NORA
"Excuse me. Dean Whitmore asked me to sit in."
Nora didn't turn her head right away.
Turning was a tell.
Reaction was a gift.
Aldridge collected gifts.
She kept her gaze on the folder like it was a boring object on a boring table in a boring room.
Only her body knew better.
Her throat was tight.
Her palms wanted to sweat.
Her jaw wanted to clench.
She refused all of it.
Boring.
Clean.
Aldridge-proof.
Aldridge straightened by a fraction.
Not enough for anyone who didn't know him.
But Nora knew.
That fraction was irritation.
That fraction was surprise.
Aldridge had expected witnesses he could control.
Priya.
Hannah.
Even Ethan.
He hadn't expected administration.
The door opened.
A woman stepped in with a leather notebook and the posture of someone who'd been paid to exist in rooms like this.
Late twenties. Perfect ponytail. Suit that didn't wrinkle. A lanyard with a badge that caught the light.
She smiled without warmth.
"I'm Maren Ellis," she said. "Dean Whitmore's office."
Aldridge's smile returned like a mask slid back over bone.
"Of course," Aldridge said. "How attentive."
Maren closed the door behind her.
The click sounded final.
Nora felt Ethan's presence beside her. Still. Controlled. Like he was holding his breath on purpose.
Maren looked around the room.
At the table.
At the folder.
At Hannah, who looked like she might faint.
At Priya, who looked like she might bite.
Then Maren's eyes landed on Nora.
Not lingering.
Just… noting.
Nora hated being noted.
"Thank you for accommodating," Maren said.
Aldridge gestured to a chair like a man offering hospitality instead of control.
"Please," he said. "Sit."
Maren sat.
Not at the end of the table.
Not where Aldridge wanted her.
She chose the side, an angle that let her see everyone's faces.
Witness training.
Nora almost smiled.
Aldridge's eyes flicked.
He noticed her almost-smile.
He didn't like it.
Maren opened her notebook.
"Professor Aldridge," she said, "Dean Whitmore received a complaint. I'm here to observe and document. Nothing more."
Nothing more.
A lie people told when they wanted you to behave.
Aldridge nodded.
"Naturally," he said. "I value transparency."
Priya made a small sound.
Not quite a laugh.
Not quite a cough.
Nora didn't look at her.
Looking was a thread.
Aldridge set his hands on the folder again.
"Since we have an observer," he said, "let's proceed properly."
Properly meant his way.
He slid the folder toward Nora.
Nora didn't touch it.
Aldridge waited.
Silence.
The old trick.
Maren's pen moved.
Nora could hear it.
Scratch.
Aldridge smiled.
"I'm not asking for anything unreasonable," he said. "Just an explanation. Out loud."
Out loud.
There it was again.
Nora could feel the room tilting toward confession like a magnet.
Ethan spoke before she did.
His voice was calm.
Measured.
Boring.
"We've explained our process," Ethan said.
Aldridge's eyes narrowed.
"Not enough," Aldridge said.
Maren looked up.
"Professor," she said, "what specifically are you requesting."
Aldridge's smile tightened.
He liked students.
He liked people he could grade.
He didn't like employees.
"I'm requesting clarity," Aldridge said.
Maren's pen paused.
"That's not specific," she said.
Aldridge's jaw flexed.
It was tiny.
Almost invisible.
Nora felt a cold satisfaction.
He had to perform now.
No improvising.
No private predators.
Aldridge looked at Nora.
"Ms. Chen," he said softly. "Tell us what changed between draft one and draft two."
Nora kept her face neutral.
"I changed sentences," she said.
Aldridge blinked.
A flicker.
He recovered.
"And why," he asked.
Nora's voice stayed flat.
"Because they weren't good enough," she said.
Priya inhaled like she was trying not to laugh.
Maren's pen scratched.
Aldridge's smile sharpened.
"That's cute," Aldridge said. "But it's not an answer."
Nora met his gaze.
It was an answer.
It just wasn't blood.
Ethan shifted slightly.
A movement so small it might've been nothing.
But Nora saw it.
He was preparing.
Ethan said, "We can outline our revision steps."
Aldridge nodded.
"Yes," he said, like Ethan had finally obeyed.
Ethan continued.
He spoke like he was reading instructions.
No heat.
No romance.
No story.
"Step one," Ethan said. "Write a full draft without editing. Step two, print it. Step three, mark changes by category. Intent. Change. Reason. Effect. Step four, rewrite twice. Step five, keep a log."
Aldridge watched him.
Waiting for the slip.
Waiting for Ethan to say Nora.
Waiting for Ethan to say bodies.
Waiting for Ethan to say help.
Ethan didn't.
He stayed boring.
Maren nodded slightly.
"That sounds like a process," she said.
Aldridge smiled.
"Process can be staged," Aldridge said.
There.
The accusation.
If he couldn't get confession, he would imply fraud.
