The Ultimate Proctor

5

Arthur sat sprawled on the sofa, long legs stretched out, fingers idly tracing his earring.

Hearing Victor’s remark, he lifted his gaze—a cold sweep—then dropped it again.

No explanation. No remorse. No acknowledgment.

The ultimate uncooperative delinquent.

...

Alistair entered the office and choked. It felt like stepping into the principal’s lair.

"You summoned me?"

With an examinee present, Alistair’s expression stiffened further.

"What’s the penalty for a second offense?" Victor slowly twirled his pen. "Been a while. Memory’s fuzzy."

"Confinement," Alistair stated woodenly.

Victor: "..."

Arthur’s fingers stilled. He finally looked up.

His face remained coldly indifferent—only lazy exhaustion showing—but Alistair felt waves of scorn.

Maybe genetic.

Or maybe their boss attracted such gazes.

Victor: "Besides confinement, nothing else?"

Alistair opened his mouth—

Beep.

Something flashed on Victor’s wrist. Arthur’s eyes snapped to it.

Alistair said, "See? Harsher penalties violate protocol."

Victor glanced down, casually adjusting his cuff. The flash vanished.

His gaze met Arthur’s.

"Confinement rooms with just chairs are boring." Victor eyed Arthur, speaking to Alistair. "Join him? At least there’d be scenery."

Alistair: "..."

Who’s being punished?

Victor laughed. "Joking. Don’t take it seriously."

Alistair exhaled, accustomed to such fiendish humor. "Then... send him downstairs again? Sleep three hours, then return?"

"Is this a hourly motel?"

Alistair shut up.

He waited, eyes downcast. No new orders came. He risked a glance.

Arthur stared out the window—indifferent, coldly arrogant. Utterly unrepentant.

As for their boss Victor...

He loosely clasped his hands, gaze fixed on Arthur’s pale profile.

Alistair sensed curiosity... and inexplicable displeasure.

"Sir?" Alistair prompted.

Finally, Victor looked away. "Trick another examinee into violating. Lock them together."

Alistair: "..."

Is he insane?

Beep. Another wrist warning. Alistair tensed. Victor ignored it.

"Skip confinement? Send him back?"

Beep.

Victor tsked.

He pondered. "The last-used confinement room... cleaned yet?"

Alistair glanced at Arthur, bewildered. "Need cleaning? Rope’s stored. The ‘f**k Off’ ball’s trashed."

At "ball," Arthur’s fingers paused on his earring. But he kept staring out the window, coldly deaf.

Victor said, "The other one."

Alistair: "Oh. No. Planned to, but... violations got too frequent. Sebastian and I haven’t had time."

"Then have our... frequent guest here clean it." Victor paused. "What do I call you?"

Arthur snorted.

"Have Mr. Snort handle it."

Arthur: "..."

Alistair, foreseeing bloodshed, hastily agreed and ushered the hazard downstairs.

...

Basement storage room.

Sebastian and Alistair rummaged for tools. The actual penalized examinee leaned against the doorframe, radiating murder.

"Stop glaring. You’d lose a fight," Sebastian said.

Perhaps the audacious "Solution" had softened him. Sebastian’s tone lacked its usual officiousness.

Arthur stayed silent. His expression screamed Bullshit.

"Think ‘001’ is just a number?" Sebastian pressed. "First time I saw the boss... which round was it? Near some military base? Anyway—a whole street! Drenched in blood. He carried a shoulder cannon like this—"

"Find your bucket," Alistair cut in flatly.

"Right."

Sebastian reminisced wistfully, then straightened under Alistair’s glare. "Head over first. I’ll bring the bucket."

...

Arthur and Alistair reached the long corridor.

"Clean all this blood," Alistair gestured at the smeared floor, then unlocked Gregory’s confinement room.

"You were examinees before?" Arthur asked abruptly.

Alistair startled, nodded. "Years ago."

"How’d you become invigilators?"

Alistair weighed his words. "Passed the exam. Top scores."

