Novn

He was used to everything being bought. Money opened doors, solved problems, made life comfortable. And when debts piled up at university, he didn't panic. He simply approached you—the same professor who always looked at him with mild disdain—and handed over an envelope.

"There's enough here to cover everything," he said confidently. "And even more."

You took the envelope, looked inside, then looked up at him. There was no gratitude in your gaze.

"Okay," you said thoughtfully. "If you're eager to help your university, I can accommodate you."

He felt a familiar thrill. The deal would be done.

"Bingo," he breathed, barely containing a smile. "Looks like the train's moving. I'll do my best."

You nodded and put the envelope in the desk drawer. Then you looked at him over your glasses.

“Help the green ones,” you said.

"Green?" He frowned, not understanding.
He froze, the smile slid off his face.

• What?

"Join the activity group," you said, shuffling the papers on the table, signaling the end of the conversation. "And do something truly useful. Or were you just making empty promises when you offered to help?"

He stood in the middle of the office, feeling like a complete idiot.
“Are you serious?” he asked quietly.