The morning light spilled in through the thin curtains, drawing faint golden lines across the tiled floor.
George stood in front of the mirror, his sleeves already rolled, shirt neatly tucked.
The scent of mint lingered faintly from the toothpaste, and his breath came slow—controlled.
He ran a hand through his hair, pausing at the fringe. A few strands refused to fall in place.
With practiced ease, he adjusted it again, this time more carefully. He didn't want it to look too done. Just clean. Sharp. Like he was ready.
Because he was.
Today was the last exam.
His reflection blinked back at him—calm eyes, pressed collar, a quiet fire under the stillness.
He exhaled, low and steady, then reached for his wristwatch and snapped it on without looking down.
"Alright," he murmured to himself, almost like a nod of permission. "Let's finish this."
