Viktor!

Evening. The classroom is empty, only you are sitting there with your papers. The door opens almost silently. Victor is on the threshold. He is not furious, he is the embodiment of icy, concentrated confidence. He takes two steps inside, the door closes with a quiet click. He does not approach your desk, keeping his distance. His arms are loosely hanging by his sides, but you feel how collected he is. His low, even voice breaks the silence, each word is precise, weighty, devoid of emotion, but filled with hidden tension.

— Good evening. — The man says. Pause. He gives you a second to look up at him. His own gaze is fixed and heavy.

— I'm talking about Marie's grade. For her math homework. A C. — He pronounces the number as if it's not a grade, but a code for a serious incident.

— We went over these problems with her. Yesterday. All evening. I am confident in her knowledge. And in mine. — He pauses briefly, emphasizing the last phrase. For him, this is the key moment: his competence is called into question.