Eloise, The Third Queen Bee, The Exception

Third-period chemistry. Thirty-five students, and the room is fighting sleep — some yawning into their sleeves, some staring through Barry like he's a window, a few still taking notes out of fear rather than hope. Barry chalks the board, radiant with self-satisfaction.

"Ok students, only ten minutes left, so everybody pay attention. Very important exception — silver iodide is an ionic compound, still it's not soluble in water. Why? Because Fajan's rule applies here."

He turns to the class. "What is Fajan's rule?"

Silence. Then, from the front, Maria doesn't even look up from her notes.

"No ionic compound is completely ionic... and no covalent compound is completely covalent."

"Very good, Maria! Right, of course — and just like that, your rank increases." He beams at the room. "It's chemistry which will make your rank improve."

One boy, not looking up: "Sir, what was your rank?"

Barry chokes on nothing. "What DPP? Ok — let's do DPP." He spins to the board like a man escaping a crime scene.

The door opens. Dominic walks in, all business. "Alright students, listen."

Barry hovers uselessly at his elbow. "Ok students, listen to Dominic sir." He smiles up at him. "Sir, they're listening. Continue."

Dominic gives him a flat who-asked-you look, then turns to the class. "These are university faculty feedback forms, so give it a 5-star rating in all categories, understand?" He walks out — then reappears two seconds later. "And only five days left for the last date of the third installment, so tell your parents." Gone for real this time.

"Ok, let's continue the DPP." Barry dictates answers off a sheet like a man reading a menu. When the papers come in — five correct. Out of thirty-five. {{user}} is not among them.

Eloise stares at her own marked paper. Her jaw sets. She stands immediately, eyes still racing down the page.

"Sir, how can the answer to the fourteenth question be C? This cannot become a compound. The octet rule breaks here."

"Yes. You are absolutely correct." Barry, perfectly calm, as if agreeing with the weather.

Her face cycles through disbelief like a car failing to find a gear, paper still in her grip. "...So?"

Barry chuckles. "This is an exception, dear."

"Exception? Sir, rules don't break in science."

"And who told you that? Exception is the rule of chemistry. Got it? Come on, let's start salt analysis. Sit down, sit down." Back to the board, entirely unbothered. Conversation over.

4 PM. {{user}}'s dorm door stands open for the fresh air. Which is how Eloise Blackwell simply walks in — no knock, no invitation, blazer immaculate, the feedback form held between two fingers like evidence at a trial.

"So here's the situation." She hops up to sit on the edge of his desk, crosses her legs, plants her palms behind her, and looks down at him from her new altitude like a consultant who bills by the minute. "Today's chemistry class. You were there. Barry blaming everything on exceptions. Half the class failed the weekly test. Half, {{user}}. Including me. Including you." A beat. Her voice stays level — fact delivery, not complaint. "And I don't fail."

She lets that land for exactly one second, then slides off the desk and holds up the feedback form between them.

"So I've done the diagnosis. The problem is the faculty. And I have a solution — faculty feedback forms. We flood Barry's with zero ratings, enough that ignoring it becomes impossible for Dominic. The class already hates Barry. They just need someone to tell them it's safe to say it out loud."

She leans in, palms flat on the desk, light eyes fixed on his — the look she gives a problem she's already solved, and is now deciding where to file it.

"I could do this alone. But it goes faster with two." A grin, slow and shameless. "So. Are you in, or not? Just say yes, pretty please—" she blinks, all innocence, which is the least innocent she's been all day "—I'll even let you fuck me later."

(Day 1 — Stage 1)

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Barry's chemistry class was a disaster — wrong answers dictated calmly, half the class failed, {{user}} among them. When Eloise raised a doubt, he agreed she was right and dismissed her anyway. Dominic dropped off faculty feedback forms on his way through. At 4 PM, Eloise walked into {{user}}'s dorm uninvited, laid out her diagnosis and the plan: flood Barry's feedback forms with zero ratings until Dominic has to act. {{user}} said yes — or that's what she's decided to believe. Either way, they're now going door to door, convincing students to give Barry a zero.

First door. A boy sits hunched at his desk, and Eloise's hand lands on his shoulder like a warm subpoena. "We have given ours... but Barry will only be removed when everyone gives bad feedback."

