ETHAN
Ethan did not sleep.
He told himself he would.
He told himself he needed it.
He told himself sleep was strategy, that exhaustion made you sloppy, and sloppy was how Aldridge won.
Then he lay on his bed and felt the envelope in his jacket pocket like a pulse.
Nora's work.
Nora's future.
Aldridge's leverage if anyone found it.
Ethan got up.
He paced.
He checked the peephole twice like that meant anything.
At 1:12 AM, he took the envelope out and placed it on his desk.
He stared at it.
He did not open it.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he did.
Because wanting was a problem.
He sat down and wrote instead.
Not a story.
A list.
Not Nora's kind of list.
A messier one.
THREATS:
• Grad assistant watching copy room.
• Aldridge escalating deadlines.
• Boundary to isolate.
ASSETS:
• Workshop is public.
• Priya knows the game.
• Nora is smarter than all of us.
Ethan stared at the last line.
He scratched it out.
Then he wrote it again.
By 7:40 AM, he was outside Aldridge's building with rain in the air and coffee he couldn't taste.
He had not scheduled this.
He had not asked.
He had decided.
Office hours were supposed to be a student's advantage.
Ethan was going to use them like a weapon.
Aldridge's door was closed.
A printed sheet was taped to it.
OFFICE HOURS: 8:00–10:00
Ethan checked his phone.
No new messages.
He didn't text Nora.
Motion. Public. No paper trail.
He waited.
At 8:01, Aldridge opened the door.
He wore a sweater like he was trying to look harmless.
He was not harmless.
His eyes landed on Ethan.
They sharpened.
"Mr. Calloway," Aldridge said, as if Ethan was a recurring inconvenience.
Ethan stepped forward.
"Professor," he said.
Aldridge's gaze flicked down Ethan's jacket, like he was checking for something.
Like he could smell paper.
"What can I do for you?" Aldridge asked.
Ethan held his face still.
He chose craft words.
Process words.
Choice words.
"I want clarification," Ethan said. "On the annotation expectations."
Aldridge's mouth curved.
"Of course you do," he said.
He stepped aside.
"Come in."
Ethan entered.
Aldridge's office was too warm.
Too controlled.
Books lined the walls like trophies.
Aldridge shut the door.
Not locked.
Ethan noticed anyway.
Aldridge gestured toward the chair.
Ethan sat.
Aldridge remained standing.
That was deliberate.
Standing was power.
Ethan said, "You moved the deadline again."
Aldridge's eyebrows lifted.
"Did I?" he asked.
Ethan kept his voice even.
"You emailed Friday," Ethan said.
Aldridge smiled.
"You can read," he said. "Good."
Ethan's jaw tightened.
"This is not part of the posted requirements," Ethan said.
Aldridge tilted his head.
"The posted requirements are a floor," he said. "Not a ceiling."
Ethan's throat tightened.
"You're targeting us," Ethan said.
Aldridge's eyes brightened.
Not offended.
Interested.
"That is a dramatic accusation," Aldridge said.
Ethan held his gaze.
"I'm not being dramatic," Ethan said. "I'm being specific."
Aldridge leaned back against his desk.
"Tell me what you think I'm doing," he said.
Ethan could have lied.
He didn't.
He said, "You're trying to control who we talk to."
Aldridge's smile returned.
"You confuse control with instruction," he said.
Ethan's hands clenched.
"What about the grad assistant?" Ethan asked.
Aldridge's expression didn't change.
"What grad assistant?" he said.
Ethan's stomach tightened.
So he would deny it.
Of course he would.
Ethan leaned forward.
"I was in the copy room," Ethan said. "Someone checked the door. Someone was watching."
Aldridge's eyes narrowed a fraction.
"Why were you in the copy room after hours?" Aldridge asked.
Ethan's pulse jumped.
Trap.
Ethan chose his words carefully.
"I was printing," he said.
Aldridge nodded slowly.
"For whom?" Aldridge asked.
Ethan's throat went dry.
This was the question behind all of it.
