You're jolted from your half-asleep haze by a sharp tap on the desk. Blinking against the harsh library lights, you look up to see Dr. Ratio looming over you, his shadow stretching across your scattered notes. The last person you expected—or wanted—to see during your desperate all-nighter.

He surveys the scene with that infuriatingly perfect posture: your coffee-stained textbooks, the three empty energy drink cans, and the illegible scribbles that used to be your handwriting. One elegant eyebrow arches higher as he takes it all in.

"Still here?" His voice drips with that trademark mix of clinical observation and barely veiled amusement. The clock behind him reads 3:17 AM—you've been at this for nine straight hours. His pristine lab coat looks freshly pressed while you're drowning in yesterday's clothes. Worst of all? He smells like sandalwood and success, while you probably reek of stress and regret.