about anything besides the lesson.
Yet somehow, that silence felt better than sitting alone in my room, staring at the questions in frustration.
And this time… I understood.
"Ahhh! Okay! This—this actually makes sense now!" I exclaimed, nearly slapping the table in excitement.
He glanced at me. "If you understand because of my explanation, no need to be dramatic."
I pouted, then looked at him again. Observing.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and from this close, I could catch the faint scent of coffee and… soap. Not a sweet or fancy cologne, but clean—like someone who never bothered with trivial things unless they involved mathematics.
Occasionally, I found myself watching him longer than necessary as he continued explaining. It felt strange. All this time, I'd only ever seen him as an ice tower in class. But here, tonight, he was sitting beside me. Helping, not judging.
And for the first time… numbers didn't seem so terrible.
When I finally solved one of the problems on my own, he simply said,
"There. Why not do it like that from the start?"
I let out a deep sigh, staring at my work. "Because I'm just a normal human, sir."
He glanced at me briefly. "A normal human… with a slow processor."
I pursed my lips, not responding.
But secretly, I felt proud. The question had been tough, and even though it took time, I managed to solve it by myself.
Something that usually left me frustrated at home… now felt a little lighter, even if it still drained me.
He studied my answer sheet for a moment, then gave a small nod.
"Not bad. Two more questions."
I slumped in my seat. "Sir…"
"You solved one this fast, and you think I'll just forgive the other two?" he said flatly.
I wanted to protest, but his eyes had already returned to his notes—a clear sign that the discussion was over and I should just continue.
But for some reason, I didn't move right away. My eyes wandered to the clock on the wall. It was almost eight. There was no sound except the scratch of pencils, quiet breaths, and the ticking of time.
It was a strange atmosphere. Not uncomfortable… but not entirely comfortable either.
I glanced at him again. His hand moved steadily as he wrote, brows slightly furrowed. He didn't try to make conversation or fill the silence. And oddly enough, I appreciated that.
Not every silence needed to be filled with words.
I turned back to the next problem, trying to recall what he'd just taught me. My hand began to move, pencil gliding across the page. I could feel his gaze flicker in my direction, but he didn't comment—maybe assessing how far I could go on my own.
After a few minutes, I finished. I handed the paper to him quietly.
He read it quickly, then gave a small nod.
"Correct."
My eyes widened. "Seriously?"
"Twice lucky. Tomorrow you might go back to minus level."
I grimaced, but couldn't help smiling a little.
"Can I go home now?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately, but then he gave a slight nod.
I stood by the doorway. "Thank you, sir… for the soup, the matcha, and the lesson today."
He didn't turn around, but his voice came, low and even.
"Next time, come better prepared."
I nodded, even though he couldn't see it. "Alright."
And as I stepped out of his house, I realized… today wasn't as hard as I'd imagined.
And from that night on, I knew—
Maybe… maybe I wasn't that hopeless at math after all.
And maybe Mr. Levi wasn't the easiest teacher, nor the friendliest neighbor.
But there was something beneath his sternness.
Something that quietly made me want to know more.
And since that day, one thought stayed with me:
If I don't change… then I truly deserve to stay under that pole. Forever.