The hum of the plane was steady and rhythmic, pulling me between wakefulness and sleep. A few hours of stolen rest before finals, before three weeks of students crashing, before the first semester ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Half-lidded, I stared out the window, watching the city glow beneath me—Boston, waiting. Madison was behind me. Harvard was ahead. I exhaled, shifting in my seat.

A few dozen. That’s what I had told Sander. By the end of my first year… fifty? Fifty a year? Two hundred guys before my Master?

I exhaled, shifting in my seat.

Hannah… seriously.

The landing jolted me awake. I blinked and stretched, feeling the weight of sleep still clinging to me. The lights inside Logan were dim, the airport half-alive with the usual mix of travelers—families reuniting, students returning, and people moving through their lives like it was nothing.

Harvard wasn’t far now.

I grabbed my bag and moved through the terminal, letting the familiar stiffness of travel settle in my bones. Christmas carols bled through every loudspeaker between called flights. It was too early. It was too much.

Travelers bustled past me—families, couples, and kids clutching stuffed animals. A woman struggled with her carry-on while her husband stood uselessly beside her. A kid cried over a dropped cookie.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, weaving through it all.

Outside, the air was sharper, colder than when I’d left. The last bite of November creeping into December. I checked my phone. A few unread texts. Lisa. Shavonne. Alicia.

Home and away. Or something like that.

I exhaled, smirking to myself as I stepped into the cab. It was time to get back to work.

The campus had started ahead of me. It was almost the same chaos as the first day, but not quite. Kelly wasn’t lost in her map this time but in something else.

“You okay, girl?” I asked.

She frowned, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. “Shouldn’t we have gotten our midterm results by now?”

She was right. They were late. I reassured her and told her it’d be fine. She smiled, nodded, and headed upstairs. The halls smelled of old books and burnt coffee, the scent of exhaustion.

I had time to settle in. Alicia was already there, curled up on her bed, scrolling through her phone. Shavonne wasn’t. She’d probably wait until morning. Or she was so wasted she’d forgotten she had a room.

By Sunday night, the texts started coming in. Midterm results were a reminder that holidays were an illusion. Harvard owned us.

Log on to see your results.

I wasn’t surprised to see that I had aced it, and I wasn’t even surprised to see that Ethics—TBD.

Not long after, my phone lit up.

Professor Cullen: See me in my office. Monday 8 AM.

I read it twice, then set my phone down. There was no explanation, no details, just a summons. Cold. Calculated. The institution fucking with the institutionalized.

By Monday morning, the campus had fully snapped back to life. The last traces of Thanksgiving break were gone, replaced with caffeine-fueled desperation and students calculating how much of their grade they could salvage before finals. I didn’t rush. There was nothing to rush for.

At precisely 8 AM, I knocked and entered.

“You’re supposed to wait for an answer, Hannah,” he said.

“You said 8 AM. It’s 8 AM,” I answered. “I’m here, you’re here—just as you agreed.”

He sighed.

“Of course. You’re right. Sit.”

He flipped through my paper, which had dissected morality as a lie, and sighed again.

“It’s good. No, it’s brilliant,” he said. “And not a single line is what I’ve been trying to teach you.”

He looked at me. Not as an object. Not at my tits. But with interest.

“Miss Reed,” he said, “Why should I not fail this paper?”

It was apparent—a formality.

I leaned forward.

“Because,” I said, “If you meant for me to fail, you wouldn’t be sitting here asking.”

He sighed. Again.

“The question was, ‘How do morality and ethics play into psychology as a driving force?’ But you spent eight pages denying the existence of morality altogether.”

“Yes, professor. Morality is a construct—dead men’s rules, which we all abide by, just because. You teach morale. You teach ethics. You teach the problem.”

“Miss Reed, without ethics and morals, where do you draw the line?”

“Consent, professor.”

He shook his head. He disagreed. Why wouldn’t he? He’d been teaching the same rules of ethics and morals for decades.

“There’s nothing immoral about adultery?” he asked.

I shrugged, “No. Not if all involved consent.”

He frowned and realigned, “What about the victim of adultery?”

“Victim? Why are they victims? Because of possession? Ownership? Because men who died thousands of years ago gave the guidelines?” I argued.

