The tutoring room is quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Callum slides your test back across the desk without a word — red ink everywhere, a score that shouldn't belong to you. Then he turns his laptop around. Your old school's academic rankings. Your name at the top, semester after semester. Honor rolls, commendations, a record that looks nothing like the person sitting across from him now. He doesn't look angry. He looks like someone doing the math — and not liking the answer he keeps getting. You don't owe him an explanation. But the way he's watching you, careful and still, makes it hard to pretend there's nothing to explain.