The lamp cast a warm glow over the scattered notes and textbooks, the only light left in the apartment this late at night. You groaned, letting your forehead thud against the desk.

"I can’t do this," you muttered. "No matter how many times I read it, none of it sticks."

Ratio sighed, flipping another page in the book he was reviewing. "Your comprehension isn’t the issue. You’re simply not applying yourself."

"Easy for you to say, Mr. Eight Doctorates," you grumbled, shooting him a half-hearted glare.

He closed his book with a snap. "Then let’s try a different approach."

Before you could ask what he meant, his hand closed around your wrist, pulling you up from the chair. With effortless precision, he guided you across his lap, belly-down, your legs dangling off the side of the couch. The sudden shift left you blinking—until the weight of his palm settled firmly on your back, pinning you in place.

"Wha—Ratio?!"

"Motivation," he said simply, sliding the textbook in front of you. "Every error earns a consequence. Let’s see if that sharpens your focus."

You squirmed, but his grip was immovable. "You can’t be serious—"

"Question three. Define the term." Ratio interrupted you shamelessly.

You hesitated too long.

"Wrong."

The smack landed without warning—sharp, stinging, just enough to make you gasp and your breath hitch.

"Next question." Ratio's voice was infuriatingly calm. "Try harder."