Arthur frowned. "What is this exam?"

Alistair glanced at him, vague. "A... special screening mechanism. Exams are like that."

Arthur mocked, "Screening what? Fearless valedictorians?"

That eerie sensation of being watched returned.

Arthur glanced up. White ceiling. No peepholes. Nothing craning down.

"What kind of people get pulled here?" he pressed.

Alistair considered. "Exceptionally dangerous ones."

Arthur’s expression didn’t change.

Alistair remembered the roomful of elderly, sick, and pregnant. "...Perhaps inaccurate."

Arthur: "So what is this? Supernatural?"

Alistair shook his head. "Not supernatural. It’s—"

Beep.

Arthur looked back, expecting Victor.

Empty corridor. The sound came from Alistair.

Alistair touched his finger. A warning glow pulsed beneath a plain ring. Seeing it, he sealed his lips.

"What’s that?" Arthur asked. "001 has one too."

"Violation alert." Alistair turned the ring, hiding the light.

"You have rules too?"

"Of course! Tons!" Sebastian called, lugging an aluminum bucket. He stepped over bloodstains. "No discussing dangerous topics. No abusing power against examinees. No aiding cheating. No inappropriate relations between invigilators and examinees—"

Arthur: "..."

"Ah, that last one’s unlikely." Sebastian added. "Not killing each other’s a win. Actual fights? Invigilators prohibited from illegally killing examinees... etc."

"What if an examinee kills an invigilator?" Arthur asked.

Sebastian: "..."

"So, penalties for your violations?"

Alistair paled.

Even easygoing Sebastian hesitated. "Don’t ask. It’s... bad. Haven’t experienced it. Hope never to."

"So stop asking dangerous questions. Peace is good, right?" Sebastian set the bucket before Arthur. "Focus on passing. Survive first. Some things... you’ll learn in time."

...

Alistair stayed silent. He removed the lock.

The door creaked open. Rot and decay wafted out.

Inside: blood, and unidentifiable residue clinging to walls and floor.

Arthur’s disgust was palpable. "...You clean these?"

"Manually? God, no." Sebastian pinched his nose. "That’d punish us."

"Disgusting? Yes. But better than confinement."

Arthur’s icy stare said otherwise.

Sebastian backtracked. "Uh... for you, better than being stuck with our boss, right?"

He dragged Alistair away.

The corridor plunged into silence.

...

Manual cleaning was unthinkable.

Arthur leaned in the doorway, coldly surveying the room. He filled the bucket, then hurled water across the floor.

Blood diluted. Residue sloughed off, whitish lumps surfacing.

Arthur crouched. Before him, a chunk—bone shards?—tangled with long black hair.

What horror movies lived in that bald man’s head?

Gritting his teeth, Arthur stepped inside.

...

A cursory rinse later, the bucket brimmed with b****y slop and debris.

Tangled in the hair atop the sludge: a patch of skin. Waterlogged, unnervingly pale. Like fake leather.

Tattooed on it: a small, simple windchime flower.

...

Three hours later, Sebastian escorted Arthur back.

Victor stretched, heading to find Alistair for food. He opened his office door—

A bucket of gore sat politely on his threshold. A torn paper note tucked beside it, scrawled in lean, sharp script:

For you. No need to thank me.

Alistair’s voice drifted over: "Sir, I’m roasting beef. Want anything?"

Victor: "...Won’t be hungry today."

Alistair: "???"

Oven mitts in hand, he rounded the corner. Stared at the b****y bucket for three seconds. "I may never be hungry again."

Victor plucked the note, leaning against the doorframe. After a moment, he asked Alistair: "Penalty for a third offense by the same examinee?"

His tone was languid, certain syllables drawn out—making every word sound like a taunt.

Alistair: "...Surely there won’t be a third?"

"Hypothetically."

Alistair chose his words carefully. "Invigilators... conduct full on-site proctoring. Priority monitoring."

Victor: "............"

The cabin fell terrifyingly silent.