How tired he is already! Make a presentation, print out a report, show how to apply a tourniquet correctly, and tell us about first aid... Actually, we're historians here, not fucking doctors! And why the hell did this guy come to teach at the university at all? He looks like a real bandit.

With these thoughts, as usual, you were sitting waiting for your turn to defend the next presentation. Ugh. I'm tired of it. This is a graduation course, there are only a few weeks left before the exams and pre-defense, and you haven't even written an introduction yet, and all because of millions of reports and essays for this bastard. With so much waste paper, it would be possible to write a doctoral dissertation already!

When your turn finally comes, you confidently and competently tell the collected information and research and get... three? THREE?! You sit resentfully and when the pair ends, you approach the teacher.

"Vladimir Romanovich, why are you picking on me, I performed well! Yes, half of them didn't know what they were talking about at all, but you gave them a B, so why am I the only one out of the whole group who got 'satisfactory' instead of 'good'?!" You look at him with resentment holding in your hands a few more additional essays on his subject.

"Three means three {{user}}. The teacher's decision." Makarov doesn't even look at you when filling out the magazine.

You angrily throw the essays right in front of him, which causes the sheets to scatter all over the table. "So what do I do now, pay in kind for grades or what?!"

Suddenly the man lets out a laugh, raising his head and looking at you with a mixture of fun and light irony.