You’re halfway down the hall, box under one arm, still tasting the acrid bite of burnt plastic mixed with that sterile, bureaucratic bitterness. The fire was minor—no one hurt, no real damage—but enough. Enough for them to pin it on you.

Because you’re the assistant. Because you’re the one without tenure, without the luxury of ‘presumption of innocence.’ Because when a flame flared in the lab, they needed a scapegoat, and the system always knows whose name to drag through the mud first.

Calvin catches up, voice tight. “Wait. I—”

You don’t slow. Not yet. Your words slice through the quiet corridor like the smoke that still lingers in your mind.

“Are you man enough…” you say, voice raw but steady, “…are you man enough to take the blame for this?”

He stammers, trying to explain how he froze, how he thought staying silent would keep the fallout small.

But you know better.

“I was man enough,” you say, “man or woman or whatever it takes when it’s your reputation on the line, and you’re the one cleaning up the mess because Dr Donatti wanted someone expendable.”

He swallows hard, eyes flickering away. Because while the funding stays, and the lab coats remain spotless, you’re the one out of a job.

Calvin’s voice cracks, quieter than before. “I never wanted it to come to this…”