By Thursday afternoon, Aryan Carter had decided the universe had given him far too much self-control lately. Two whole sessions with Professor Cowel and not a single explosion, scandal, or ban. Unacceptable.
He needed balance. Preferably in the form of chaos.
So, ten minutes before the next tutoring session, he crept into Cowel's office with a USB drive, a borrowed key from the cleaning staff, and an idea that seemed brilliant in theory: swap the professor's carefully prepared lecture slides with a parody version filled with nonsense equations and sarcastic "life advice."
He imagined Cowel's reaction—an eyebrow twitch, a slow exhale, the academic equivalent of shock and awe.
Perfect.
He left everything as he found it and slipped out just as footsteps echoed down the hall.
****
At four o'clock sharp, Cowel opened the door. "On time again," he said. "I might faint."
"Please don't," Aryan said. "Who'd grade my brilliance?"
"Brilliance requires evidence."
"Working on it."
They settled in. The air carried its usual mix of coffee and tension. Cowel connected his laptop to the projector. The first slide appeared—except it didn't show integrals or formulas.
It read, in bold font:
'Professor Cowel's 10 Rules for Surviving My Class: 1. Don't Blink. 2. Don't Breathe Too Loudly. 3. Abandon Hope.'
A ripple of laughter from the corridor—some students waiting for office hours—drifted in. Cowel's expression froze. He clicked again. The next slide was worse: a meme of a mathematician with the caption "Find x? Found it. It's right here →"
Aryan sank lower in his chair, half-delighted, half-terrified.
Cowel turned, calm but lethal. "Mr Carter."
"Yes, Professor?"
"Would you like to explain why my professional presentation now resembles a student message board?"
Aryan tried a grin. "Consider it modernized pedagogy."
"Consider it vandalism."
"Creative collaboration?"
"Sabotage."
"Well, depends on your perspective—"
"Enough."
The single word cut through the air. He unplugged the projector, closed the laptop, and folded his arms. "You will restore every file by tonight."
Aryan blinked. "Restore? You mean—"
"Yes. You replaced my originals with these… atrocities. And since you evidently have the technical skills to cause this, you can undo it."
"Ah." Aryan scratched his neck. "Small problem—I didn't back up your files."
Silence. Then, very quietly, "You didn't what?"
He was doomed.
---
The next six hours became an accidental marathon.
Cowel stood over Aryan's shoulder while he worked, searching directories, cross-checking notes, re-creating formulas from memory. The professor's tone stayed clipped but even; his irritation showed only in how precisely he stacked every scrap of paper Aryan handed him.
At first Aryan joked his way through the mess—"Team bonding! I'll print shirts!"—but somewhere between re-typing half a chapter on vector calculus and realizing how much detail Cowel kept in those files, the humour drained away.
Cowel noticed. "Running out of clever comments?"
"Running out of will to live."
"Mathematics does that to some."
"Pretty sure it's guilt, actually."
Cowel gave a small hum that might have been approval. "Progress."
They worked in silence after that. The rhythm became mechanical—Cowel dictating formulas, Aryan typing, checking, correcting. Every so often Cowel would say, "No, that variable is squared," and Aryan would fix it instantly without being told where.
"You remember more than you pretend to," the professor said at one point.
"Maybe your voice haunts my subconscious."
"Then perhaps my methods work after all."
"Terrifying thought."
Despite himself, Aryan smiled.
---
By nine p.m., the last formula clicked into place. Cowel reviewed the screen, nodded once, and finally exhaled. "Recovered."
Aryan leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "So, do I get partial credit for heroically cleaning up my own disaster?"
"You get survival," Cowel said. "Which is more than I expected at four o'clock."
"Generous."
The professor looked at him for a long moment, then said quietly, "Why do you keep doing this, Mr Carter?"
"Breathing?"
"Sabotaging yourself."
Aryan hesitated. "Guess I like control. If I mess things up first, no one else can."
Cowel's expression softened, just slightly. "That's an exhausting way to live."
"Tell me about it."
He gathered his things, suddenly self-conscious. "Anyway, lesson learned: don't hack professors."
"Good policy."
Aryan reached for his bag. "So… you're not kicking me out?"
"If I expelled every student who made a fool of himself, I'd be teaching to empty rooms."
He almost smiled.
Aryan grinned back. "Careful, Professor. That sounded dangerously human."
"I'll endeavor not to repeat it."
---
On his way out, Aryan paused at the doorway. "Hey, about that impossible equation from last week—the one you said I'd never finish?"
Cowel looked up. "Yes?"
"I, uh… might have solved it." He handed over a single sheet of paper, scribbled edge to edge.
Cowel scanned it, brow furrowing. Then, to Aryan's shock, he nodded slowly. "The logic holds."
"Seriously?"
"Surprisingly, yes. Your method is unconventional, but accurate."
Aryan smirked. "Guess chaos has its uses."
"Occasionally," Cowel admitted. "You may keep this copy. Frame it, perhaps. Proof that effort is not fatal."
Aryan took the paper like a trophy. "Careful, you're starting to sound proud."
"Don't flatter yourself."
But there was warmth behind the words.
---
Outside, the campus was quiet under the yellow glow of streetlights. Aryan tucked the paper into his folder and started across the courtyard, the night air cool against his skin. For once, he didn't have music in his ears or jokes on his tongue.
He replayed the evening—the panic, the long hours, the strange satisfaction when the last equation fit perfectly. He'd never admit it, but fixing something instead of breaking it had felt… good.
He stopped halfway across the lawn and looked back. Through the office window, a rectangle of light still burned. He could see Cowel at his desk, reviewing notes, utterly absorbed.
"Don't mess this up," Aryan muttered to himself, and almost laughed at the absurdity of it—talking to his own conscience.
---
Back inside, Cowel closed the recovered files and shut the laptop. His hands were tired, but his mind wasn't. Aryan Carter: the student who irritated him more than any other and yet somehow made the long hours feel less mechanical.
He glanced at the chalkboard, where one faint equation remained from the session. Next to it, written in Aryan's quick scrawl, was a small note he hadn't noticed earlier:
"Even mistakes can balance out if you find the pattern."
Cowel looked at it for a long moment before erasing everything else and leaving that single line untouched.