Carl White, a particular man, noticed his fresh cup of coffee had grown cold in the hour that had passed since he began drafting his proposal. He perused his progress with a dissatisfied sniff–dissatisfied because he found most things these days dissatisfying, from conversations with his wife to student essays to his own, precious research. Perfectionism, the quality that had once propelled him so far in life, had since devolved into a general disdain for all that did not meet his standards. And since his standards had grown increasingly high over the last decade, disdain for both himself and others was his constant companion. 

As the words on the document began to bleed together, Carl wondered how much progress Victor had made on his own proposal by now. Probably more than three ill-constructed paragraphs, Carl thought with a twist in his stomach. 

Another cup. He needed another cup of coffee. 

Convincing himself a fresh cup of coffee from the new science department cappuccino machine was the best cure for his late-night writer’s block woes, Carl set off on his mission to the second floor armed with his favorite mug. Carl was particularly fond of this mug–it was shaped like an alpaca head, and he frequently brought it to class in an attempt to signal a whimsicalness to students that his demeanor couldn’t otherwise convey. Some small part of him hoped this ceramic accessory would make him more approachable.

But charisma did not come naturally to Carl, and that small part of him was disappointed to see his “Rate My Professor” rating unchanged by the end of last semester. One new review that particularly bothered him read: “He reminds me of a disgruntled shopping mall Santa.” 

Victor never gets reviews like that. In fact, he was one of the only professors in his department with a nearly perfect five stars. To make matters worse, with Victor’s lanky build and glossy chestnut hair, Carl was certain that no one would compare Victor to a shopping mall Santa. 

Carl traversed the dark, empty staircase pensively. He and Victor had been friends once. Good friends. Years ago, Carl was offered a role as a lecturer for first-year biology students, and Carl admired his old roommate so greatly that he ardently vouched for Victor, pulling strings and writing glowing recommendations until Victor, too, had secured a position working in Carl’s department. Now, as he descended step by step, Carl couldn't help but rue the fervor with which he had helped Victor ascend, not knowing the extent it would cast his own achievements into shadow.

Carl had just reached the second floor and punched in his cappuccino selection into the electronic coffee machine when he heard the footsteps behind him.

“Carl!” A familiar voice greeted him. Carl turned to see the flash of a friendly white smile. Carl inwardly groaned. 

“Hello, Victor,” Carl answered in a tone he hoped sounded pleasant. “You’re here late.” 

“I could say the same of you,” Victor said cheerfully. Behind him trailed an attractive girl with vibrant copper curls. “Though it’s no mystery as to why–I’m assuming you’re working on the proposal as well. How’s it coming?” 

Carl paused, his fingers drumming against the cool ceramic of his mug beneath the coffee spigot—a stalling tactic. "It’s done," he said, hoping his voice didn't betray the sudden leap his heart had taken at the lie. Victor’s eyebrows twitched upwards in surprise. “Finished it earlier this week, actually just catching up on grading the midterms now.” The words tumbled out of his mouth so easily.

“Well, congratulations, Carl. I wish we could say the same of our progress,” Victor nodded to the girl, who drifted quietly closer to his side, ”I think we still have several late nights left ahead of us yet. Speaking of, allow me to introduce you to Tanya, my new research assistant. She’s a junior who’s been helping me with the proposal’s first draft.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tanya,” Carl said. 

“And you,” she responded. Tanya regarded him shyly, and Carl felt his own gaze lingering on her. He’d heard the rumors about Victor, saw the lineup of pretty young girls he always took for assistants, but dismissed his choice of assistants as coincidental and the rumors as idle gossip. But there was something to how close Tanya stood to Victor, the way her body unconsciously leaned towards him…

Just then, the coffee machine sputtered the last few drops into Carl’s mug. “Well, I’ve got a lot of papers left to grade, I should be off.” 

Victor extended his hand, “Good luck on your submission, old friend.” Carl's fingers briefly entwined with Victor's in a handshake that felt unbalanced, his own grip hesitant and uncertain. "You too," he replied, his voice laced with a forced casualness he didn't feel.

As Carl departed, Victor called after him: “And may the best idea win!” 

The words filled Carl with icy dread.

