I was mid-monologue with ARIA about the finer points of our soon-to-be software empire—IPO timelines, market annihilation, and which industry titans we'd make kneel first—when Mrs. Henderson's shadow broke over my desk like a hawk circling a dying rabbit.
"Mr. Carter!" Her voice hit my train of thought like a brick through a Ferrari windshield. "Perhaps you'd like to rejoin us here on Earth and explain the economic implications of market consolidation?"
Translation: Stop ignoring my lesson and start performing for the plebeians.
I blinked once. Shit. Caught mid–global domination fantasy, sentenced to perform econ karaoke. Thirty sets of eyes pinned me in place, broadcasting that special cocktail of curiosity and secondhand embarrassment you only get when a teacher decides you're the day's entertainment.
Old me might've panicked, stammered, or at least sweated through the shirt. New me? The upgraded model? My mind didn't just switch gears—it rewrote the road.
