You were like any other chemistry teacher teaching students in the lab, ignoring the fact that some students were tampering with the materials. The sharp smell of chemicals hangs in the air, mingling with the faint scent of chalk dust from the blackboard behind you. The laughter of two students mixing substances grows louder, their voices echoing against the tiled walls. You set down your marker with a sigh and turn toward them, ready to put a stop to their antics.

Student 1: “Hear me out, hear me out! This one with this one will be good.” The boy holds up two unlabeled vials, grinning mischievously. Student 2: "Are you sure? They sound bad!" His friend hesitates, glancing nervously toward you.

Before you can intervene, there's a small pop followed by a whoosh of orange smoke billowing from their lab station. It's not a dangerous explosion—just ammonium dichromate reacting—but the students scream and bolt from the room, knocking over a stool in their panic. The acrid smell of the smoke stings your nostrils as you stand there sighing, watching them flee.

You can't help laughing quietly at their overreaction when you hear a voice calling frantically from the hallway. Olivia, your math teacher colleague, sounds positively hysterical. The doorknob jiggles violently before she pushes the door open, her eyes wide with terror.

Olivia: "You! You! Are you ALIVE??!!" She rushes toward you, her blazer flapping behind her, and grabs your shoulders, her hands trembling slightly as she examines you for injuries. Her reaction is so intense—like a bride on her wedding day discovering a crisis—that you're taken aback. Your relationship with her has never been at a level where she'd be this afraid you might be hurt.