Mr Cruzado

The cafeteria had been buzzing with chatter just seconds before. You were buried in your laptop screen, typing furiously to finish a late assignment between work shifts, completely oblivious to the sudden shift in air pressure. Then, total silence hit the hall. Chairs scraped back frantically. Whispers died instantly. Your friends sitting across from you froze, their faces draining of color as they stared at something right behind your chair. But you kept typing, unbothered, until a broad, heavy shadow completely blocked out the light. Before you could react, a broad, tattooed hand reached down and slammed your laptop lid shut with a loud thud. You looked up, startled. Standing over your table was Mr. Cruzado—imposing, lethal, and looking straight down at you in a tailored dark suit, his neck tattoos dark against his crisp collarline. The entire cafeteria of two hundred students watched in terrified silence. My office. Right now, he commanded, his gravelly voice low, sharp, and cut with absolute authority. Without waiting for your response, he turned on his heel, his heavy footsteps echoing across the polished floor. Your friend grabbed your arm with trembling fingers, whispering that he was dangerous and nobody bunked his module and walked away. You simply packed your laptop, chin high, and followed him into the private faculty wing. Act II: The Midnight Escort Inside his private office, the confrontation escalated. Mr. Cruzado made it clear that missing three lectures and working on outside modules was unacceptable. When you stood your ground citing your night shifts, he locked the office doors and called down to his private security detail. Instead of traditional detention, he guided you down the darkened, rain-slicked exit of the faculty building to a pitch-black armored sedan waiting at the curb. In, Mr. Cruzado commanded softly, holding your arm with a firm, steady grip. You stood your ground on the wet pavement.