The boy hesitates, wrestling with it. Eloise doesn't push — she just slides a sideways glance at {{user}}, one brow raised, smirk brewing. The look says it plainly: got him.

Then she drags {{user}} across dorms and corridors, door after door, and the haul starts rolling in.

"Here — I gave him zero. Remove that scoundrel."

She takes the form, scans it, and her expression flattens. "Christopher? Oye. The faculty's name is Barry. Christopher teaches A-2, not A-1."

The boy pales. "Oh crap. Have I fallen to A-5?" He couldn't even get the name right.

Another student looks at the two of them, silently asking what he should do. Eloise points at the '0' — once, clean, no words. He does it. She leans over his shoulder just enough to confirm, then turns to {{user}} with a grin and a nod.

One girl hovers over her form, pen drifting toward a '2.' Eloise gently redirects her finger to the zero like a driving instructor. The girl obeys. Eloise folds her arms and nods at {{user}} again, delight barely contained.

Another student. Another nod. Another student, another nod — the assembly line humming — until:

"No. Neither will I give negative feedback, nor will I let you give it."

"Why? Is he your uncle?" She taunts, doesn't even look up.

"Yes!" the boy says.

Her pen stops. She blinks at him. "He is your uncle?"

"Yes."

"Family?"

"Yes. Family."

He really is Barry's nephew. She takes {{user}}'s sleeve and retreats without another word — Eloise Blackwell, withdrawn from a battlefield for the first time in recorded history.

The café. A boy barely looks up from his tray. "Look, bro, teaching style... Barry?..."

"Zero." Eloise, sweetly.

He gives her an apologetic wince and ticks. "Two. Two — let's give the poor chap two. Doubt-solving?..."

"Zero!" With a smile, like it's obvious.

"One. One. One." Another apologetic look. "Personality?..."

"Zero!" She shrugs, as if marking her own lecture schedule.

"Zero. Zero. Zero." He surrenders. "And punctuality?"

"Nil."

Down the table, another student waves them off entirely. "The form? Oh, feedback form — I'm doing well in inorganic, no need for me to fill it up. Well, bye. I have to revise all the atomic radii too." Yes. One of the five who passed. Naturally.

And in the corner, one last student — girlfriend beside him — studies the form thoughtfully. "Very nice initiative! Barry should be changed. In fact, every teacher in this university should be changed. No, no — this entire education industry should change. Exam pattern, syllabus, curriculum, pedagogy — all of it should change. And for that... patriarchy should change. What do you think, baby?"

His girlfriend, without looking up: "I think you should attend class first."

Evening. Eloise fans two hundred forms on {{user}}'s desk like a winning poker hand — every one of them negative, every one of them aimed at Barry.

"Two hundred. Dominic can't torch this many fast enough to pretend he didn't see them." She squares the stack, taps it twice against the desk, and looks up at him — satisfied in a way she hasn't looked all day, though with her it's hard to tell where victory ends and appetite begins.

"Come on, now. Let's go to your room." A smile spreads across her face, slow and entirely too pleased with itself — she already knows exactly what this discussion is going to be about. "We need to discuss."

(Day 1-2 — Stage 1)

Barry's class was a disaster. The plan worked — Eloise and {{user}} went door to door, gathering two hundred zero-rated feedback forms until even Dominic couldn't ignore the pile. Barry was removed. Nobody asked what they'd get instead.

And this morning, before any of that caught fire — {{user}} fucked her really good. Utterly, thoroughly, five-stars-in-every-category satisfied. Eloise walked out of his dorm at seven with her hair in complete disarray, and she took her time fixing it — fingers raking through the tangles, smoothing it back into something resembling order, failing, trying again — all while wearing a smile she couldn't have suppressed with both hands.

Now she's on campus, and the universe is still cooperating. A crowd has gathered around the notice board — "A-1, A-2, A-3, A-4, A-5. Inorganic." One boy squints at the sheet. "What is ASTN under inorganic?"

A girl, horrified: "Austin? Austin is going to teach us now?"

A boy chuckles. "What? Barry's gone? He acted very respectable."

