Back at his apartment, Stan ate his meal at the dining room, he then showered, and collapsed into bed.
Vivian Reeves was becoming a genuine headache. Not a dangerous one, the chancellor's call had already neutralized the expulsion threat, but an annoying one. The kind of persistent, low-grade irritation that consumed energy without producing results. She couldn't actually hurt him. She just kept trying, and the trying itself was exhausting.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep came quickly.
It didn't last.
His phone rang in the dark, sharp, insistent, dragging him out of unconsciousness with the gentle subtlety of a fire alarm.
Stan fumbled for the device, squinted at the screen. Unknown number. He almost declined it, then reconsidered. The chancellor had said to expect future calls. It might be important.
He picked up.
"Hello. Am I speaking with Mr. Stan Harrison?"
