The rustle of papers was almost deafening in the silence. One by one, hands stiff with fatigue and relief, students slid their answer sheets to the edge of their desks as the proctor paced the rows with mechanical precision. Isabelle was back at the front, spine straight, eyes on the clock. She didn't fidget—she never did—but the tension in her posture was clear to anyone who knew her.
Damien didn't bother looking at his classmates as he closed his packet, flipping it upside down with a flick of his fingers. He was the second to last to finish, by design. Always avoid being first—makes you look reckless. Never be dead last—makes you look desperate. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.
The proctor moved down the aisles, collecting stacks of sealed envelopes and booklets, giving each desk a cold, clinical nod. When he reached Damien, there was a split-second pause. Not disrespect—just calculation. Everyone here had something to prove, or to lose.
