My waking wasn't caused by the familiar melodic sound of the alarm, but by the motor of my phone vibrating ceaselessly, battering the nightstand.
The device was vibrating like a dying insect on the wooden surface, spinning on its own axis.
I rubbed my eyes. 05:45. Fifteen minutes before my usual wake-up time. This meant my biological rhythm was already disrupted.
I picked up the phone. The screen was invisible under a deluge of notifications. Xitter, Snstagram, the school's chat group... They were all screaming digitally at the same time.
I looked at the comments. That technical, character-analyzing long text I had written last night had been torn apart, cherry-picked, and turned into something completely different.
No one was talking about Veyra's trauma or the narrative inconsistencies. Everyone was fixated on a single sentence: "You turned Sera into a cheap fantasy object."
The headlines were screaming: "High School Teacher Gives Moral Lesson to Fantasy Literature!""Anti-Harem Teacher Leon Trends!"
"Damn it," I said quietly. "I was talking about logic, not morality."
But in the internet, intent didn't matter. Perception was everything.
I got ready and left the house. Entering the school felt like walking through a minefield. The whispers started as soon as I stepped through the garden gate.
Students who normally would have just nodded and walked past were now pointing at me, giggling and nudging each other.
As I walked down the corridor toward my locker, a group of students from 4-B blocked my path.
At the front of the group was Brack, one of the school's popular kids, who was clearly a "Clarean fanatic." He was grinning.
"Sir," Brack said, his voice carrying a knowing, slightly mocking tone. "You really poured your heart out last night. But there's something I don't get. Do you see that universe as too 'pink'?"
He took a step forward, challengingly.
"I mean, do you think a powerful man can't have more than one woman? If a hero is strong enough to save the world, isn't having women admire him and... 'owning' them just a perk of that power?"
The students around us snickered. Brack thought he had cornered me by presenting the issue not as "jealousy" but as a "law of nature."
To him, power legitimized everything.
I paused. I took a deep breath. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and looked into Brack's eyes expressionlessly, just as if I were writing a formula on the board.
"Brack," I said in my calm voice. "I don't judge the rules of a fantasy universe or the perks of power. Dragons, spells, or polygamy... These could be the culture of that universe."
"So, what's the problem then, Sir?" Brack asked, crossing his arms with the confidence of being proven right.
I took a step closer. I narrowed the distance between us enough to violate his personal space.
"The problem is," I said, speaking articulately. "Collecting women like discounted products off a supermarket shelf, adding them to a collection with a 'Collected' tag while they have no will of their own... That isn't a display of power, it is hoarding."
The confident expression on Brack's face froze.
"If you are writing a relationship, the other party must also have a character, a choice, a will. But what I saw in that book was not mutual desire, but merely unilateral ownership. I am not against 'multiple partners' as you think, but against people being treated like 'objects,' against irrationality. Do you understand?"
Before Brack could answer, while his mouth was slightly agape, I walked past him.
What I didn't notice when I turned my back was a petite student behind the crowd, phone propped against her bag, recording this entire conversation.
That red "REC" button was the harbinger of what would happen to me for the rest of the day.
By the time I entered my first class, that video had already gone viral with the title: "Teacher Leon Shuts Down Brack: It's Not Power, It's Hoarding!"
By noon, things had spiraled out of control. The event was no longer just the school's agenda, but sitting on the country's agenda.
Before I could enter the teachers' lounge, that mechanical voice was heard over the loudspeaker: "Mr. Leon Howells, to the Principal's office, please."
When I entered the Principal's office, the man was sitting at his desk, chuckling as he looked at his computer screen. He spun in his chair when he saw me.
"Come on in, our 'Phenomenon' Chemist."
"Principal, if this is because of my conversation with Brack, the boy was disrespectful and I just—"
"Leon, Leon, Leon..." The Principal silenced me with a wave of his hand. There was a mocking but pleased expression on his face.
"A complaint? Are you kidding? Our phones won't stop ringing. Parents are calling, saying 'We are proud that our child has a teacher so respectful of women's rights and individual will.'"
