"Pens down. Now."
The command echoed through the massive lecture hall like the toll of a bell. The proctor's voice was clipped, deliberate, and utterly merciless.
Chairs creaked. Pens dropped. A few students froze mid-sentence, desperate to squeeze in just one more word—but none dared to defy the order.
The room, thick with tension and the faint stench of stress-induced sweat, fell into a brittle silence.
Students sat slumped over their desks like defeated soldiers after a siege. The last of the theoretical midterms—four grueling hours of multi-discipline nightmare fuel—was finally over.
A low groan broke the silence. "What the hell was that third section?"
No one responded immediately. Then, from the row behind, another voice muttered under their breath. "I swear half those questions weren't even real. They made those up just to watch us suffer."
"Shhh," came the immediate whisper from the side. "He's still collecting."