He didn’t sigh this time; he leaned in over his desk.

“So, as long as two people consent, whatever wreckage is left in their wake is justified?”

Why did there have to be wreckage? What was the professor failing to see?

“My friend’s boyfriend cheated. She cried. Heartbroken. Then she fucked him anyway. Because she realized he was never her possession. Adultery? Did the other part, your ‘victim,’ fail their moral duties? Pushing your adulterer into finding their needs met elsewhere? My friend’s boyfriend? I don’t know his motives, but as soon as she gave up her ass, he stopped straying.”

He dropped my paper on his desk and leaned back.

“You know I’m right,” I said, “Although your theories still argue. Tell me, professor, how many years have you taught the same rules? How many times have they changed over those years?”

“Twenty-two,” he said, “Twenty-two years, the same curriculum.”

“And in twenty-two years, professor…how many of your students have you fucked?”

“Miss Reed!” he countered.

No denial. No rebuttal. My last name. Authority clutching at straws.

“So…more than one,” I concluded, “And that’s a pattern. You teach rules and writings you don’t even know how to live by yourself.”

“I could fail you just because of that,” he snarled.

His fingers twitched against the desk, and his jaw locked. But he was done talking.

“And yet you won’t. Will that be all?”

I saw that it was all. I stood and left.

It didn’t take long for the final text and the results to come in.

He gave me a B.

And sent me a text.

“You failed to answer the question. But you did it magnificently, Miss Reed. Next time, offer a bit about your theoretical knowledge before dissecting it. Thank you.”

Play by the rules, Hannah. Or at least try to.

Upon returning to campus, so did the texts, the phone calls, and the dick pics. Only a very few impressed me. It was a distraction, yet I didn’t want to erase the scribbles in the washroom just yet; you never know when it becomes a resource. It was meant as a taunt from someone who disliked me but knew my reputation, and once I found out who, I’d show him what a good time with Hannah actually means.

The first lecture made me glad I spent Thanksgiving fucking Madison dry.

The mantra was, “You’re all behind” and “This is the most important lesson you’ll learn this semester.” All spiced with “Take note of this.”

“If you don’t get this, you will fail.”

The system ground down everyone until we all fell in line.

I took notes, not because I needed them, but because I liked to watch people crumble. I scribbled notes when it wasn’t required to hear the room react around me. I underlined something random to hear the ripple of frantic scribbling behind me.

The girl to my left was already on the verge of tears. Her syllabus, crumpled at the edges, was filled with desperate annotations: review chapters 3-5, ask the professor if I can retake quiz 2, and beg for extra credit.

I glanced at her pen. Shaking.

To my right, some Daddy’s son had stopped pretending to be cool. His fingers drummed against his laptop as he highlighted every sentence in his notes. A useless tactic. Everything is important when you don’t know what matters.

I wondered how many of them were popping Adderall.

The professor droned on, waving his hands as if today’s lecture was a sermon and he was the last man who could save us from damnation.

“Those of you who don’t understand this will not pass,” he repeated.

I liked how his voice curled around the words and how he enjoyed it. I tapped my pen against my notebook.

“Who can explain the core contradiction in Kant’s moral imperative?”

A pause. A collective shrinking. No one wanted to be the first to answer.

I sighed. Raised my hand.

Professor Cullen’s gaze landed on me instantly; his smirk was almost imperceptible. I grinned back. Let the games begin.

I let the silence stretch.

Finally, he gave in, “Miss Reed,” he sighed.

No one else would answer until someone braver or stupider broke first. It might as well be me. I didn’t sit up straighter. I didn’t act eager. I just spoke—like I was stating something obvious that had already bored me.

"Kant’s contradiction is that he pretends morality is absolute while relying on human reason to define it."

I didn’t rush. I let my voice settle, measured, unimpressed.

"He tells us moral laws are universal, unbreakable. That duty matters more than consequence. That we should act as if our actions should become universal law." I smirked. "But that only works if you assume humans are rational."

A flicker in Cullen’s gaze—interest, challenge. He didn’t stop me.

So I kept going.