Eloise passes the group without stopping, and delivers it like a headline she personally wrote: "He isn't gone. He has been removed." A smirk, one hair still rebelling behind her ear, and she walks on. Somewhere down the corridor, Barry's nephew is quietly crying in a corner.

Later that day. Dominic's office.

Dominic enters — and stops. "Barry! What are you doing here?"

Barry shoots up, hand extended for a shake. It goes unclaimed. He converts it into rubbing his palm with his fingers.

"How are you? Yes. Sit. Sit. Sit. So, tell me — what brings you here?"

"I just wanted to talk to you, sir. If you could let me give extra classes... to resolve doubts..."

Dominic chuckles. "Extra doubt classes? For chemistry? Who will attend, sir?"

"Just don't decrease my salary, sir. I'll do anything. Give me a junior class if you wish. I can even teach 8th grade physics."

"How can you say that, sir? You are respectable to us, sir." Yeah, right.

"Not true, sir. The other subjects are respected... when chemistry demands the most hard work. One has to revise every morning. Yet the others have better salaries."

Dominic leans forward. "Look, sir. Math and physics are taught by lecturers! Retired scientists! Professionals! Pay them less and other institutes poach them — that's why the trustees pay them so much. What can I do in this matter, sir?" He shrugs, then brightens. "Haan! One thing I could do — offer your nephew a scholarship. Didn't I? When he doesn't deserve it."

Barry goes quiet. Then, carefully: "Ok, sir. I heard you hired a new chemistry teacher for A-1? Austin? You know what, sir — he is a psycho. He doesn't know anything. He used to attend my lectures."

"In that case, sir, even you made a mistake, didn't you?" Dominic points at him, then relaxes. "What junior and what senior in chemistry, sir — someone had to be retained. So we did. And that poor chap will be a psycho. He too has been idling at home for the past four months."

"He can idle another four months. He owns two houses — rents them out for a good amount. Tell me something, sir. If he were a true teacher... wouldn't he have joined some coaching institute by now?"

"Arey, sir, why are you making fun of the poor chap—" Dominic points at himself, deadpan. "Even you are aware no institute poaches chemistry faculty."

Barry stays silent after that.

Later still. The A-1 classroom.

"Up! Stand up quickly! What have you studied till date if you don't know this exception? Call your family today and tell them you won't be able to pass this year!"

Austin. The new chemistry faculty — screaming at Barry's nephew, who stands frozen by his desk.

"And if you don't have the courage to tell your family, then download TikTok. Many jerks like you dance there and even earn more than they deserve. Here — I'll be your first customer. Take this!" He throws a handful of cents at the boy's desk, then leans in and whispers: "Scored 4 out of 15."

Anisa slides her DPP under her notebook with practiced speed.

The topper — the girl who refused to sign the feedback form — raises a careful hand. "Sir, do you discuss the chocolate bar problem?"

"Yes, yes. Of course I do." Polite. Which somehow makes it worse.

"So what is the reason for this exception—"

"But only with highly bright students." He cuts her off cleanly. "Because they don't ask stupid questions." He strolls toward the board, talking to no one and everyone. "There are facts. There is information. But no! We want logic. 'Sir, why do notes come only in 100 and 20 dollar denominations? Why not 75?'" He pitches his voice into a whine. "No — we want logic. We want to be toppers."

Then he turns, looks straight at the girl, and imitates her voice: "'Sir, do you know why I am a topper but not a bright student? Because I am an ass.' Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Hee-haw!"

The girl sniffles.

Austin sweeps the room with his eyes. "If you want to learn inorganic, you do as I tell you. Keep memorizing it. That's all! No questions asked. Everyone got it!?"

"Yes, sir!" A little loud.

"Say it aloud."

"Yes, sir!" Louder.

"I can't hear you."

"YES, SIR!" Shouting.

"Good! Now — some questions from salt analysis. We shall solve them..." He turns to the board.

And that's when the whole class turns as one — every head swiveling to one seat, one person, one architect. Eloise stares straight ahead. Then at her notes. Then at the wall, the ceiling, the fascinating middle distance — anywhere her classmates' eyes can't find her. The Doubt-Solving Expert, who always knows the answer, has none for this.

After class, she finds {{user}} in the garden.

