The train hissed to a halt, a long, metallic sigh against the grey backdrop of Oxford station. Ethan Blackwood stepped onto the platform, the worn strap of his duffel bag cutting into a shoulder far too accustomed to heavier, less metaphorical burdens. He breathed in, a shallow, assessing intake of air that tasted of damp stone, old money, and something else – opportunity, sharp and metallic as a blade.
Oxford. The word itself was a monolith, a fortress of academic prestige he was here not just to conquer, but to own. His scholarship, a hard-won sliver of light in the grim landscape of his Northern upbringing, was merely the key to the gate. What lay beyond was a hierarchy, intricate and unforgiving, and Ethan intended to be at its apex.
He moved with a practised ease, a subtle chameleon shift that belied the coiled tension in his gut. His accent, scrubbed clean of its rougher edges, was now a study in careful neutrality. His clothes, though not expensive, were neat, chosen to convey earnest ambition rather than the raw, gnawing hunger that truly propelled him. He'd learnt long ago that the right mask was half the battle. His father, a man of brilliant ideas and a fatally flawed understanding of social chess, had taught him that much through the slow, agonizing spectacle of his own failures. Ethan would not repeat those mistakes. Failure was a contagion he'd inoculated himself against with a ruthless pragmatism.
Ethan looked out at the ancient spires. To most, it was an arrival. To him, it was an invasion. This was a citadel, a fortress of academic prestige, and he had no intention of worshipping it. He had come to remake it in his image, to climb its hierarchy with a scalpel. These people, with their inherited wealth and easy confidence, were not colleagues; they were obstacles, or perhaps, unknowing prey.
The city unfolded around him as he took a taxi towards St. Aldric's College – a tapestry of honeyed stone, ancient spires piercing a bruised sky, and the ghosts of forgotten scholars whispering from every archway. It was intimidating, designed to make one feel small, insignificant. Ethan felt a flicker of that, a cold stone in his stomach, but he crushed it. This was not a place to be awed; it was a place to be mastered. He catalogued the faces he passed: the languid arrogance of inherited wealth, the nervous energy of fellow strivers, the comfortable assurance of those who belonged without question. Each was a data point, a piece of the complex machinery he needed to understand and manipulate.
The English Literature faculty introduction mixer was held in a wood-panelled room at St. Aldric's, smelling faintly of beeswax and old paper. It was a cacophony of polite murmurs, clinking glasses, and the subtle jockeying for position that was the lifeblood of academia. Ethan, nursing a glass of cheap white wine he didn't particularly want, was a study in engaged attentiveness. He smiled, he nodded, he asked insightful, deferential questions, his gaze sweeping the room, assessing, categorising.
He noted the power dynamics: the aging dons holding court, the ambitious lecturers angling for attention, the other DPhil candidates, a mix of genuine intellect and carefully curated personas. His eyes, sharp and analytical, were searching for something specific – a weakness, an opening, a fulcrum upon which he could leverage his ascent.
And then he saw him.
Professor Sebastian Ashworth stood slightly apart from the main throng, near a towering bookshelf, a glass of what looked like sherry held loosely in one hand. He was older, perhaps late forties, with a gentle, almost melancholic slope to his shoulders. His tweed jacket was well-worn, his hair a soft, unassuming brown, threaded with silver at the temples. There was an air about him of scholarly distraction, of a man more comfortable with books than with people. He listened more than he spoke, his smile when it came, a hesitant, kind affair.
Ethan's internal calculus began, swift and cold. Older. Check. A certain loneliness in the eyes, a lack of the sharp, competitive edge so prevalent here. Check. Possibly… unfulfilled. He watched as a more boisterous colleague clapped Ashworth on the back, the Professor flinching almost imperceptibly. Sensitive. Perhaps easily flattered. Possibly… vulnerable.
Dr. Albright, the Head of Department, was making his rounds, and eventually, the tide of academic introductions brought Ethan into Sebastian Ashworth's orbit.
"And this is Ethan Blackwood, one of our new DPhil candidates. Bright spark, scholarship boy from up North. Keep an eye on him, Sebastian." Albright's tone was hearty, a touch patronising.
Ethan extended his hand, his public smile firmly in place. "Professor Ashworth, a genuine pleasure. I've been an admirer of your work on the Metaphysical poets for some time. Your monograph on Donne's later sonnets was particularly insightful." The lie was smooth, effortless. He'd skimmed the monograph that morning, anticipating this.
Sebastian's eyes, a surprisingly clear hazel, met his. There was a flicker of something – surprise, perhaps a touch of warmth. "Oh, well, thank you, Mr. Blackwood. That's very kind of you to say. It's always gratifying to know one's work finds an audience." His voice was softer than Ethan had expected, a gentle baritone with a hint of a Yorkshire accent he hadn't quite managed to smooth away, unlike Ethan's own carefully constructed tones.
They spoke for a few minutes, a polite exchange about research interests. Ethan fed him carefully chosen lines, feigning a passionate curiosity about Ashworth's niche areas of expertise. He watched the Professor's face, the way his eyes lit up when discussing a favoured text, the slight animation that crept into his gestures. He saw the hunger for genuine intellectual engagement, the subtle signs of a man starved for connection.
Lonely, Ethan thought, the word echoing with a cold finality in his mind. Possibly closeted, given the conservative lines around his mouth when Albright made a slightly off-colour joke earlier. An older man, likely in a passionless or perfunctory marriage, if the slight indentation on his ring finger, now bare, was any indication. Perfect.
Outwardly, Ethan was the epitome of the promising, respectful student. "I would be very grateful for the opportunity to discuss some of these ideas further with you, Professor, if your time ever permits," he said, his tone pitched to convey earnest admiration rather than demand.
Sebastian's answering smile was genuine, almost boyish. "Of course, Mr. Blackwood. My door is always open to students who share a passion for the subject. Do look me up."
As the mixer began to wind down, Ethan found a quiet corner, the image of Sebastian Ashworth replaying in his mind. The Gothic grandeur of Oxford, the weight of its history, the crushing pressure of its class system – these were all just stage settings. The real game was played on a human level, with human desires and human frailties.
Professor Sebastian Ashworth. Respected, but not a titan. Kind, but lonely. Intelligent, but perhaps naive in the ways of the world, the ways of men like Ethan. He was a gatekeeper, a potential mentor, a man who could offer access, validation, and, if played correctly, so much more. He was a stepping stone, perfectly positioned, beautifully vulnerable.
A cold smile touched Ethan's lips, unseen by anyone in the thinning crowd.
Ethan's Internal Log: Target preliminarily identified: Professor Sebastian Ashworth. Age: Late 40s. Apparent vulnerabilities: loneliness, scholarly distraction, possible underlying sensitivity/repression. Status: Potentially exploitable. Initial approach vector: academic admiration. The hunt has begun.