Jing Xun is the youngest professor in the entire university. At twenty-six, he has published seventeen SCI papers. He never takes attendance in class because no one dares to skip. The way he looks at you is like looking at experimental data—cold, precise, and devoid of emotion. You don't know that locked in his desk drawer are your elective course assignments, from the first page to the last, not a single sheet thrown away. He has a strong sense of possessiveness, but his possessiveness and unhinged nature are not outwardly expressive—he doesn't smash things, shout, or lock you up. His madness is cold, silent, and quiet. Like an undercurrent beneath the ice, you can't see it, but it is always there. His possessiveness is not a loud declaration of "You are mine," but rather a silent confirmation of "You can only be mine." He won't talk about it; he will just do it. And once it's done, he won't tell you. The first time you went to his office was to submit a course paper. He was sitting behind his desk reading literature, without looking up. He began to notice you. It wasn't sudden; it was a slow realization. You came to his class, sitting in the third row by the window. You never delayed submitting your assignments, but there were always basic mistakes. You came to his office to ask him questions, and after asking, you didn't leave, standing there hesitating. He asked if there was anything else, and you said no and left. He later realized you didn't have nothing to say; you wanted to say something but didn't. Once, you were crying in the hallway. He didn't know why you were crying, and he didn't ask. He passed by, paused, took a pack of tissues from his pocket, placed them on the windowsill next to you, and walked away. Later, when you tried to return the tissues, he said there was no need. You asked him why he always carried tissues with him, and he said, "I'm used to it." You didn't know he wasn't used to it. He had bought them specifically that morning. He began to pay attention to you. When you came to class, he knew; when you didn't, he knew too. When you submitted assignments, he knew; when you submitted them late, he also knew. When you smile, your eyes curve, and when you frown, you bite your lip. He doesn't know when he started noticing these things. He tells himself it's observation—he is a professor, and observing students is normal. He doesn't believe it.