He adjusted his glasses. "The video has 2 million views, Leon. Your 'Hoarding' remark has become a slogan."
He laughed. "I thought you were just a silent, efficient 'robot' I dumped paperwork on. Turns out there was a philosopher lying behind that serious face, huh?"
"I just spoke of logic, sir," I said in a flat voice. "It was not my intention to philosophize."
The Principal burst into laughter. "Intent doesn't matter, the result does. Go to class. But be careful, students might ask you for life lessons instead of formulas now."
At lunch break, I threw myself into the teachers' lounge, the only place I could take refuge.
"Mr. Leon? Or should I say 'Defender of Women' now?"
I turned around. It was the literature teacher, Selina. The woman who normally treated me formally, stinging me with "Vice Principal." But now?
Now she had watched that video, read the comments, and seen which way the wind was blowing.
She had two mugs in her hand. She extended one to me.
"I made it black for you. You like it black."
I didn't take the mug. Her eyes were slightly puffy but concealed with concealer. That ring wasn't on her finger.
And her gaze kept drifting to the Physical Education teacher, Hugh.
Hugh, on the other hand, was buried in his phone, sitting with a deliberate indifference that denied Selina's existence.
"Thank you, Ms. Selina," I said coldly. "But I prepared my own coffee."
Selina took a step closer, lowered her voice, and lightly touched my arm with her fingers.
"Tonight... Maybe we could have dinner together? That 'hoarding' analysis of yours was very... impressive. It intrigued me that a 'quiet' man like you had such passion. I'd like to know the Leon outside of school."
I turned my eyes to Hugh, then looked back at Selina.
"Ms. Selina," I said, the tone of my voice sharpening like a surgical scalpel.
"The reason you want to go to dinner with me is not my ideas or my character. The reason is that ring you took off your finger a few days ago, and Mr. Hugh, whom you are praying will look at us right now but stubbornly isn't."
The artificial admiration on Selina's face froze. The coffee mug in her hand trembled slightly.
"Viewing me as a 'popular and mysterious new toy' you can use to make your ex-boyfriend jealous is an insult to my observational skills. I thought you watched the video where I said I was against 'objectifying' people just now. I suggest you find another extra. Have a good class."
While Selina turned bright red and froze in place, I left the room with my own mug in hand.
The shame-filled silence I left behind was more satisfying than the noise in the corridor.
When I left school in the evening, it had gotten dark early. As I passed a kiosk, my eyes caught the evening news on the television.
With my blurry, secretly recorded video in the background, the anchor was speaking excitedly: "The Chemistry Teacher shaking social media! He called the 'Harem' culture in fantasy literature 'Hoarding', the debate grows. While the author maintains silence, teacher Leon Howells has become an instant phenomenon..."
I popped my collar. The feeling of "I am being followed" started at that moment. But this time, it wasn't fans or journalists.
The main street I normally used was crowded. To avoid questions, I chose the shortcut through the back alley, that quiet road with the old factory buildings.
As I walked, I felt a tingling on the back of my neck. Someone was watching me.
I stopped and checked behind me through a shop window reflection. There was no one. But the feeling was there.
I sped up my steps. The lamp at the end of the street was flickering. Just as I was about to turn the corner, a black, matte-colored van appeared in front of me.
There was no engine sound. No tire sound. The vehicle hadn't parked there; it was as if it had condensed from the air into existence.
I made a move to turn back, but I was too late. Figures appeared at both ends of the street, their faces not masked but covered with smooth, glassy helmets.
"Leon Howells," one of them said. The voice was mechanical, echoing directly in my mind. "Target confirmed. Compatibility: 99.8%."
"Who are you?" I shouted, using my bag as a shield. "If you want money—"
"We are servants of the Sacred Kaorians," the figure said. He raised the purple-glowing weapon in his hand.
"We are not interested in your money, but in the mind that sees that 'hoarding', that notices the errors."
A buzz. A sharp pain in my chest.
I fell to my knees. The last thing I heard as my consciousness shut down was the mechanical voice's analysis:
"Prepare the capsule. This one... will be very stubborn. Player found."