"Humans aren’t rational. We rationalize." I tilted my head slightly, watching him. "And even when we think we’re following Kant’s imperative, we’re just bending it to fit whatever suits us best. Since biblical times, incest has fascinated and been morally argued. Yet, remove the construct of morality from the equation, and it’s the foundation of mankind itself. Adam and Eve? Brother and sister. Ancient Egypt? The formation of European monarchies?”

I scoffed.

“History’s greatest dynasties weren’t built on Kant—they were built on bloodlines. Too convenient, don’t you think?”

Professor Cullen didn’t blink. But the class did. A shuffle of bodies. The tightening of shoulders. The dart of a glance, a barely suppressed reaction. Someone swallowed hard. Someone else’s pen stopped mid-scratch.

I let the silence stretch. Let them feel it.

“Are you suggesting, Miss Reed, that morality is nothing more than a power mechanism?” Cullen finally asked.

I smiled. "I'm telling you that it always has been."

Another ripple of unease. A few curious stares. Someone in the back looked at their phone like they wanted to fact-check me.

Cullen exhaled, leaning back against his desk. His fingers steepled, his expression unreadable.

“So, in your world, Hannah, morality doesn’t exist?”

I tilted my head. Just slightly.

"It exists. But not as truth. As a function. As leverage. As a system to keep some people in check while allowing others to thrive. It’s never been about right and wrong. Just power and justification.”

A flicker of something in his gaze—recognition. The room felt heavier now.

Someone whispered, "Jesus Christ."

I just smiled because I wasn’t arguing. Neither was Professor Cullen.

“Anyone care to dispute Miss Reed’s argument?”

Silence.

A few exchanged glances, some wary, some intrigued. Someone shifted in their seat like they wanted to speak but thought better. I let my eyes flick over them, slow, deliberate. They weren’t ready. Not for me.

Neither was he.

Cullen’s gaze stayed on me, assessing, calculating. His question hadn’t been rhetorical—he wanted someone to push back.

No one did.

I smiled.

He sighed. “No takers?”

There was another beat of silence.

Then—finally—someone cleared their throat.

“It’s a false equivalence.”

I turned.

A boy. Clean-cut, sharp-jawed. The kind who probably ran debate in high school and still thought that mattered.

He sat up straighter like he’d convinced himself he was ready for this.

“You’re comparing monarchy and creation myths to Kantian ethics but ignoring intent.” His voice was even, controlled. “Just because something has been justified through power doesn’t mean morality doesn’t exist outside of that justification.”

A weak attempt. But an attempt.

I smiled.

"You’re assuming morality exists separately from power. It doesn’t. You only think it does because you were raised inside a system that taught you it does."

He frowned, lips parting like he had a retort ready.

I didn’t let him have it.

"Tell me," I continued, voice smooth, casual, "Do you think the kings and pharaohs who married their sisters thought of themselves as immoral?"

His frown deepened.

I didn’t stop.

"Did they struggle with guilt? Lose sleep at night? Whisper to their gods, begging for forgiveness?"

I let the silence stretch, my smile widening just slightly.

"Or did they believe—truly, completely—that they were right? That they were chosen? That their bloodline, their kingdom, their duty was worth more than whatever morality told them they were supposed to feel?"

His jaw tensed.

I tilted my head. "Who decided they were wrong?"

A hesitation. Too long.

I pressed.

"The people who took their power. The people who decided to write the rules."

The weight of my words settled, pressing into the space between us.

“Just because you write something on paper doesn’t make it absolute. The ideas, beliefs, and structures of ancient Egypt still exist.”

I leaned back, letting the moment breathe. Letting the realization bloom in his head, slow and inevitable.

He looked away, then turned to say something.

I cut him off.

“Who questions the morality of the people in power? Who sends young people to die in wars they never wanted a part of? For a scrap of land, for resources, and religion?”

He looked away again. Permanent. Something on his shoe.

I turned back to Cullen.

His expression hadn’t changed. But his fingers had stopped steepling.

I smiled. Because I wasn’t arguing. And now, neither was anyone else. Professor Cullen let the silence settle. Let the tension stretch—not breaking it, but acknowledging it. He exhaled through his nose. Not a sigh. Not quite amusement. Something in between.

His fingers tapped once against the desk. Then stopped.

“Not bad, Miss Reed.”

A flick of his gaze to the student I had just dismantled. Then back to me. I didn’t smile. Not yet.

