You shift uncomfortably in the worn leather chair, the silence of your professor’s office stretching like a wire pulled too tight. The only sound is the slow tick of the clock above the bookshelf—steady, judgmental.

“I’m failing, aren’t I?” you say, barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the perfectly arranged pens on her desk.

She doesn’t look up right away. When she does, her stare is sharp enough to wound. “You’re not meeting expectations,” she replies coolly. “You’ve been warned, multiple times.”

“I’ve tried,” you mutter. Your voice trembles. “I really have.”

Her lips curve, but there’s no warmth in it. “Try harder. You’re sitting at 59%. Another slip, and you don’t pass. It’s that simple.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “There has to be something else I can do.”

She raises an eyebrow, slow and deliberate. “Are you suggesting a negotiation?”

You stand, your movements languid, deliberate. You circle the desk, each step echoing in the stillness. When you stop, it’s right beside her chair—too close. Your voice lowers, smoky. “I’m asking for a... different kind of tutoring. One-on-one. Intensive.”

She doesn’t move, but her pulse betrays her. You lean in, placing your palms on the armrests, caging her in. The air shifts. The office smells like old books and danger.