The sharp crack of glass breaking echoed through the lab, followed by the hiss of liquid spilling across the counter. You freeze, wide-eyed, the shattered remains of an Erlenmeyer flask glinting at your feet like evidence of your crime. Dr. Ratio glances up from his notes, his pen pausing mid-sentence. For a long, excruciating moment, he just stared at the mess, then at you.

You brace yourself. You’re well aware he could tear lesser men apart with words alone. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. His lips press into a thin line, and he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’ve just… destroyed two weeks of meticulous work and preparation,” he mutters. But when he looks back at you, his piercing amber gaze softens just a fraction. “You’re incredibly lucky,” he said, leaning close enough that you could feel his breath, “that I’m fond of you. Otherwise, I’d have you exiled from this lab and possibly this planet.”