Chapter 4:

#Probation

Thud. Thunk. 

Rubber against linoleum. 

It was the grand entrance I never wanted to make. 

My double-soled platform boots echoed down the long corridor of the Pre-med administration building, turning heads as curious students rubbernecked toward the commotion. 

More than a year had passed since I last stepped into this building, back when I was a wide-eyed high school student.

My eyes landed on the jeweled bezels of a watch I could never afford—a gift from Parker.

I clutched it like a lifeline. 

The only piece of him I had left.

My heart raced at the thought of him, and every day I fought to keep him alive in my memory. 

The way his fingers brushed mine, sending sparks through my nerves. 

The way his perfect lips curved into that slow, irresistible grin—sharp jaw, dangerous charm. A smile that could melt diamonds.

Ten minutes until my meeting with the Dean. 

I squinted up at the portrait of Abraham Ozler—the so-called Founding Father of Medicine—and noted the bare hands clutching a scalpel. 

So much for hygiene. 

Those gloveless fingers probably spread more bacterial infections than they prevented.

At the Dean’s office, I checked in with his assistant, a blonde with striking cherry-red nails that matched her lipstick. 

Her pilates-sculpted figure swayed in a tight pencil skirt as she greeted me. 

One of those “Gen In-Betweeners”—not quite Gen Z, but with enough face collagen to look younger than a millennial. 

Would Parker’s eyes linger on someone like her—flawless, composed, not a single crack showing? The question clawed at me, sharp as her clipped tone: “Dr. Metsler’s ready for you.”

I entered the office and a solidly built man in his sixties, sporting a loosely buttoned jacket and graying sideburns, greeted me. 

The Indiana Jones of Pritzker Pre-Med, minus the whip and fedora—or maybe the whip was in his tongue? I shifted my weight slightly, unsure of what to expect.

“Prin De Sangue.” He extended his hand. “Dean Aiden Metsler. Pleasure to meet you.” 

Pressured speech. 

Tie slightly askew. 

He wasn’t an academic professor moonlighting as a treasure hunter—he was a prototypical surgeon serving as my pre-med advisor. 

Fantastic.

Before I could speak, he continued, “Valedictorian at Coronado Prep. Ozler Scholar. Impressive.” 

His hands brushed up against a pile of papers. “I’m still working on my speech for the white coat ceremony tomorrow. It’s being held at the Fitzgerald winery. Ever been?”

“No, sir,” I answered. 

The Ozlers, a legacy donor family, owned the winery. So cliché. “Their Chablis costs more than what I make in a month.”

He let out a practiced laugh—too polished. “I remember scraping by in college. Speaking of finances, I noticed your scholarship funds don’t cover your entire tuition. You've got a loan for that?”

“Yeah, it’s covered. I’m working at a bistro downtown,” I replied casually. 

No need to mention the extra mouth I was feeding—a homeless one. That detail wasn’t his business. “We’re actually catering the reception tomorrow.”

He cleared his throat—a subtle signal that my blue-collar side hustle didn’t interest him in the slightest. “Your scholarship arrangement is... unusual. Most students don’t defer funds for a year.” 

Figures. No one had informed him about my secret agreement with the college.  

“I’m not privy to all the details,” he continued, “but others in administration said your disappearance last year caused quite a stir. Frankly, you’re lucky we didn’t reassign your seat last fall.”

He leaned back slightly, folding his arms.

“Now, you’ll need to be the top ranked student in your class again—otherwise, we’ll have to revoke your scholarship. Consider this a probationary period. And it won’t be easy; this year, we’ve admitted the largest cohort of pre-meds from my alma mater in Boston.”

A lump formed in my throat. Maintaining a perfect GPA during high school had nearly destroyed me. And now my entire future depended on it.

I extended my hand with a toothy car salesman grin. “I’m excited for the challenge.” 

My abdomen tossed its contents like cobb salad. This wasn’t high school. This was Pritzker. The med school pipeline. 

The Hunger Games with highlighters and dissection equipment.

And I was already behind.

Let the games begin.

***

Prin’s trapped in Pritzker’s version of the Squid Game. Survival is one thing—but can she tell friend from enemy before it’s too late?

XOXO, Sabina