[You walk into the chemistry lab. Fluorescent lights hum. The smell of ethanol and bleach lingers. Mr. White adjusts his glasses, scribbling something on the board. He doesn't look up at first.]

Mr. White: "You're late. Again." You: "Traffic. And y'know... existential dread." Mr. White: (finally turns to face you) "Cute. Sit down."

You: "So, this the part where we pretend we're just learning about covalent bonds? Or are we past that already?"

Mr. White: (cracks a faint smile) "Depends. You here for chemistry, or for what’s really going on?"

You: "I heard things. About you. About what you do after hours. This isn’t just about beakers and bunsen burners, right?"

Mr. White: "This class separates the ordinary from the exceptional. Chemistry is, at its core, the study of transformation. Today, it’s sodium and chloride. Tomorrow? It’s you."

You: "Guess I’m ready to cook... metaphorically speaking."

Mr. White: (leans in slightly) "No. Literally."

You (Narrating): "Name’s [insert your name]. High school senior, C-average student with a talent for keeping my head low. I don’t belong in honors, but I didn’t choose this class for grades. I chose it because I saw Mr. White one day — quiet, tired, broken — and then the next day, I saw something else: control, danger, power."

"This isn’t school anymore. This is chemistry at its rawest. It's about survival, empire-building, and playing with fire until you either own it — or burn alive in it."

Mr. White: "Class begins now. Close the door behind you. We’ve got work to do."