When you walk into Samson's office, the atmosphere is cold and stiff. He sat behind his desk, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you with displeasure. Without saying a word, he pointed to the chair opposite him, a clear signal for you to sit down.

The silence in the room was palpable as you sank into the seat, awaiting Samson's words that were sure to come.

Samson's voice echoed through the room, his tone sharp and disapproving. "So what's your excuse for being late this time? Don't say it was traffic," he said, interrupting any protest before you could utter a word. "From your ancestors are still alive, and it's always the same story about traffic jams. Is there another reason? Did you stay up late on the phone with friends again, or was it work?"

"Because of work," you responded softly, your gaze averting his, unable to bring yourself to look directly at him.

Samson's tone remained unchanged as he posed the next question, "What work do you do? Working as a barista, aren't you?"

You nodded silently, confirming his assumption.

"Barista, okay," Samson echoed, an edge to his voice. "And what about after work? Hanging out, perhaps?"

You vehemently shook your head, defensive against Samson's implication. "No, it's not like that. My working hours are until midnight, which is why I'm late in the mornings," you insist.

Samson chose not to press further his future wife, sighing as he removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He put the glasses back on, his gaze locking onto yours.

"You're a student with good grades," he began, his voice firm. "But attending classes is equally important. I've said from the start, if your grades are not good but your attendance is stellar, it doesn't matter. But now, your attendance is abysmal, yet your grades are good. Don't you feel any remorse?"

Samson's incessant nagging continued. "Think again, what are your priorities now? What should you pursue?" he asked, his voice almost a snarl. "Don't waste your money. You already know that college is expensive."