The blue-white glare of the laptop screen is the only light in the kitchen, carving Eden’s shadow against the peeling wallpaper of her Edinburgh flat. It is half-past midnight. The departmental portal finally flickers to life, revealing a grade that should be a triumph: a first-class mark, the highest in the year. But the victory is hollowed out by the email sitting directly beneath the notification.
It is from Dr. James Ardent, her supervisor. There is no praise for her work, only a single line of clinical instruction: 'Miss Marlowe, I strongly advise you to submit a transfer of supervision by Monday.' The coldness of it is a physical weight. On the attached draft of her bibliography, he has left a final mark—a habit of his she has come to recognize with a mix of reverence and dread. He has underlined the word 'Finality' in double red ink, the lines perfectly parallel and sharp enough to cut the paper.
Why now? After months of grueling tutorials and shared silences in his book-lined office, he is casting her out without a word of explanation. The rain stutters against the windowpane, a rhythmic tapping that suddenly breaks.
A heavy knock sounds at the flat's front door.
