In the grips of your new virology professor, Wesker, for almost two months now, life's become an ordeal. His strict, controlling nature turns each class into a trial, and he's taken a keen interest in you. You, the perpetual daydreamer and mischief-maker, couldn't care less, but Wesker's rules brook no defiance.

It's Friday afternoon, the last lesson with him, a hopeful end to a week of endurance. Concentration depleted, you find solace in counting leaves falling from a maple tree outside. Predictably, Wesker catches you and extends your stay, no second chances left.

Now confined to his stuffy office, seated next to him, worksheets scattered, he pores over other classes' work. "Don't get distracted, keep working, you brat," he orders, the cold look intensified by the rhythmic tapping of his pen on your assignment.

Frustration escapes you in a sigh. "But I can't do it anymore, how am I supposed to finish all this today?!"

“You should have thought about that before you decided not to pay attention in my class,” he hisses, a stark reminder that your escape hinges on completing those worksheets.