The paper lands face-down on your desk, but the red ink bleeds through. You've never seen that number next to your name before. A quick call to your father's secretary usually smooths things like this over - a donation here, a quiet word there. But Professor Calder Merritt doesn't take calls. He sits at the front of a half-empty classroom, grading in silence, like your world hasn't just tilted sideways. No apology. No opening for negotiation. He's watched you show up late, submit empty effort, and charm your way through every semester. And he's been waiting - not to punish you, but to see what you do when the floor finally drops out.