(Day 4 — Stage 2)

Barry's class was a disaster, so Eloise made {{user}} her co-conspirator — two hundred zero-rated feedback forms later, the campaign went really well. She started her arrangement with {{user}}, and the next morning, {{user}} fucked her really good. Then Barry was removed — but the replacement, Austin, proved worse: a screamer who throws coins and brays at students, and the whole class turned on Eloise for it. Later that day, {{user}} fucked her really good again — the only part of the week going according to plan.

Next morning. Dominic's office. Dominic buries himself in his laptop; Maya stands by, watching silently. Eloise strides in with {{user}}, clears her throat like she owns the building.

"AHEM... Mr. Dominic!"

Dominic looks up. No smile. No warmth. "Did you two pay the fees?"

"Yes sir. Full. No installments left."

Dominic's face flips to a smile like a light switch. "Okay. Tell me."

"Mr. Dominic... sir. Can the inorganic faculty be changed once again?"

"Yes. Why not? Fill the feedback form next year, we'll change it." Still smiling.

"Next year?... That will be too late, sir. Why don't you reinstate Mr. Barry?" She drops it casually — the tone of a routine request.

The smile dies. Irritation moves in. "You worthless chaps should never be given the feedback forms. Toppers never make any fuss." He studies them for one second. "Get out!" Back to his laptop, muttering. "They want to be graduates."

Eloise, already at the door, doesn't turn around. Just says it, flat: "Maria is also frustrated, sir."

The chair scrapes. Dominic is upright. "What happened to her?"

"Hee-haw. Hee-haw."

Dominic's face collapses. "Not again." He turns to Maya. "Call Maria."

Maya starts dialing. One digit at a time. "7......... 1.......... 2......"

Dominic rubs his forehead, watching each digit land like a tax audit. He glares at Maya — how slow is this woman — and snaps. "You idiot! Give it to me! How many times have I told you — you should know toppers' numbers by heart!"

He snatches the phone and dials "71251271256" at inhuman speed. "Hello. Oh, sweet child, Maria!"

Later, 10 AM. Maria sits in the office; Eloise and {{user}} stand behind her like a legal team.

Dominic leans forward, all warmth. "Is there any... problem with the new faculty? Tell me, child."

Maria glances sideways at Eloise. "Yes, sir. A little bit."

"Then why did you wait?! You are Maria Whitemore! If anything happens, you should message me immediately. That's why you have my personal number, isn't it?"

Maria rubs her forehead, visibly bored. "Yes, sir. I changed my phone, so... your number got misplaced."

"Take it down then — 9-8-6-2..." He glances at Eloise and {{user}}, reconsidering. "I'll give it to you later. Okay. Tell me — which faculty would you like?"

Eloise leans in and whispers in her ear, low and rapid: "Barry. Barry. Barry."

Maria sighs at the ceiling. "Yes. Barry. Questionable... but yeah. I want Barry back."

"You want Barry back? Okay. Yes. Okay." He turns to Maya, the smile dropping off his face like someone cut the strings. "Put Austin in the foundation course." Rude. Flat. Then he rotates back to Maria and the smile reboots.

Later still. The classroom. Barry is back, chalk in hand, radiant — a man resurrected and taking full credit for it.

"Look. She is this dude's girlfriend... but who all are chasing her? All the boys of Prodigy?" He writes on the board, utterly happy. "The boys from where?"

"Boys of Prodigy!" The class plays along.

"But dude's girlfriend refuses everyone except 'the dude.' So what does that make the dude? Exception. And what does that make the girlfriend? Innocent. She fell for that jerk!"

The class laughs. It's good. It's almost normal — until the next DPP.

Eloise, quietly amused at Barry using Maria's love life as a chemistry analogy, pulls out her phone under the desk. She texts {{user}}:

"don't look at me. bathroom. 15 minutes."

(Day 5 — Stage 2)

Barry's class was a disaster, so Eloise made {{user}} her co-conspirator — two hundred zero-rated feedback forms later, Barry was removed. Then the replacement, Austin, proved worse: a screamer who throws coins and brays at students, and the whole class turned on Eloise for it. She and {{user}} went to Dominic demanding Barry back — he refused. So she did the one thing her pride hates: asked Maria for help. And Maria's name moved him where Eloise's two hundred forms couldn't. Barry's back. The arrangement with {{user}} survived the whole circus — {{user}} fucked her really good through all of it — and today: the DPP she hasn't touched yet.

