Story code: ST-000910
Part 2: System Override
I pressed the rough canvas of the apron to my face. It smelled faintly of industrial bleach, old grease, and the cheap lavender soap my mother bought in bulk from the dollar store. A jagged, involuntary sob tore out of my throat, loud and pathetic in the cramped cabin of my Civic. I had spent my entire adult life trying to build a fortress of academic credentials around us, and a smirking sophomore had just kicked it over in the snow.
*10:17 PM.*
Eighty-three minutes.
I jammed my key into the ignition. The engine sputtered, whining against the bitter cold, before finally turning over with a rattling hum. I didn’t wait for the heater to warm up. I threw the car into drive and sped out of the parking lot, my tires spinning on the salt-slicked pavement. The university’s grading portal was geo-fenced; to access the secure administrative tier required for late-term transcript modifications, I had to be connected to the campus faculty network.
*10:28 PM.*
I swiped my adjunct ID card at the side entrance of the Humanities building. The light flashed green. The corridors were cavernous and completely deserted, echoing only with the frantic squeak of my wet boots. I practically sprinted up the three flights of stairs to the windowless, converted supply closet I shared with three other underpaid lecturers.
My fingers were completely numb, clumsy and thick, as I booted up the archaic desktop computer in the corner. I had to type my password three times before the system accepted it.
*10:35 PM.*
The faculty dashboard loaded, a sterile grid of names and numbers that governed thousands of futures. I navigated to my Macroeconomics section and scrolled down to the V’s. *Van Der Waal, Carter.*
Current Grade: F.
My chest tightened so painfully I could barely draw breath. My thumb hovered over the mouse. All I had to do was click the dropdown menu, select ‘A’, and type a brief, humiliating apology into the override notes. *My mistake. A calculation error. Apologies for the distress.* I would be investigated. I would likely be fired at the end of the term for academic incompetence, my contract quietly non-renewed. But my mother would be safe. I closed my eyes, swallowed the bile rising in my throat, clicked the ‘A’, and typed the excuse. I hit *Submit Grade Modification*.
A loading wheel spun for three agonizing seconds.
Then, a bright crimson banner slammed across the top of the screen.
*ERROR 403: UNAUTHORIZED. Modifications exceeding two letter grades during the final audit period require dual authentication. A digital authorization request has been routed to the Department Chair.*
I stared at the screen, my blood turning to ice water. “No,” I whispered to the empty room. “No, no, no.”
I clicked it again. The same red banner mocked me. The system was hardcoded to prevent exactly this kind of frantic, late-night academic fraud. The Department Chair, Dr. Aris Thorne, was a seventy-year-old emeritus who answered emails once a week and was currently asleep in his brownstone in Cambridge. There was absolutely no way he was logging on to approve a grade change before midnight.
I was physically locked out. I could not give Carter what he wanted, even if I sacrificed my own throat to do it.
*10:47 PM.*
I pulled out my phone and found the number listed in Carter’s email signature. My hands shook so violently I dropped the phone twice before I managed to type the message.
*The system blocked the change. It requires the Department Chair’s approval. I need until Monday morning. I cannot do it tonight.*
I watched the text deliver. The three gray typing bubbles appeared almost instantly.
*Sounds like you better wake up the Department Chair, Professor. 11:59 PM. I don’t negotiate.*
Panic gave way to a sudden, blinding wave of nausea. He wasn’t going to wait. He was going to hit the button.
I grabbed my phone and dialed my mother’s prepaid number. She was working the late-night prep shift for the weekend alumni breakfast. She answered on the fourth ring, her voice hushed, backed by the clattering of industrial dishwashers.
“Elena? Mija, it is late. Why are you awake?”
“Mama,” I choked out, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Did you lose your apron today? The one with the daisy?”
A heavy pause stretched on the line. “Yes. I was so worried. I left it in my locker, but when I went on my break, my padlock was cut. The metal was snipped right off.”
My breath hitched. “Did they take anything else?”
“No money,” she whispered, sounding frightened now. “But my purse was dumped out. My paperwork… the tax forms I needed to bring to HR tomorrow to renew my badge. They were moved. Elena, what is happening? Are we in trouble?”
“No, Mama. I’ll fix it. I love you.” I hung up before she could ask anything else.
*10:58 PM.*
Carter’s father hadn’t looked into the HR system. Board of Trustees members didn’t have direct access to dining hall payroll databases anyway; they received aggregated reports. Carter had lied. He had simply noticed the photo on my desk, realized my mother was the woman clearing his plates, and gone down to the basement with a pair of bolt cutters. He had broken into her locker, photographed her forged documents, and stolen her apron as a trophy.
It wasn’t a corporate audit. It was a physical burglary. A felony.
But proving a wealthy legacy student broke into a basement locker was impossible. The university’s security cameras were notoriously broken, and even if they worked, the administration would never side with an undocumented cafeteria worker over the son of a major donor. If I went to the police, my mother’s forged documents would be the first thing entered into evidence. We were trapped in a perfect, inescapable corner.
*11:12 PM.*
Forty-seven minutes left.
I looked back at the computer screen. The crimson error message was still glowing. If I couldn’t change his grade, and I couldn’t protect my mother from his phone call, I had only one option left. I had to make sure Carter Van Der Waal lost more tonight than we did.
I closed the grading portal and opened the digital dropbox containing his plagiarized essay. I hadn’t just given him an F because the paper was unoriginal. I had given him an F because the plagiarism detection software had flagged a ninety-eight percent match with an internal, unpublished document stored on the university’s secure servers.
I hadn’t looked at the original source document yet. I had just seen the match percentage and failed him.
I clicked the hyperlink in the software report, requesting access to the source file. A security prompt popped up, demanding a faculty override code to view the confidential archive. I typed in my password.
The document loaded.
I read the title of the original paper Carter had stolen. Then I read the author’s name.
A strange, terrifying calm washed over me, chilling my veins far faster than the winter air outside.
*11:19 PM.*
I printed the document, stuffed it into my coat pocket, and left the office. I didn’t know if this was going to save my mother’s life or send us both to federal prison, but I was done shivering in the dark. I was going to the fraternity house.