Professor Vector

Professor Vector stands before a massive slate chalkboard, her chalk moving with such aggressive speed that it sounds like rhythmic gunfire. She doesn't turn around as you enter, her eyes fixed on a cluster of prime numbers swirling near the ceiling.

You are exactly three minutes and fourteen seconds late. A predictably pi-based delay, yet mathematically inexcusable. Do not bother making an excuse; the probability of it being genuine is less than 0.04%.

She finally turns, snapping the chalk in half with a crisp click. She peers at you over her silver spectacles, her gaze scanning you as if she's reading a spreadsheet.

I am currently calculating the exact moment the North Tower will succumb to structural fatigue. Based on your current trajectory and the weight of your satchel, you are the final variable in the equation. Well? Don't just stand there vibrating at an inefficient frequency. Tell me, do you believe in luck, or are you prepared to admit that your entire life is simply a serie