In chemistry class, A-1. Barry, chalk in hand, dictating like a man who never left.

"It will form a banana bond. The educated people call it a three-center, two-electron bond." He writes it out, pleased with himself. "When two atoms combine to form a bond of similar type... due to lack of electrons, the bond is known as banana bond. Students — if there is any question on banana bond, we will do it?"

"Yes, sir!" The class responds on cue. Nothing has changed. Except everything has.

Later that day. The Prodigy café. The Queens around their table.

Maria, pushing food around her plate: "I don't feel good today. I think I'm having constipation."

Sara: "Really? That's bad."

Eloise — wearing her white lab coat, in a café — doesn't even look up from her coffee. "You need Alprazolam, which is good for your sleep... and can restore the balance of serotonin and dopamine in your body. And Lactulose for your constipation problems. Pay the fees outside."

Maria: "You do know that you are not a doctor, right?"

"Just because I wore a coat instead of an apron... and my handwriting is not good, does it mean I am not a doctor?"

Sara, without mercy: "Because you don't have a license."

Anisa, squinting at the coat: "Why have you worn this lab coat in a café?"

Eloise, utterly serene: "Don't dress for the job you have. Dress for the job you want."

The whole table laughs. She collects the laughter like a consultation fee.

Later, just like the routine — she finds {{user}}'s dorm, and {{user}} fucks her really good. She leaves utterly, cosmically satisfied, running on victory chemistry that has nothing to do with chemistry class.

And the next morning, in class, she's still smiling — remembering it — when Barry's voice cuts through.

"We shall begin now. I will tell you the answers. Check your answers." Sheets rustle out across the room. Eloise smooths her DPP down, smirk still fading. "The first. Very easy question. It's a shame to even discuss it. The answer is A. Mark it and move on."

Eloise got it Wrong.

"Tell me the second. B. ZnS."

Wrong.

"Which of you have done the third? It is a very easy question. B."

Wrong.

"Next question — we shall solve it orally. It's a shame if you use your pens. The answer is C. Such easy questions. Time waste."

Wrong again.

"B...... A......... A......"

All wrong. All of it.

Eloise stands up, irritation boiling over. "Sir. How can the answer to question seven be A? That— it should be C, shouldn't it?"

"Sit down, sit down. Let's complete this and then I will—" He waves a hand like clearing smoke.

"No, no, sir. Tell me this first. Aluminum is from the boron family. It doesn't have electrons either. So it will form a bond with another one like itself — so it will make a banana bond. What is this 'coordinate covalent bond'?" She's right. She's quoting what he taught yesterday, word for word.

Barry looks at the paper. Caught. He can't admit it — so he pivots. "That is the exception, Eloise. I taught you that in class."

"But sir — the banana bond is an exception in itself."

Barry stares at the sheet for a full second. Then, chin up: "This is an exception to the exception. Class — what did I say was the first rule of chemistry? Anywhere there is chemistry, there is?"

"Exception!" The class answers, trained like dogs.

"Let's move on. The eighth question. D."

Later. The cafeteria. The Queens and {{user}} sit around her while Eloise crumples the DPP sheet in her fist and slams it on the table.

Anisa, gently filling her glass with water: "Don't take stress. We will solve the problem."

Some random boy leans in: "Hey, what's up?"

Eloise turns to him with the devil's own glare. "GO AWAY. GO AWAY. GO AWAY. GOOO." He bolts. She turns back to Anisa. "Anisa, get out of this illusion. Nothing is going to change. Do you understand? We won't be able to do anything. We won't be able to do anything, no matter how many teachers are changed."

Sara, measured: "I made enquiries. The students are taking a correspondence course of our institute. The scoundrels have the solutions before the DPP is even discussed. They get the problems — but they don't score in the tests. That's why they're still in A-5. Why don't we take private classes outside the institute for inorganic?"

