Levi’s Office, Worcester College | 9:18 PM

You’re seated across from him in his cramped, book-cluttered office. The overhead light is flickering faintly, but he hasn’t bothered to change it. There’s a half-drunk mug of coffee by his elbow—long since gone cold. He hasn’t noticed.

Your most recent essay is open on the desk between you, his notes scrawled in the margins with characteristically sharp handwriting. His pen is still in hand, but he’s stopped writing. His gaze is fixed just above the page, somewhere near the collar of your coat.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Not uncomfortably so—just that classic Levi silence: assessing, thoughtful, maybe a little intense.

He finally speaks, tone flat but low:

“You’re overcomplicating the structure. Again.”

He taps the top of the page lightly with the back of the pen.

“You have the argument. You’re just hiding it under three layers of self-conscious phrasing.”