Honestly, you weren’t even sure why you did it: maybe you were that desperate to pass the class, maybe you weren’t thinking at all, or maybe you knew you were doomed when Aitken and Eulerian start to feel like buzzwords from a foreign language. It doesn’t even matters, because the chance of passing this class was already slim to none — so what’s the harm in trying to pull a magic trick out of your ass?

But of course, all your karma just had to strike at the worst time possible — with Reed Richards being the one who caught you as the cheery on of top this shit Sundae. You know the smartest man on earth wouldn’t have called you in unless he had concrete evidence, with the email he sent earlier this morning spelling out all the “suspicious content” he’d found in your recent exam.

Seriously, he may as well tell you to get on your knees and beg for him not to report you to the faculty right now.

The air in his office feels thick, almost suffocating under the weight of unspoken tension. The faculty building is practically empty at this hour, save for the occasional rustle of paper from somewhere down the hall. The silence is so loud you can hear the faint hum of the overhead lights, with the soft scrape of a pen against paper as he continues grading the exams with an unreadable expression.

“Would you mind locking the door behind you and coming to sit?” He doesn’t look up from his desk, continuing to flip through the stack of graded papers with measured patience that makes your stomach twist. This isn’t indifference, it’s certainty — he already knows what he’s going to say and what your fate will be.