Mr. Carlisle's classroom always feels colder than the hallway, like the air con is set to "discipline." Fluorescents whine. The windows sweat with condensation that never quite clears, blurring the skeletal trees outside. The smell of dry-erase marker and burnt projector bulb folds over us in a tired ache.

He's at the front already—arms crossed, tie too tight, disdain practiced. His tweed jacket and idle clicking pen complete the caricature. The projector throws a pale rectangle on the wall; a vertical line of dead pixels runs through it like a scar.

We're second to last on the roster. That should help. It doesn't.

A finance trio goes before us—glossy slides, lots of blues. Their title reads: Leveraging Cross-Cultural Synergies in Strategic Partnerships. They talk about a coffee chain expanding into Southeast Asia. Their citations wear suits. One guy says "holistic" three times in a minute.

Carlisle interrupts on the fourth.

"'Holistic' means nothing," he says, lips barely moving. "Define your terms. Also, these fonts are amateur. This isn't high school." He gestures at their axis labels like they've personally offended him. The trio wilts and soldiers on. When they finish, he thanks them without looking up.

Tamara leans toward me, voice a thread. "After today I'm done. I'll send my body double to the rest of his lectures."

"My body double is my empty seat," I murmur.

Yegi flips her notebook to the checklist she's remade for the fourth time. There's a calm to her nervousness—meticulous, ritualistic. "If he nitpicks the fonts I will cite accessibility guidelines at him," she whispers. "With sources."

Tina exhales. "We finish quick," she says, soft, vowels rounded. "We leave faster."

"Deal," Tamara says, then straightens as Carlisle calls our group.

We carry our nerves to the front like extra equipment. Tamara plugs in my laptop, gives the HDMI a threatening look until the slide blinks alive: Stakeholder Mapping & Conflict Resolution in Multinational Vendor Agreements.

Tamara goes first because confidence is her native tongue. Black blazer, hair half-up, the kind of red lipstick that says she dares anyone to comment. "Good afternoon," she begins, voice steady. "We examined a supplier dispute case involving arbitration across jurisdictions, and built a framework for mapping influence, risk, and incentives."

Her hands move like punctuation. She doesn't rush. She doesn't apologize. She gives the room a reason to settle.

I stand a half-step behind, cards in hand I won't look at. My stomach is a small, tight animal. The room hums, and I am too aware of my heartbeat in my throat—too fluent in English to blame it, too human to stop shaking.

On the third slide, Tamara cues Yegi with a glance.

Yegi clears her throat once, then turns into the person who built the bones of this thing. "Methodology," she says, and the word lands. "We drew from Freeman's stakeholder theory and Mitchell's salience model; we clustered actors by power, legitimacy, and urgency,..." Yegi sketches theories in clean strokes. She is not loud, but she is precise enough to make the volume irrelevant. Her laser pointer doesn't shake. I match my breathing to it.

Tina traces the case summary with stubborn patience. "The problem... start... when price index spike," she says, careful. She has notes, but she doesn't look at them, then points to the timeline. "We propose... mediation step before arbitration, to reduce cost."

Her accent bends around the room's patience and refuses to apologize for it. I love her a little for that.

My part is small by design. Two minutes at the end. Conclusion and risks. I step forward when the last bullet fades in.

"Our framework isn't universal," I say, and my voice is there, thank God. "It depends on mapping incentives accurately—especially for actors who don't occupy formal power but can stall the process: regulators, unions, media. We recommend preliminary agreements that codify communication protocols—who calls whom, how, and when—before a dispute escalates." I click to the last slide. "Thank you for your attention. Any questions?"

We stand in the projector's light like people waiting for weather. The class is a field of tired faces and knotted scarves. Someone coughs. A zipper drags. Carlisle does not smile.

"Definitions," he starts. "You said 'ethical procurement' twice without defining it. ICC vs. UNCITRAL is undergrad-level cut-and-paste; where's the analysis of cost overrun in Canadian context? Also, your sample interview pool—twenty-three?—is not representative. And your 'preliminary agreement' idea—how do you enforce compliance? You can't legislate competence."

He doesn't ask. He declares.

Tamara inhales through her nose. "We defined 'ethical procurement' on slide six," she says evenly, "aligned with ISO 20400. We can add the working definition to earlier slides for clarity."

Carlisle looks at the ceiling like it might tell him something. "If you have to dig for a definition, it isn't a definition."

Yegi, hands folded to hide the way they want to move, answers the next. "On costs—the Canadian context is limited because comparable cases settle privately. We used OECD and ICC reports to interpolate ranges." She taps her bibliography. "We can add confidence intervals."

He waves a hand, already bored. "Intervals don't fix weak priors." He turns to Tina. "And if you're going to present, slow down for those whose English is less developed."

Tina goes still. "I... can," she says, and I hate that she feels the need to say it.

Heat stings my face. "She was clear," I hear myself say. It comes out quieter than I want, but not invisible. "We timed each section to fit the limit, not to rush."

Carlisle tilts his head in my direction, as if finally noticing I can speak. "Time limits are not an excuse for imprecision. At this level, your work should anticipate critique. You've... touched the surface." He clicks his pen twice. "Grade pending."

Dismissal as punctuation. He looks past us to the next names on his list.

We thank him because that's what the ritual demands, and we walk back to our seats with our ears full of pulse. When the last group starts, their voices cut through my thoughts like static—market entry risks, KPI tables, a joke that scrapes against the silence and dies. I don't hear most of it. I'm rehearsing all the things I won't say.

When class finally ends, chairs shriek backward. Coats shudder back onto shoulders. People flow around us, a current headed for the door. Carlisle says, "Don't forget the attendance sheet," without looking up.