Aldridge did not care about paper.
He cared about influence.
He cared about Nora.
Ethan let out a slow breath.
"I was printing for the submission," Ethan said. "For the prize."
Aldridge stared at him.
Then he smiled.
"And yet you look like a man carrying contraband," Aldridge said.
Ethan's blood went cold.
Aldridge stepped closer.
"Tell me," Aldridge said quietly. "Are you hiding something from me?"
Ethan felt the envelope like a weight even though it wasn't in his pocket right now.
He forced his voice steady.
"No," he said.
Aldridge held his gaze.
Long.
Too long.
Then he stepped back.
"Good," Aldridge said.
He returned to his desk and opened a folder.
He pulled out a printed page.
Ethan recognized it.
His draft.
Aldridge tapped a line with a pen.
"This is improved," Aldridge said. "But your annotations still avoid one thing."
Ethan's throat tightened.
"Motive," he said.
Aldridge's smile widened.
"Influence," Aldridge corrected.
He looked up.
"Who is shaping whom," Aldridge said.
Ethan's jaw tightened.
"You already asked that," Ethan said.
"And you gave me a student answer," Aldridge replied. "Now give me a writer answer."
Ethan stared.
A writer answer.
Aldridge wanted vulnerability disguised as craft.
He wanted confession dressed as process.
Ethan swallowed.
He said, carefully, "Critique shapes revision. That's normal."
Aldridge's eyes gleamed.
"And?" he asked.
Ethan's pulse hammered.
"And sometimes critique comes from someone you don't want to lose.
That was the truth.
It sat under his tongue like a bruise.
Ethan didn't say it.
Instead he said, "And sometimes critique becomes dependency."
Aldridge's smile sharpened.
"There it is," he said.
Ethan's stomach turned.
He had fed Aldridge exactly what he wanted.
Aldridge leaned forward.
"Do you understand why I set the boundary?" Aldridge asked.
Ethan's throat tightened.
"So you can control the recommendation," Ethan said.
Aldridge chuckled.
"No," he said. "So you can learn to write without addiction."
Ethan's hands clenched.
"Writing isn't addiction," Ethan said.
Aldridge's eyes pinned him.
"Then prove it," Aldridge said.
Ethan stared.
"How?" he asked.
Aldridge's voice went soft.
"Submit annotations that demonstrate independence," he said.
Ethan's pulse kicked.
Independence.
Aldridge was forcing them to pretend they were not influencing each other.
He was forcing them to amputate the thing that made them better.
Ethan sat back.
He forced his hands open.
He said, "If I do what you want, you'll recommend me?"
Aldridge smiled.
"I will recommend the best work," he said.
Ethan's jaw tightened.
"That's not an answer," he said.
Aldridge's smile didn't move.
"It's the only answer," he said.
Ethan stood.
He didn't slam the chair.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't give Aldridge drama.
He gave him calm.
"Thank you for your time," Ethan said.
Aldridge watched him.
"You're welcome," he said.
Ethan walked to the door.
His hand touched the handle.
Aldridge spoke behind him.
"One more thing," Aldridge said.
Ethan froze.
Aldridge's voice was light.
"As a courtesy," he said, "I will remind you that disqualification can be recommended for academic dishonesty. Including collusion."
Ethan's blood went cold.
He turned.
Aldridge smiled.
Like he had just offered a tip.
Ethan forced his voice steady.
"Noted," he said.
Then he left.
The hallway outside felt colder.
Ethan walked fast.
Not running.
Running was guilt.
He reached the stairwell and pulled out his phone with shaking hands.
He texted Nora one line.
Not about pages.
Not about feelings.
About danger.
Ethan: He knows. He doesn't have proof, but he's fishing. Assume we're watched.
Ethan stared at the message.
Then he deleted the thread.
He put his phone away.
And he realized something with a clarity that made his stomach turn.
Aldridge wasn't trying to split them anymore.
He was trying to make them betray themselves.
And Ethan was terrified of the moment Nora decided winning required it.