Timothy stood and immediately all eyes were on him.
The sound of chair legs scraping the floor echoed across the classroom, louder than it should have. Every head turned. Pens froze mid-scratch, calculators paused mid-click. The silence cracked into whispers.
"Eh? What is he doing? Did he finish?"
"No way, it's only twenty minutes!"
Even Tiffany's hand stilled above her paper. She turned slowly, her brows knitting together behind her glasses. For someone who always seemed untouchable, always composed, the sharp gasp that escaped her lips betrayed genuine shock.
The professor's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Guerrero. Are you telling me you're finished?"
"Yes, sir," Timothy answered calmly.
The professor set the chalk down, crossed his arms, and studied him for a long moment. The man was a terror, infamous across multiple colleges for his exams, his high standards, his failure rates that gutted entire sections. He had made this test deliberately brutal—implicit differentiation layered with chain rules, trigonometric tricks hidden in proofs, hyperbolic derivatives disguised as logarithms. He expected at least half the room to drown.
Yet here was this boy, average at best all semester, standing like he'd just solved a crossword puzzle.
"Step forward," the professor said finally.
Timothy walked to the front. He laid his booklet on the desk. The professor pulled it closer, flipped it open without ceremony, and reached for a folded sheet beneath his lesson plan, an answer key.
The class held its breath.
Page one. The professor's eyes flicked from the question, to Timothy's solution, to his own key. His brow twitched. He flipped to the next.
Page two. His lips pressed together. He checked a derivative three times, moving his pen to confirm each step. Perfect.
Page three. He stopped, scanning faster now, hunting for mistakes, signs of luck. But every line flowed, every simplification landed exactly where it should.
By page five, the professor's composure slipped. His eyes widened, not fully, but enough for the front row to see. He turned another page with a sharper flick than intended. Students craned their necks, trying to read his expression.
Finally, the professor closed the booklet with a snap, his knuckles whitening against the cardboard cover.
He looked up at Timothy.
"Mr. Guerrero," he said slowly. "How did you get it all right?"
Hearing that, the class erupted from shock.
Hearing that, the class erupted from shock.
"No way!"
"Perfect score?!"
"Impossible!"
Some students groaned, clutching their heads like they had just witnessed an alien land in front of them. Others whispered with a mix of awe and envy. Even Tiffany was shocked as she expected nothing from him as she considered him average.
She wasn't even halfway through this exam, and here was Timothy, who she barely noticed until now, getting it all right.
The professor raised a hand, silencing the noise with just his presence. His sharp eyes bored into Timothy, not angry, but burning with something deeper: suspicion, disbelief, and the smallest trace of curiosity.
"You've been scraping by all semester, Guerrero," he said.
Barely passing quizzes. Struggling with problem sets. And now…" He tapped the closed booklet with his finger. Thock. "Now you solve the most difficult exam I've written this year in twenty minutes."
Timothy met his gaze without flinching. "I studied hard, sir."
A ripple of laughter, half disbelieving, broke from the back row. The professor silenced it instantly with a glare. His eyes didn't leave Timothy. "Studied hard, you say." He leaned forward slightly. "Hard enough to beat every trick I laid out? Hard enough to solve implicit derivatives most graduate students stumble over?"
Timothy didn't answer right away. He could feel dozens of eyes boring into him.
For a heartbeat, the pill's sharpened clarity urged him to say something bold. But he swallowed it back. Modesty was safer.
"I just… understood it this time, sir," he said carefully.
The professor searched his face for a long, heavy second, like a hawk watching a rabbit that suddenly sprouted wings. Then he leaned back and exhaled through his nose.
"Sit down, Guerrero," he said at last. His tone wasn't mocking, nor dismissive. It carried something different. Respect? Wariness? Even Timothy couldn't tell.
Timothy bowed his head slightly and returned to his seat.
"Continue your exams," he ordered. "One hour and twenty-five minutes remain."
His classmates resumed their exams and after one hour and twenty-five minutes, they all passed their papers. The professor is the type of a professor who would check the papers the moment it was passed so that the students themselves can calculate their grades.
And nearly everyone got a zero on their test, even Tiffany who looked pale as she stared at her paper. Her perfect handwriting filled only half the booklet, deductions slashed in red ink across every other line. She bit her lip, eyes lingering on the bold "0/10" scribbled at the top. For someone who was always composed, always the untouchable burgis who never seemed to falter, the cracks showed.
Timothy didn't linger. He had his own classes to attend and just like what happened in this classroom, happened there also.
By late afternoon. Timothy adjusted the strap of his bag as he made his way toward the exit gate. His shift at the café shop was starting soon—he still needed money, and part-time work couldn't just vanish because of one diamond ring or one perfect exam.
The streets outside were buzzing with jeepneys honking, vendors calling out about kwek-kwek and fishballs, and students spilling out of campus in chatter.
But then he stopped.
Near the gate, standing just a step away from the iron bars, was Tiffany Co. Her polished look hadn't faded, white blouse tucked neatly, skirt perfectly pressed, leather bag hanging from her shoulder, but her face was different. It had a tight and determined expression and she was just blocking his way.
And she wasn't moving aside either.
Timothy slowed, confused. "Uh… Co?" he asked cautiously. "What's this about?"
"I want you to tutor me."
Timothy blinked. He actually glanced behind him, half-expecting she was talking to someone else.
"Wait… what?"
"I want you to tutor me," she repeated. Her fingers gripped her bag tighter, betraying the nerves underneath. "You finished that exam in twenty minutes and got everything right. I…" She hesitated, her voice dropping just a notch. "…I can't afford to fail this class. I need your help."
Timothy just stared, speechless. Out of all the things he expected—mockery, accusations of cheating, maybe even silence—this wasn't on the list.
Tiffany Co, the lawyer's daughter, the rich girl who never spoke to anyone, was asking him for help.
And not just help.
Tutoring.