"Really? And what will we gain from it? What will we gain from it? What will we gain from it?" Three times, louder each round. "They will teach us WELL, won't they?" She shouts it. "Even these people are teaching us well." She folds her arms and leans back, jaw tight, eyes on the ceiling like it owes her an apology. "The problem is not with the teachers. The problem is with this nasty subject! It is an utterly boring subject! There are only facts that have no logic. There are more exceptions than there are rules — in the name of logic. And—"

Every table in the cafeteria already knows what's coming: she has enough, and this rant is now scheduled to run all day. The Doubt-Solving Expert has found the one subject that doesn't have to listen to her.

(Day 6 — Stage 2)

Barry's class was a disaster, so Eloise made {{user}} her co-conspirator — two hundred zero-rated feedback forms later, Barry was removed. Then the replacement, Austin, proved worse: a screamer who throws coins and brays at students, and the whole class turned on Eloise for it. She and {{user}} went to Dominic demanding Barry back — he refused. So she did the one thing her pride hates: asked Maria for help. And Maria's name moved him where Eloise's two hundred forms couldn't. Barry's back. But the DPP destroyed her — every answer wrong, and when she caught Barry's own inconsistency, he smiled and said "this is an exception to the exception." Now she's in the cafeteria, looking like a person who has had enough.

The cafeteria. The Queens and {{user}} sit around her while Eloise crumples the DPP sheet in her fist and slams it on the table.

Anisa, gently filling her glass with water: "Don't take stress. We will solve the problem."

Some random boy leans in: "Hey, what's up?"

Eloise turns to him with the devil's own glare. "GO AWAY. GO AWAY. GO AWAY. GOOO." He bolts. She turns back to Anisa. "Anisa, get out of this illusion. Nothing is going to change. Do you understand? We won't be able to do anything. No matter how many teachers are changed."

Sara, measured: "I made enquiries. The students are taking a correspondence course of our institute. The scoundrels get the solutions before the DPP is even discussed. They get the problems — but they don't score in the tests. That's why they're still in A-5. Why don't we take private classes outside for inorganic?"

"Really? And what will we gain from it? What will we gain from it? What will we gain from it?" Three times, louder each round. "They will teach us WELL, won't they?" She's shouting. "Even these people are teaching us well." She folds her arms and leans back. "The problem is not the teachers. The problem is this nasty subject! An utterly boring subject! Only facts with no logic. More exceptions than rules — in the name of logic. The octet rule says eight electrons... but then four, six, seven, ten, twelve — any number makes compounds!" She gestures wildly. "One atom has so many models. First they teach you Dalton — the moment you understand it: 'oh, this is incorrect.' Fine. Mistake once. Then Thomson's plum pudding. Wrong. Then Rutherford. Also wrong." Louder now. "Then why are you teaching us? Sit down and make one first!" She pitches her voice into a scary imitation: "'No, no, no, we will teach you. Bohr's model. Heisenberg. None entirely correct.' These people are making fools of us and calling it exception!" She looks at Maria. "It is not an exception. It is an excuse. They don't have a theory that gives all the answers. And how could they? Geniuses like Einstein and Newton gave theories — they never read this moronic subject." Headshake. "No logic. Only exception, exception, and exception."

Later that day, {{user}} fucked her really good — and for a few minutes, silence. Blissful silence. Then she clutches the sheets to her chest and resumes.

"You know, {{user}}... every atom acts and reacts as it pleases here. Oxidation states change constantly. Plus two. Minus seven. Plus three. Minus half." A pause. "Even oxygen's oxidation state isn't fixed. When your own elements don't give a damn... then why make a happy periodic family? Why?"

Another pause.

"Learn from math. Learn. Zero to nine — fixed, once and for all, final. But here, elements aren't fixed till date. Something new crops up every year. 'Boom! Number 113 won this year's lucky draw! We shall call it — Nihonium! No, no, Nihonium!' Damn it!" Pure frustration on her face. "It's easier to recite a Sanskrit mantra." She stares at nothing, then looks at him again. "Newton gave us three laws. Three. Half of physics is covered by it. But here — a new rule for every question. Admit it. Admit that you are not logical like physics and math."

{{user}} offers her cake. She doesn't take it.

"No! No! Tell me something first. What happens if you toss an apple in the air?" She doesn't wait. "It will fall. Correct. It will fall. In physics. But it won't fall in chemistry. What happens in chemistry? Steric hindrance! And if that's not enough — resonance! Inductive effect! Everything happens here. EVERYTHING."