“You make a compelling argument.” His voice was measured, his cadence deliberate. “That morality is an instrument of power. Those who wield it do so not in pursuit of truth, but in pursuit of control.”

A pause.

“And yet, here you are—playing by the rules.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Someone shifted in their seat. I didn’t move.

“You sit in this class, on this campus, absorbing knowledge from a system built on the very structures you claim are arbitrary.” He tilted his head slightly. “You abide by the framework. You take the exams. You chase the credentials. So tell me, Miss Reed—if morality is just a tool for those in power, why do you still choose to play their game?”

A test.

I let the question hang between us. Let its weight sink in—not just for me but for everyone watching.

I stretched my legs out and leaned back.

“Because,” I said, “I get off on winning.”

Someone inhaled sharply. Someone else exhaled too slowly, like they didn’t realize they’d been holding their breath.

Cullen offered a slow nod.

“Good,” he said. “Then let’s continue.”

He turned back to the board just like that, as if nothing had happened.

As if he hadn’t just seen me for what I was. As if he wasn’t already watching.

They were on me when I stepped out of the lecture hall. A crush of bodies. Questions. Counterarguments. Attempts.

"So what do you actually believe?"

"Aren’t you just replacing one form of power with another?"

"But doesn’t that make you—"

I didn’t stop to listen.

Some were looking for more—debate, validation, a fight, a mentor, a leader. I had time for none of it. I pulled an apple from my bag, took a slow bite, and kept walking. Let them pick apart my words. Let them convince themselves they were engaging, unraveling, debating.

They weren’t.

I had already won.

There was another lecture to attend. Another professor to study. Another system to play.

And I was still hungry.

Monday. A blur of lectures. Notes I didn’t need. People were still whispering about the ethics class, trying to pull me into debates I had no interest in. I ate. I moved. I observed.

Tuesday. The library was packed. Harvard’s collective desperation smelled like stale coffee and unwashed ambition. Some people crumbled under the pressure. Others thrived. I just watched.

Wednesday. I caught Kelly in the hallway. Sweating. She’d be okay. She was built for struggle.

Shavonne was intent. Closed. Focused. Her world narrowed to books, notes, practice exams. No cracks. Not yet.

Alicia was strung like a spring. Too much energy, too little control. Like she needed something—someone—to pull her apart.

The finals were sharpening everyone.

I wondered who would break first.

By Wednesday afternoon, the cracks started to appear.

Alcohol.

Drugs.

Sex.

The ones who’d already given up and the ones on the brink. Crying in dark corners. Silent, shaking, hoping no one would see. Retreating to their dorms. Lights off, blankets over their heads, trying to disappear.

Finals didn’t just test knowledge.

They tested nerve.

I hadn’t masturbated all week. Not out of discipline. Not out of focus. Just… hadn’t. My body was wound tight, coiled like a spring, but I let it sit. Let the tension build.

Let it become something else.

Thursday. The exhaustion was visible now—in the slumped shoulders, the hollow eyes, the way people moved slower as their bodies had finally caught up to their minds.

Shavonne was still locked in. Alicia was wired, restless. Kelly? I hadn’t seen her since Wednesday.

Friday. More people broke. The library was half study, half graveyard. A boy sat with his head in his hands, books open but unread. Someone else was asleep at their desk, drooling onto notes they wouldn’t have time to rewrite.

I still hadn’t masturbated.

I was waiting.

The weekend was going to be an interesting study. Who locked themselves away with their books, eyes glazed, fingers cramping around highlighters? Who said fuck it and partied like it was any other weekend, pretending finals weren’t coming?

Who gave up entirely—fucked and boozed their way into finals, knowing they were already lost?

Harvard sorted people. Finals just made it obvious.

Up to thirty percent would fail, drop out, or change course. I just wanted to know why. Why had they chosen wrong? Why had they failed? Why did failure end in alcohol, drugs, and sex?

What was it about breaking that made people crave oblivion?

I masturbated.

I didn’t need release, but I wanted to feel the edge of control—to remind myself that I wasn’t them. I wasn’t breaking.

I was watching.

I was enjoying.

My hand slid between my thighs, fingers pressing against the heat already there. I wasn’t desperate or frantic like the ones sneaking...