The Final Exam

I should have known something was off the moment I stepped into the exam room at Hawkins University. This science laboratory was not the usual sterile classroom. The walls were damp stone, glistening faintly with moisture. Heavy black curtains blocked any trace of sunlight, while the weak, flickering lights overhead seemed powered by a failing generator. In the center of the room stood a single desk and chair, accompanied by an obsidian-black headset resting ominously on the desktop.

I could feel a strange flutter to my heart as my nerves were starting to coil. I did not expect to end my Behavior Course to begin like this.

I am walking to the desk while feeling my stomach churning with unease. My breathing quickens, feeling as though my lungs might burst. I unwrap a stick of gum and pop it into my mouth, chewing nervously to calm the rising tide of tension within me. It worked many times before. I remember in high school, my senior year, my final physics test. Bubbles of sweat slid across my forehead. I chewed a wad of gum. It worked. The tension within me melted away, like the gentle fading of mist at dawn. My paper earned a perfect score of one hundred, but my teacher deducted five points because I was chewing gum.

As I stand at my desk, a burst of static crackles through the air above, jolting my senses.

“This is your final evaluation,” said a female voice over the intercom. “Do not remove the headset once placed. Failure to comply results in disqualification... and other consequences.”

I lower myself into the chair as the sound of the door locking echoes sharply through the room. My palms were sweaty as I began having the butterflies-in-my stomach feeling.

The headset grows warmer as it secures itself onto my head. My vision fades to black before reassembling into a sleek, HUD-like display. A precise, composed voice begins speaking directly into my mind.

“Greetings, Candidate Mr. Lewis Vega,” the female voice echoes with an unsettling calm. “Welcome to the Behavioral Override Simulation. Prepare to engage.”

Before I can ask what that means, the visuals sharpen. I am no longer in the cold testing chamber. I am *inside* someone else looking through unfamiliar eyes. I flex a hand that is not mine, feeling the limbs respond a bit slower than my thoughts. I cannot help but wonder if this is all some elaborate prank, with someone about to burst in, grinning, holding a Playstation controller.

“Hey. What is going on here?” I ask.

“Subject 7 is a volunteer from our performance unit,” the voice explains. “Guide them across the plaza. Avoid detection. Begin now.”

I comply, unsettled by the feeling of puppeteering a living person. I keep Subject 7 in shadows, dodging guards, maneuvering through restricted zones. My confidence keeps building up. The suffocating anxiety within me began to dissolve. Every decision I make results in a tangible action or impact. It is exhilarating—until the next phase.

“New directive: enter the security room. Disable the camera system.”

That did not sit right with me. I became confused. The exam was going down a different path, altering the test. "How do I disable it?" I asked, fidgeting in my chair, waiting for a reply.

There is still no response. Growing frustrated, I demand an answer, my tone sharp and edged with irritation. Still, there is no response.

Subject seven’s hand hovered near the guard’s sidearm.

“Is this a simulation?” I am asking, raising my voice. My patience thinned. I will ask again.

Still silence. I could feel the pressure building in my chest as though invisible hands were squeezing out every ounce of my breath. “Answer me! Answer me!” I shout.

I hesitate and, in that moment, the view blinks red. Electroshock stabs my temples. A tingling sensation moves through my arms. Agitation grows inside me. Everything remains unanswered.

“Deviation registered. Continue,” she commands.

My heart slams. This is not hypothetical. Doubts arise in my mind. I wonder the disruption. This is not the test I studied for. I call to the woman, asking questions upon questions. Still, a heavy silence looms between us. I pull the stale gum from my mouth, wrap it in a scrap of paper, and tuck it into the pocket of my shirt. I unwrap a fresh stick and start chewing, hoping to quench the new tension towering inside me as I wait for my next instruction.

“Neutralize the technician,” her voice urged, carrying a sharp edge of urgency as if delay would jeopardize everything.

“No,” I am whispering. Adrenalin surges throughout my body. My fingers twitch with idle, anxious energy. Thoughts bounce chaotically. What should I do? Should I do nothing? Something does not make sense.

“Action required within ten seconds,” she demands.

This is not a test of strategy. They are assessing obedience. Morality. Control. I now do some fast thinking. I guide Subject 7 into the technician’s room—but instead of attacking, I make them smash the terminal, disable the neural link.

There is chaos—alarms, shouts, static in my earpiece.

Suddenly, I yank back into my body, headset smoking, my eyes are watery. A panel slides open behind the wall. A woman in a tailored suit steps forward, flank by two figures in white lab coats. They are tall, lanky men. Both are wearing wire rimmed glasses and wide grins on their faces.

She smiles. “Congratulations, Candidate Vega. You passed,” she tells me with a breathless of joy. Her words tumbled out quickly, too fast for her thoughts to catch up, but it did not matter. The sincerity in her tone, the sparkle in her eyes—it said more than anything else could. In that moment, she was a beacon of admiration, lit up by someone else’s success.

A flush of warmth spreads across my cheeks as I struggle to piece together my scrambled thoughts and muster a smile in response to a solution I barely comprehend.

“You exercised autonomy under threat, refused unethical orders. That was the test,” she explains.

I stand, my legs trembling. “That was real.”

She nods. “Reality is the only true teacher, and your instincts may have just saved lives. Welcome to Project C"