The Data Review

The third floor of Henderson Hall fell silent after the last class let out. Professor Gerner Harken sat behind his desk in the dim glow of a single lamp, the manila folder open before him. He turned pages slowly, methodically, reading each line of Tracy Basker's research proposal. The data tables were clean. Too clean. He had suspected it for weeks, and now the proof sat in his hands.

His office smelled of old paper and furniture polish. A clock ticked on the wall. He closed the folder and leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach. He waited.

Footsteps in the hallway. A pause at his door. A knock.

"Come in, Miss Basker."

She entered like a caught animal, shoulders tight, eyes darting around the room before settling on him. Jeans and a campus hoodie covered her frame, her long brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She clutched her phone like a talisman.

"You said it was urgent, Professor."

He gestured to the chair across from his desk. She sat, perching on the edge of the cushion. He let the silence stretch.

"I've been reviewing your independent study data," he said. "The numbers on the regression analysis page specifically."

Her face went pale. "I can explain that."

"I'm sure you can." He opened the folder and traced a finger down the page. "The problem is that I've already cross-referenced your raw data with your final submission. There are discrepancies. Significant ones."

She stared at the folder like it might bite her. "Discrepancies how?"

"Your control group readings don't match your lab notebook entries. The variance is nonexistent in your final report. Statistically impossible." His gaze lifted to meet hers. "You fabricated the results, Miss Basker."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "No. I mean, there might have been an error in transcription, but I didn't..."

He held up a hand and she fell silent.

"I have your original data sheets, your lab notebook, the timestamped files from your shared drive. I have everything." The folder closed with a soft sound. "This isn't a discussion. It's a finding."

She started shaking. Not visibly, but he could see it in the way her hands gripped her phone, the way her jaw tightened. "What are you going to do?"

"The standard procedure is to report this to the department chair and the academic integrity committee." He said it like he was reading from a manual. "They'll convene a hearing. Given the weight of the evidence, expulsion is the likely outcome. At minimum, a permanent notation on your transcript."

"Professor Harken, please. I didn't mean to. I was behind, and I panicked, and I just thought if I could make the data look right, I could fix it later. I was going to fix it. I swear I was."

He watched her crumble. Her voice cracked. Her eyes filled with tears she fought to hold back.

"Please. I can't get expelled. My scholarship. My family. They'll kill me. Please."

He let her plead for another minute. Then he spoke.

"I have an alternative."

She went quiet, hope flickering across her face.

"I keep your secret. You keep your grade. Your transcript stays clean. You graduate on time with everything you've earned." He paused. "In exchange, you give me what I want."

"What do you want?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Your body, Miss Basker. Your submission to my authority for as long as you're at this university."

She stared at him. The words hung in the air between them. She shook her head slowly. "I don't understand."

"I think you do." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "You come to me when I tell you. You do what I instruct. You don't question me. You don't resist. And you never tell a soul. In return, your academic record remains intact."

"That's insane." She stood up, backing toward the door. "I'm not going to do that. I'll take my chances with the committee."

He shrugged. "Your choice. But consider this carefully. The committee will see the evidence. They'll question your references. They'll call your previous professors. And when they find out about the other inconsistencies in your coursework, and I assure you they will, you won't just be expelled. You'll be blacklisted. No transfer school will touch you. No employer will look twice."

She stopped with her hand on the door handle.

"I'm not trying to ruin you, Tracy. I'm offering you a way out." He stood, walked around the desk, leaned against the front of it, arms crossed. "Think about what you're giving up. Your degree. Your future. All of it gone, because of one mistake."

"It's not a mistake if you're blackmailing me."

"It's a transaction." He smiled. "I keep your secret. You keep your future. And I get something I've wanted for a long time."

She turned to face him. Her eyes were red but dry now. "Why me?"

"Because you're here, and you're desperate, and you'll do exactly what I tell you to do. You hate that fact, but it's true." He nodded toward the chair. "Sit down, Miss Basker. Let's discuss the terms."

She didn't sit. She stayed by the door, one hand on the handle, ready to bolt. But she didn't open it.

"The terms are simple," he continued. "You come to my office three times a week. You follow my instructions. You don't speak of this to anyone. And I mean anyone. If I find out you've told a single soul, the deal is off and the committee gets a full report."

"Three times a week for what?"

"I'll decide that when we get there. For now, you'll come tomorrow evening at seven. We'll start with the basics."

She shook her head again. "I can't. I have practice. I'm on the soccer team."

"Cancel it. Or don't. But if you're not here at seven, I file the report." He said it without malice, like he was reminding her of a homework deadline.

She stared at him. The tears finally spilled over her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

"You're serious."

"I'm always serious, Tracy. That's why you're in this position and I'm not." He walked back around his desk and sat down. "You have until the end of this conversation to decide. Once you walk out that door, the offer expires."

She stood frozen. He watched her, patient, waiting. The clock ticked.

"What exactly would I have to do?" she asked, her voice small.

"Whatever I require. When I require it. You don't ask questions or negotiate. You simply obey." He opened a drawer and pulled out a form, sliding it across the desk. "This is a confidential agreement. It states that you're choosing to handle this matter privately. It doesn't mention the specifics of our arrangement. Sign it, and we begin."

She approached the desk like it was a bomb. She looked at the form, then at him.

"And if I don't sign?"

"Then you leave, I file the report, and you spend the next semester explaining to everyone why you're not in school anymore." He held out a pen. "This is your only chance."

She took the pen. Her hand trembled as she signed her name. She set the pen down and looked at him, hollow.

"Good." He folded the form and put it in his drawer. "Now go home. Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow at seven."

She turned and walked out without another word. He listened to her footsteps fade down the hallway, then returned to his grading. The arrangement was in place. Everything else was just training.