Page 22 of The Drama King

"Levine and Barclay," Professor De Scarzis called, consulting her clipboard. "You're up next."

I followed Corvus into the performance space. A small black box theater with harsh overhead lights and folding chairs arranged for the evaluating faculty. Professor De Scarzis sat in the center, flanked by two other instructors I recognized from department meetings.

"Take a moment to set up," De Scarzis said, her pen poised over her evaluation form. "Begin when ready."

Corvus and I took our positions. He'd dressed impeccably in all black, perfectly embodying Danforth's austere authority. I wore the simple gray dress we'd agreed upon for Elizabeth's Puritan constraints.

The scene began exactly as we'd rehearsed. But within moments, I realized Corvus was changing things.

"You are God's instrument put in our hands to discover the Devil's agents among us," he said, his voice carrying Danforth's authority but with subtle variations from our rehearsal. He moved differently, timing his approaches to throw off my prepared blocking.

"I have not confessed," I replied, struggling to adjust while maintaining Elizabeth's character.

"What look do you give me?" he demanded, suddenly stepping far closer than we'd ever blocked. His aggressive proximity triggered my Omega instincts, my scent spiking with involuntary anxiety that I knew the faculty could detect. "Are you threatening me?"

The deviation from our rehearsal left me scrambling. This wasn't the scene we'd prepared. He was improvising challenges designed to make me look unprofessional and unprepared.

"God forbid I should hurt you, sir," I managed, my voice less steady than it should have been. "I came to tell the truth."

"We know your husband's lechery," Corvus pressed, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that went beyond character work. "Tell me, woman. Did you never suspect his wandering eye?"

That line wasn't in the script. He was ad-libbing, forcing me to respond without preparation while the faculty watched and took notes. I could see Professor De Scarzis frowning, clearly noting the deviation from Cruz's text.

"He is a good man," I said, trying to stay in character while silently panicking about how this would affect my grade.

The scene continued with Corvus making subtle but devastating changes. Altering timing, adding non-scripted dialogue, shifting blocking in ways that made me appear confused and unprepared. To an observer, it would look like I hadn't done the work, hadn't learned my lines properly, couldn't adapt professionally to my scene partner's choices.

"Remove her," he commanded with Danforth's cold dismissal, and I had never been more grateful for a scene to end.

Silence stretched uncomfortably. Professor De Scarzis set down her pen, her expression troubled.

"Mr. Barclay," she said carefully, "your Danforth was certainly commanding. Though I noticed several departures from Cruz's text."

"I was exploring subtext," Corvus replied smoothly. "The interrogation's psychological realism seemed to call for more improvisational elements."

"I see." Her gaze shifted to me. "Ms. Levine, you seemed unsettled by your partner's choices. Did you not rehearse enough? Either way, in professional theater, adaptability is crucial."

My cheeks burned with humiliation. "I was prepared for the scene as we rehearsed it," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "The changes weren't discussed beforehand."

"Communication between scene partners is essential," De Scarzis noted, making marks on her evaluation form that I was certain weren't positive. "Mr. Barclay, perhaps next time you could share your improvisational intentions with your partner during preparation."

"Of course, Professor," he replied with perfect contrition. "I assumed Ms. Levine would be comfortable with spontaneous development. I'll be more explicit about my process in future collaborations."

The subtle implication was clear: any problems with our scene were due to my inflexibility and lack of professional adaptability.

As we gathered our things, Corvus leaned close enough to whisper, "Excellent work adapting to unexpected challenges. Very... educational."

The satisfaction in his voice made my skin crawl. He'd successfully sabotaged my performance while making it appear to be my failing, not his manipulation.

Walking back to my dorm afterward, I felt the weight of what had just happened. Not just a poor grade, but documentation in my academic record that I struggled with collaborative flexibility. Exactly the kind of "professionalism concerns" that could justify reviewing my scholarship.

Stephanie took one look at my face when I found her in our room. "What happened?"

"He destroyed me," I said, sinking onto my bed. "And made it look like my fault."

As I recounted the performance, I saw her expression grow increasingly grim. This wasn't just harassment anymore. It was systematic academic sabotage designed to create an official paper trail of my supposed inadequacies.

"They're not just trying to break you," she said quietly. "They're building a case to have you removed entirely."