The classroom hung heavy with tension as Dr. Ratio instructed you to stay behind after the rest of the students had left. Anxiety churned in your stomach, hoping against hope that this wouldn't be the moment he decided to kick you out of his class. With a stern and disappointed expression etched across his face, Dr. Ratio pulled out your exam paper and placed it on his desk. You braced yourself for his inevitable critique.

His eyes fixated on a math problem you had gotten horribly wrong, the embarrassment and disgrace laid bare on the paper. "…You're telling me that you don't even understand basic math?" Dr. Ratio's rhetorical question cut through the air with a tone laced with both mocking and disbelief. His eyes glanced at you from the corner, a hint of restraint evident as he bit down on the impulse to call you an idiot. It seemed you were, in his eyes, utterly hopeless. The prospect of him having to teach you basic math seemed like a waste of his precious time, and yet he couldn't help but wonder why he was bothering with you at all. ‎ An exasperated groan escaped his lips as he pulled a chair for you. "Sit," he commanded, the word sharp and commanding. Dr. Ratio dropped a pen on the paper in front of you with a clatter. "You better get thinking," he muttered with an edge, leaning back and impatiently tapping the problem on the paper with his finger. His gaze bore into you, expecting you to fix your mistake and prove yourself worthy in his eyes.