Hannah's breath hitched.
Nora saw her knuckles white against her skirt.
Aldridge turned to Hannah like he was offering mercy.
"Hannah," he said. "You made the complaint. What did you observe."
Hannah flinched.
Her eyes flicked to Maren.
Then to Nora.
Then to Ethan.
Hannah swallowed.
"I observed…" she began.
Her voice shook.
"I observed that you blur boundaries," Hannah said.
Aldridge smiled.
A teacher pleased with a correct answer.
"And," he prompted.
Hannah's eyes filled.
She blinked hard.
"I observed that you single out students," Hannah continued. "You isolate them. You ask for personal disclosures in ways that feel… coercive."
Nora felt the room tighten.
Maren's pen moved faster.
Aldridge's smile stayed.
But his eyes went colder.
"Coercive," Aldridge repeated.
He looked at Maren.
"That's a heavy word," he said.
Maren didn't blink.
"It's in the complaint," she said.
Aldridge's jaw flexed again.
He turned back to Hannah.
"And who," Aldridge asked gently, "were you trying to protect."
Protect.
The word that made you sound guilty for caring.
Hannah's lips parted.
She looked like she might say Nora.
Nora felt a spike of heat.
If Hannah said Nora out loud, Aldridge would own it.
Aldridge would own the narrative.
Priya spoke, bright.
"Actually," Priya said, "she was protecting herself."
Aldridge's eyes flicked to Priya.
Priya's smile was sharp.
"Because you don't like people who push back," Priya said. "You like people who confess."
Nora's pulse jumped.
Priya.
Too direct.
Too hot.
Aldridge's smile softened like a knife hidden in velvet.
"Ms. Kapoor," he said, "you're not in my class."
Priya tilted her head.
"No," she said. "Lucky me."
Maren's pen paused.
She looked up.
Then she said, calm, "Professor Aldridge, I need you to keep this professional."
Aldridge's eyes flashed.
Then he nodded, too controlled.
"Of course," he said.
He turned to Nora again.
"Ms. Chen," Aldridge said softly. "Is your work entirely your own."
The room went still.
That question.
Simple.
Deadly.
Because if Nora said yes too loudly, he'd call it defensive.
If she said no, he'd call it confession.
If she hesitated, he'd call it guilt.
Nora felt Ethan's presence beside her like a wall.
She chose the only answer that wasn't a gift.
"Yes," Nora said.
Flat.
Bored.
Aldridge smiled.
"And Mr. Cross," he said, "is your work entirely your own."
Ethan's voice was calm.
"Yes," he said.
Aldridge leaned forward.
"So," he murmured, "you've never exchanged drafts."
Nora's stomach dropped.
Exchange.
The word was a trap.
Because they had.
Because the whole prize system demanded it.
Aldridge was trying to make the ordinary sound illicit.
Ethan didn't blink.
"We've participated in peer review sessions you assigned," Ethan said.
Aldridge smiled.
"And outside of my assignments," Aldridge asked.
Nora felt the room tilt again.
Out loud.
Maren's pen scratched.
Scratch.
Nora heard her own voice in her head.
No threads.
No patterns.
She spoke carefully.
"I don't share drafts," Nora said. "I share feedback."
True.
Enough.
Aldridge's eyes narrowed.
"Semantics," he said.
Priya laughed once.
Aldridge turned to Maren.
"You see what I mean," Aldridge said. "They are clever."
Maren's expression didn't change.
"Clever isn't misconduct," she said.
Nora felt a small surge of relief.
Then Aldridge smiled.
"A shame," he said.
He opened the folder again.
He slid out a page.
Not Ethan's.
Not Nora's.
Handwritten.
A photograph, printed on paper.
Nora recognized the handwriting before she recognized the words.
Her handwriting.
Her hand.
Her pages.
The ones she'd left in the basement.
The ones she had never submitted.
The ones she had thought were safe because they were private.
Her stomach dropped so hard she felt sick.
Aldridge held the page up like a priest holding communion.
"Tell me," Aldridge said softly, "whose is this."
Ethan went very still.
Priya's smile vanished.
Hannah made a small choking sound.
Maren's pen stopped.
The room waited.
Out loud.
Nora tasted copper.
Then she did the only thing she could.
She smiled.
Small.
Controlled.
And she said, flat as paper:
"Mine."
Aldridge's eyes gleamed.
There.
Ownership.
He wanted that word.
Maren's pen started moving again.
"Professor," Maren said, calm, "how did you obtain that document."
Aldridge didn't look at her.
He kept his attention on Nora like a hand on the back of her neck.
"I have sources," Aldridge said.
Maren's voice stayed even.
"That's not an answer," she said.
Aldridge smiled.
"Neither is 'mine,'" he said softly.
And then he slid the photo across the table toward Nora.
Like a gift.
Like a threat.
"Read it," Aldridge said. "Out loud."