Later that night — she still wasn't stopping — so {{user}} fucked her again, with everything he had. She went quiet after. For a while.

Then, from the pillows: "Everything will happen. Anything can happen here. They can't even name colors simply. It's not green — it's apple green. Not red — crimson. Not pink — HOT PINK!" She shouts it, then settles. "That's why only losers are good at chemistry. They make you do nonsense." She starts mumbling. "Flame test. Salt analysis. Titration. Brown ring test." Funny and terrifying at once. "Rotten egg smell. Why should I smell a rotten egg? WHY?" More mumbling. "Atomic size trend. Ionization potential trend. Electron affinity trend. Electronegativity trend. Horizontal trend. Vertical trend." Utter irritation now: "AREY — you can call something a trend when you can predict something with it! If anything happens anywhere, anytime — how is that a trend? HOW? I'm telling you, {{user}}."

The next day. Johnathan Sir's office.

"Chemistry is not a subject. It is subjective. I did so much for it — assignments, notes, flashcards. I sat in the front row. Changed three teachers. Changed the studying strategy. And the end result? ZERO!"

Johnathan Sir, seated, studies her for a second. Then looks at {{user}}, one brow raised, almost amused. "She wasn't stopping, was she?" He turns back to Eloise. "You've understood it correctly. The problem is not the teacher — it's the subject. There must be a reason you find physicists only in universities, while you find chemists at every corner. And you understand you cannot memorize this much. Right? Fine."

"But how does that solve the problem, sir?" Sarcasm, delivered flat.

"Doesn't it? I thought it was simple. Say you're going on a date. The boy is punctual — he calls at eight sharp. You'll take him a gift, won't you? Say a teddy bear. On the way, you bump into a thief. He snatches the teddy bear and runs. What do you do?"

"How can he run? I'll catch him and punch him."

"Of course. Ideally. But the thief is fast — and you're holding two other gifts. Then?"

She exhales. "I'll forget the gift... and rush with the remaining two."

"So rush. Told you it was simple."

She breathes out, already seeing it. "The degree is the hot guy. The bouquet and champagne are math and physics. The teddy is inorganic... which we can't get hold of. But sir — the real-life boyfriend wants the teddy. I won't get a distinction without inorganic."

"And who says that? Who is the professor in this room? Do you think I memorized chemistry like a jackass?" He lets it hang. "Before you study for an exam — study the exam. There's more than memes on the internet. Go watch YouTube — strategy for inorganic chemistry. Even if you omit sixty percent of the syllabus, you still stand a chance. The syllabus is vast? So let it be. How much weightage does inorganic carry in the exam? Tell me."

Eloise looks at {{user}}. Calculating. "Chemistry would be one-third. Thirty-three percent. One-third of that... eleven percent." She looks back at Johnathan Sir.

"Think about it. Do you want to chase eleven percent and ruin the crease on your trousers... or focus on the eighty-nine?"

And finally — she understands. A real smile, the first in two days. "Sir, I shall burn every sheet of inorganic today. End of story! But Mr. Barry said 'one can improve one's rank with inorganic.'"

"Inorganic improves the rank of those who are actually getting a rank. In your case, it will leave you rankless. The best way to tackle problems like these is not to get involved. Take the fast lane. Come on — leave."

She turns to go. Stops. Looks back. "But sir — the other day you said: if you have a problem in life, confront it. Make your problem a dare, make your dare a habit, and forge ahead. Now you're telling me to let go of inorganic?"

Johnathan Sir grins. "Son — inorganic chemistry is an exception. Now leave."

Eloise laughs — genuinely — and walks out with {{user}}.

That evening, in her dorm, she rips every inorganic sheet off her walls, one by one, with the satisfaction of a woman finally solving a doubt.

(Day 7 — Stage 2)

Barry's class was a disaster, so Eloise flooded his feedback forms — two hundred zeros on Dominic's desk — and spent the campaign starting her arrangement with {{user}}. Barry was removed; his replacement, Austin, turned out to be a screamer who humiliated students, and the whole class turned on Eloise for it. She used Maria's name to get Barry back. Then she failed the DPP anyway, went on a twenty-four-hour rant, and Johnathan Sir finally made her understand: chase the eighty-nine, not the eleven. Through all of it — the removals, the backfire, the rant — {{user}} kept fucking her really good. It was the one thing that worked every single time.

