Mission Forensic
Part 28: The Review
Tuesday arrived with the kind of restless brightness that made the campus lawns glitter like glass. Edward parked neatly beneath the neem trees, Catherine stepping out beside him with her bag slung low against her shoulder. Ahead, the academic block shimmered under the morning sun, the corridors already filling with voices and the tap of hurried footsteps.
* * *
In the classroom, Dr. Ruchika stood poised at the front, her teal saree bordered in silver, the folds falling in perfect order. She wrote steadily across the whiteboard, the markers squeaking with authority:
Drug Metabolism and Elimination
“Every drug,” she began, her tone calm but commanding, “enters with promise. What matters is how the body transforms it, and how the body lets it go. The fate of medicine lies not in the dose, but in its journey.”
Edward’s pen moved in clean, sharp lines. Catherine followed every diagram with quiet intensity, her notebook pages neat, margins annotated with little arrows of her own.
Behind them, Shawn slumped against his desk. “Phase I, Phase II, Phase… asleep,” he whispered.
Ahana nudged him sharply with her elbow, her notes already two pages ahead. “If your metabolism matched your laziness, you’d never wake up.”
The corner of Catherine’s mouth twitched, though she didn’t look up. Edward allowed himself the smallest smile before fixing his gaze back on the board.
By the end of the lecture, the whiteboard was layered with arrows, enzymes, and neat sequences of reactions. As the students packed up, Catherine leaned toward Ahana, pointing at a line of conjugation pathways. “You always make your charts so tidy. Mind if I copy later?”
Ahana gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Only if you don’t lend them to Shawn.”
“I heard that,” Shawn muttered, shoving his notebook into his bag with theatrical despair.
* * *
The second class ended just before noon. Edward was sliding his laptop into his bag when his phone buzzed—a short, unmistakable message:
Bring the draft. Review now. — R.S.
Catherine glanced at the screen, then at him. “Time to face the jury again?”
He gave a small nod. “This time with evidence.”
She touched his arm briefly, her eyes steady. “You’ll hold your ground. Just remember—it’s your work.”
* * *
The faculty wing carried its own gravity. The Dean sat composed at the oval table, her indigo saree drawn sharp across her shoulder. Dr. Harsh leafed through papers, his pen tapping in restless rhythm. Dr. Ridhima gestured toward the projector.
Edward connected his laptop, the poster draft blooming onto the screen. Clean headers, the emblem prominent, dates crisp against a softened palette.
“Stronger than yesterday,” Dr. Harsh said at once, scanning the balance. “But add more clarity on session topics. People want to know what they’ll get in five days.”
The Dean nodded. “Names of confirmed speakers should be included too. Authority matters.”
Ridhima’s eyes fixed on Edward. “You’ll add those tonight. Keep it simple—no overcrowding. Clarity is persuasion.”
Edward noted every word, his posture calm though his pulse quickened. For a moment, he caught the Dean’s gaze. She inclined her head once, a subtle acknowledgment that felt heavier than any applause.
When the meeting adjourned, Ridhima paused as he packed his laptop. “Edward,” she said quietly, “what you’re doing is no small task. Treat it as though the Institute’s name is yours.”
He met her gaze, steady. “Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
In the canteen, Shawn was mid-story when Edward rejoined them, waving his hands as though recounting a battle. “And then—she actually timed me! As if I’m running a marathon of bad handwriting.”
Ahana didn’t glance up from her plate. “Because you are.”
Edward slid in beside Catherine, setting his tray down. She tilted her head, her question unspoken.
“Approved,” he said simply. “With edits.”
Her smile came, quiet but certain. “I told you.”
“Of course she did,” Shawn groaned, stabbing at his samosa. “Meanwhile, I can’t even get Ahana to approve of my existence.”
“Existence is one thing,” Ahana replied, sipping her water. “Accuracy is another.”
The table shook with Catherine’s laughter, Edward’s smile joining hers as Shawn slumped deeper into his performance of betrayal.
* * *
Afternoon brought them to the lab. The air carried the faint tang of solvents, the benches lined with glass beakers, gloves, and small vials of pale solution. On their desks lay slips of paper already handled with latent prints.
“Today,” the instructor announced, “you’ll develop fingerprints using Ninhydrin. Be precise. The beauty is in patience.”
Edward dropped the reagent carefully, his strokes measured, deliberate. Slowly, the faint ridges began to bloom violet against the paper—delicate as veins in a leaf. Catherine leaned closer over her sample, the purple arches unfurling like hidden signatures under her steady hand.
Across the room, Shawn’s paper flopped dangerously as he waved it too close to the dryer. “Behold! The print of destiny!”
“Or disaster,” Ahana snapped, snatching it away before the sheet tore. She held it steady, the ridges surfacing in perfect contrast. For a moment, her concentration softened her usual sharpness, her expression almost gentle in the glow of the violet print.
Shawn blinked at her. “You saved my fingerprint.”
Ahana rolled her eyes, handing it back. “Don’t make it sound sentimental.”
But Edward caught the flicker of a smile she tried to hide. Catherine nudged him with her elbow, both of them exchanging the kind of glance that stored these small moments away.
The lab hummed with focus, the quiet crackle of dryers, the rising fragrance of reagents. By the end, their tables were spread with papers marked by purple ridges—prints risen from invisibility into permanence.
* * *
Evening closed over the library. Their corner table filled again: Catherine with her pharmacology notes, Edward with his laptop open to emails from the committee, Ahana absorbed in journals, Shawn half-distracted but unable to leave.
“Why do you all look so serious?” Shawn asked at last, leaning back until his chair creaked. “This is supposed to be our youth. Instead, we’re a museum of suffering.”
“Because some of us value grades,” Ahana said, her tone without malice.
“Grades will fade,” Shawn declared. “But my stories will last forever.”
Catherine smirked without lifting her eyes from her notes. “As cautionary tales.”
Edward’s low laugh carried across the table, brief but warm. The hours stretched in steady rhythm—pages turning, pens scratching, Shawn muttering under his breath, Ahana keeping them anchored without ever needing to raise her voice.
* * *
At half past eight, the library lights flickered in quiet dismissal. The four stepped out together, the campus washed in lamplight, lawns hushed under the night air. At the bus stand, Shawn and Ahana lingered a moment longer than usual, their argument about handwriting trailing after them as they disappeared into the crowd.
Edward unlocked his car, Catherine sliding into the passenger seat with the ease of ritual. As the headlights swept across the road, she tilted her head toward him.
“You’ll work again tonight, won’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, starting the engine.
“Then I’ll stay up,” she murmured, her voice steady as a promise.
The campus lights faded in the rear-view mirror, the night ahead thick with work, with expectation, with the quiet certainty that she would not let him face it alone.
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