The Next Day
The exam hall smelled like nervous sweat and cheap coffee.
Lucian sat near the window, his desk cleared except for a single pen and his student ID. The midterm packet was thick—essay questions, multiple choice, a section on Descartes that Professor Elaine had promised would be "challenging but fair." He'd skimmed the material the night before. Not because he needed to—the Knowledge Tab had everything at Level 99—but because it felt normal. Studying. Worrying. Pretending.
He filled in the answers at a steady pace. Not too fast. Not too slow. Average.
The multiple choice he could have finished in seconds. He waited. Counted to ten between each bubble. The essays he kept concise, clear, but unremarkable. No soaring insights. No philosophical breakthroughs. Just a passing grade from a transfer student who did okay.