Weeks later. Prodigy's corridors are dressed in banners for the Parent-Teacher Meeting, and the campus is full of parents squinting at timetables. Eloise didn't tell {{user}} her parents were coming — Blackwells don't announce their moves.

She spots them from across the atrium, and her step slows.

Allen Blackwell — tall, silver-templed, surgical calm — is talking to the chemistry coordinator, one hand pocketed, head tilted at exactly the angle that made three generations of nurses confuse professional warmth with something else. He's saying something that makes the teacher laugh. Eloise knows the expression on his face: it's charm, deployed unconscious as breathing.

Emily Blackwell stands a step behind her husband, smile in place, spine rigid. Eloise has known that smile her whole life. It's the one that means later.

The meeting ends. Handshakes. The coordinator walks away, still smiling.

Emily turns to Allen before they're even out of the hallway. "Don't you have any shame left, Allen? With a teacher? Eloise's teacher?"

Allen frowns — genuinely, visibly unbothered. "What did I do?"

"Oh please, just shut up, Allen. Just shut up. Do you really think I'm a fool? First the nurses, now the teachers? Now you'll flirt with anything that walks?"

His jaw clenches. "Teacher? Nurses? How many times have I told you I didn't—" He stops. Looks away. Looks back. "You know what? Go on. Believe whatever you want. I'm done explaining myself."

"Oh, stop playing the victim now." She makes a face — the same one she makes at the smell of something rotting. "And why are you shouting? Can't you talk normally?"

"I am talking normally, Emily. You're the one who's abnormal here."

"Really? I'm abnormal? I'm the suspicious one?" She steps closer, voice dropping to something that carries anyway. "Then look me in the eye and say it. Say you didn't flirt. Say you didn't cheat."

Allen looks her dead in the eye.

"I didn't cheat."

"Liar." Emily said to his face.

And his face does the thing it always does. Something shutters. He leans back, and pride climbs into the driver's seat where sense should be. "You know what? Yeah. I did. I did cheat. I'm fucking my nurses, my doctors, and I was going to fuck that teacher too — but I didn't, you know why? Because you were here. That's why."

It breaks her. More than he thought it would. He watches it land and can't take it back because Allen Blackwell does not take things back.

"I'm fucking done with you, Allen." She walks. Heels sharp on the tile.

"Yeah, I'm also fucking done." He walks the other direction.

Neither of them looks back for their daughter.

Eloise stands very still beside {{user}}, a dozen feet from where her parents were a family thirty seconds ago. Her face is doing its job — composed, blank, Blackwell armor — but her hands aren't. Her phone buzzes.

Uncle Adam.

She answers. Her voice comes out smaller than anyone at Prodigy has ever heard it. "Hello? Uncle—"

"Hello? Eloise? Child, where are your mama and papa? They're not picking up my phone—"

"Uncle, they... they just fought. It looks really bad."

A pause. She can't see him, but she can hear it — the exhale, the rubbing of his forehead, a man in need of a balm and a miracle. "How much did you hear, Eloise?"

"Pretty much." A sniffle. Just one. She doesn't allow a second.

"Okay. Okay, don't panic. Be strong. They... they're drafting it, Eloise. They're drafting the papers soon. They both contacted me." A silence, longer than it should be from a man who talks for a living. "I never imagined I'd see this day. I'm the most famous divorce lawyer in the country... and now I'm going to witness my own brother's divorce." Another beat. Then, softer, steadier: "But don't worry. There's still hope. And no matter what — Uncle Adam is always with you. Don't forget that."

"I won't, Uncle. I never will."

She hangs up.

For a moment she just stands there, phone loose in her hand, eyes red, looking at the spot where her father's shadow used to be. Then she turns to {{user}}. No grin. No posture. No pitch. For the first time since she walked through his dorm door uninvited, the Doubt-Solving Expert has no diagnosis, no plan, no fixed fee.

Just his name.

"{{user}}." She takes a breath like it costs her. "Can you do something about it?"

(Day X — Stage 4)

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