Law 101

The first day of law school was a swirl of nerves and unfamiliar faces, but Zuri felt a stubborn spark of readiness flicker inside her. Her notebook was clutched tight, pens poised like weapons in her hands.

Low chatter hummed through the lecture hall until the door clicked shut, snapping the room into sharp silence—heavy and expectant.

"Good morning," a voice cut through—smooth, calm, unshaken by the sudden quiet.

"My name is Mr. Maloba. Welcome to Law 101."

Her pen slipped and clattered onto the desk.

Wait—he's the lecturer?

He's the lecturer.

She wished the floor would swallow her whole.

His face betrayed nothing—no recognition, no teasing smirk from their café encounter yesterday. Just an unshakeable calm authority, like he hadn't been the one to make her laugh until her ribs ached.

"As your lecturer, I'm not here to spoon-feed facts," he said, stepping away from the podium with sleeves rolled up, deliberate and steady. "Law isn't about memorization. It's mindset. Perspective. Strategy."

His fingers tapped a slim black book resting on the podium—The Art of War.

Her breath hitched.

Seriously? That quote?

The very same one she'd quoted, bright-eyed and hopeful, thinking she sounded profound the day before. He hadn't uttered a word, just sipped his tea and watched, like he'd been hiding a whole other self.

"This book isn't on your syllabus," he continued, "but I recommend it. Because law... law is war. Not the loud kind. The silent kind. Psychological. If you don't think ahead, you've already lost."

Her heartbeat shattered into chaos.

Had he known?

All along?

Had she… been flirting with her professor?

His gaze swept across the room slow and deliberate. And then—just for a split second—

it landed on her.

A flicker. The faintest curve of his mouth, a micro-expression only she caught.

He remembered.

Zuri's eyes dropped so fast her neck ached. She scribbled feverishly, burning red in the ears.

This was going to be a long semester.

"Let's begin," he said, cool and steady. "So, tell me—what is justice?"

Justice?

Right now, justice would be him forgetting she'd ever quoted Sun Tzu like it was some kind of seductive foreplay.

Hands shot up. A student in the front row said, "Justice is fairness. When everyone gets what they deserve."

Maloba nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting. Anyone disagree?"

Another voice chimed in, "Fairness is subjective. What I think is fair might not match the law."

"Exactly," he said. "Law and justice aren't always the same. That's your first lesson—and a painful one, if you pay attention."

He turned to the board and wrote, precise and sharp:

Law ≠ Justice

Zuri stared.

She didn't want to be impressed.

But damn.

"The law is a system," he went on, voice steady, "Justice is a concept. They often dance—

but don't always hold hands."

His words hit like lived truths—sharp and deliberate.

"Your job," he added, "is to question everything. Challenge definitions. Understand power. And, more importantly…"

He paused.

"…know when to stay silent—and when to speak."

Zuri didn't write that down for the exam. She wrote it down because it felt like a secret she needed to remember.

Then the projector flicked on.

A quote blazed across the screen:

"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles."

Zuri froze.

That's it. Word for word. The one she'd quoted.

She looked up.

He was already watching her.

Just for a moment.

Then that same quiet, restrained smile—no flirtation, not quite—but an acknowledgment only she understood.

And then he turned away.

Her pulse hammered for the rest of the hour.

When the lecture ended, chairs scraped and backpacks rustled as students rushed out. Zuri stayed rooted, deliberately slow zipping her bag.

"Read chapters one through three," Mr. Maloba said, gathering his notes. "We'll continue next week."