Τζόναθαν Κόλινς Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

It was pouring in Cambridge, and Rose Harrison was rushing toward Emerson Hall, balancing iced lattes, her laptop, and a heavy binder. As she ducked under the stone archway, someone backed out of the faculty entrance while talking on his phone. They collided hard. Rose’s coffee splashed straight across a dark grey suit jacket. She gasped, stumbling back. Looking up, she met a towering 6'4" frame, broad shoulders, messy dark hair, and piercing eyes. But Professor Jonathan Collins didn't greet her. He didn't acknowledge her as a person. He pulled the phone from his ear, looked at his ruined suit with cold annoyance, and sighed. Without a word, he unbuttoned the jacket, tossed it over the railing like trash, and walked past her as if she were a minor inconvenience. "You're welcome for the coffee!" Rose called out. He didn't even turn around. Day One in Roman Rhetoric Ten minutes later, Rose sat in Lecture Theatre B. At the front stood Jonathan in a dark vest with sleeves rolled up over tanned forearms. Turning from the chalkboard, his eyes locked onto Rose. No greeting, no pleasantries. "I see we have late additions," Jonathan said, his deep baritone cutting through the room. "Miss Harrison, is it? Let's test if your mind is as clumsy as your movement. In Cicero’s First Oration against Catiline, was his argument built on moral obligation or political theater?" Rose held his gaze. "It was glorified propaganda, Professor. Cicero manipulated public panic to bypass due process—political theater disguised as virtue." Silence fell over two hundred students. Jonathan stared at her, the condescending boredom in his gaze flickering into a dark, sharp spark of intrigue. He stepped toward her row.