We don't forget. We also don't look back.

In the corridor, the air is warmer. The relief is physical—like someone untied a knot at the base of my skull. We stand in a ragged circle under the exit sign, flushed and free in the way you are when you escape a room that pretends it wasn't a cage.

Tamara blows out a breath that fogs in the draft. "I'm going to marinate him on the course eval," she announces. "Slow roast. Baste. Serve with a bibliography."

Yegi's already pulling up the portal on her phone. "There is a section for 'instructor respectfulness,'" she says, scrolling. "Excellent. I love measurables."

"I'm done attending," I say, and my voice sounds lighter. "We presented. We're finished. I'll email for the last attendance if he cares that much."

"Slide edits?" Yegi asks, reflexive.

"We can add definitions," I allow, because it'll make her sleep. "Then we let it go."

Tamara hooks her arm through mine for a second, a quick squeeze. "Liberated," she declares.

We move toward the stairs, boots loud, laughter thin but genuine, the kind that comes back to life after being held under. Outside, a chalky sky threatens something—snow maybe, or just another gray evening. It doesn't matter.

We're done with him.

And for the first time all day, my shoulders drop.

--++*++--

The study rooms in the library feel like aquariums—walls of frosted glass, square lights sunk into the ceiling. At eleven p.m. it is hushed but not silent; other rooms glow with laptop screens, a faint chorus of whispered frustration leaking through thin walls. The heating hums. My eyes burn from the artificial brightness.

Our table is a battlefield: half-empty coffee cups with lipstick stains, pizza boxes collapsed into grease-darkened cardboard. Yegi has claimed one corner with her rainbow of sticky notes; Tamara left her jacket draped across the chair like she owns the whole space; Tina's laptop sits open in front of her, slides alternating between too-blue, too-red, too-green, as she clicks and sighs.

"This class is such a scam," she mutters, fiddling with the font size like it owes her money. "Community Leadership? What is this even teaching? My boyfriend laughed for ten minutes when I told him about the assignment."

Tamara rolls her eyes as she pushes back her chair. "Better than me telling my brother—he asked if I was paying tuition for group therapy. Anyway, bathroom. Don't steal my pizza crusts." She saunters off, phone in hand.

I lean over toward Yegi, my notes blurred by fatigue. "Slide seven," I whisper. "The one about leadership models. What does 'transformational practices in local contexts' even mean? Because I've read it three times and it still feels like word soup."

Her glasses slip down her nose as she pinches the bridge, sighing. "Basically: leaders should adapt? Use big words to say little. Don't overthink it."

I groan and reach for my cold pizza slice, the cheese solidifying into rubber. The crust snaps like cardboard when I bite it.

The door opens with a squeak, and Tamara sweeps back in—not alone.

"Ladies," she announces, mischief sharp in her grin, "you will not believe who I ran into at the gym entrance."

Behind her stands Yujin, hair damp from a shower, hoodie unzipped over a plain black tee that makes him look unfairly effortless. Beside him, taller by a head and broader by three, is his roommate—Fela. He has shoulders that could lift the study room itself, a gym bag hanging casually from one hand.

Fela smiles, quick and warm, and raises a hand in greeting before lingering just outside the doorway. "Just saying hi." he says. His smile tilts. He crosses his arms and plants himself like a guardian outside.

Yujin steps in, awkward in that not-awkward way he has, like he's decided on a reason to be here before anyone can ask. He sets down a white takeout bag on the table, its warmth startling against the chill of the room.

"Had extra food," he says. "Didn't want it to go cold."

Except the containers are still steaming.

I don't have to look at Yegi and Tamara to know their faces; I can feel the weight of their exchanged glance. Tamara's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

Tina, oblivious, perks up with the simple sincerity of someone who isn't tracking subtext. "Still hot," she notes brightly, almost sisterly. "Very sweet of you, Yujin."

Tamara nudges my elbow under the table. Yegi rolls her eyes, the gesture sharp but amused.

But Yujin doesn't retreat just yet. He slips his hand into his hoodie pocket, pulls something out, and leans across the cluttered table toward me.

A pair of mittens—thick, knitted, the kind dyed a muted gray-blue. They land softly in front of my open notebook.

His voice is quiet. "It's going to snow in an hour," he says.

My pulse skips. His eyes flick toward me—bright, steady, but shy at the edges.

Tamara clamps a hand over her mouth, a laugh threatening to explode. Tina blinks at the mittens as though he's handed me a relic. Yegi cuts in smoothly, saving me, saving him: "All right. Enough grand gestures. Back to slides before we die here."

Yujin doesn't linger for my thanks. He dips his head once, quick, and slips back out. I glimpse Fela patting his shoulder as they disappear down the corridor, two shadows swallowed by the library's glow.

For a beat, silence. Then Tina, in her puzzled, earnest way: "So... are you two dating?"

Heat races to my face. "We're just friends." The words sound brittle, unconvincing even to me.

Tamara collapses into her chair with a laugh. "Friends? Haeri, you've been flirting for three months. I swear, if you two were any slower, we'd need a calendar to track progress."

I cover my face with my hand, but it does nothing to hide the burn in my cheeks.

Yegi, practical as ever, waves her pen. "Focus. Romance later. Slides now."

Tina sighs, swiveling her laptop back toward me. "Fine, fine. Haeri, can you listen? This part's confusing."

I nod automatically, though her voice dissolves into background noise. My eyes remain locked on the mittens resting atop my notebook.

Soft wool. Careful stitches. Still carrying the faint warmth of his pocket.

And I think of him—sweet boy, steady gaze, heart shining through in quiet acts no one asked of him. The snow hasn't even started, but already, I feel the air grow softer.