***

Hours later, Carl still sat in the ghostly silence of his fifth-floor office, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He stared at the taunting blink of the cursor on his screen, fingers frozen atop his keyboard as if petrified in mid-thought. 

May the best idea win. The phrase echoed mockingly in Carl's mind. Had he ever truly harbored the best idea? His modest successes, those grants he'd clinched, they all paled in the shadow of Victor's triumphs. Where Carl had stopped being invited to IEE conferences, Victor was frequently honored as a guest and presenter. While Victor had reached tenure within a mere four years, Carl had only recently secured his after much longer. Against Victor, Carl’s efforts felt futile. 

The glow from his phone pierced the room's gloom - 3:30 AM. A lingering text from his wife shimmered on the screen:

 "Goodnight. Chicken cutlets in the fridge." 

So consumed by his thoughts, Carl barely noticed his empty stomach’s noisy protests. To Carl’s great frustration, words, once his faithful allies, now seemed to dance just beyond his mental reach. 

With a sigh, he pushed his chair back. He needed a walk, Carl told himself, but as he slipped out of his office and into the quiet hallway, he already knew where his feet would take him. Moments later, he stood outside Victor’s office. Just over an hour ago, Carl had watched from the vantage point of his own office window, overlooking the parking lot, as Victor departed for the night. Now, he stood there, his gaze lingering on the collection of memes adorning Victor's door – tokens of admiration from his students. Without thinking about it, his hand was on the doorknob, slowly turning the handle. It was unlocked. Scarcely daring to breathe, he opened the door with a quiet creak. 

Victor’s office was more cluttered than Carl’s. Papers were strewn across the desk, the walls populated with family pictures, notes from old students, and his children’s crayon drawings. But Carl only had eyes for one thing: Victor’s desktop. Carl found himself briefly wondering whether Victor kept the same password he had shared with him years ago when they were still close. 

“My memory’s like a sieve,” Victor had told him, “I have to use the same password for everything.” 

Carl’s memory, however, was not like a sieve. Baxter629. He squirreled away that detail in some far corner of his brain in case it would be useful later. And it certainly seemed like it could prove useful now. 

No, Carl took a step back. 'What am I thinking?' The idea of rummaging through a colleague’s computer felt like a descent into madness. 'This is insane,' he muttered under his breath.

Yet, Carl found himself rooted to the spot. His feet soon betrayed his resolve, carrying him closer to the desktop. 'The password won't work,' he tried to convince himself. 'Victor must have changed it by now.' But to his disbelief, a few clicks of the keyboard later and “Welcome” bloomed across the screen.

Carl’s heart raced. He would just read Victor’s proposal, he decided, and Victor would never know. With each hesitant click, he delved deeper into the labyrinth of files and folders as unorganized as the rest of Victor’s office. Victor had no consistent document titling system, with many files simply labeled “Notes” or “First Draft” that Carl was forced to individually skim. The cautioning voice in his head vanished. Carl was crossing a line he had never dared approach before, driven by a desperation he couldn’t seem to control.

A few minutes later, Carl encountered a promising folder titled “Tanya.” Presuming it contained Tanya’s first rough draft of the proposal, Carl eagerly clicked. 

But the contents were not Word documents or Excel spreadsheets–they were videos, a handful of them, with thumbnails that made Carl’s blood turn cold. He knew what they were without opening them. He could shut down the computer and leave. That’s what he should do. If ever there was a time to walk away and feign ignorance, it was now. 

But the cursor hovered over the first thumbnail, until Carl slowly, almost reluctantly, clicked. 

***

Years later, Carl would call it all a mistake–a mistake walking into that office, a mistake snooping through the desktop, and a profound mistake watching those videos. But the gravest mistake, he would concede, was his anonymous tip to the school’s board of directors, an act that irrevocably shattered Victor’s career. 

An investigation was launched, but it was no more than a mere procedural formality. The evidence against Victor was untenable. A scrub of his desktop showed similar explicit videos with his previous attractive female research assistants. 

And so, Victor’s reputation as a gentle and well-loved professor burned to the ground overnight. It wasn’t long before the news bled out of the faculty into the student body and the entire university pulsated with the scandal. Tanya was no exception to the relentless gossip. The murmurs of 'whore' followed her through the halls, clinging to her like a shadow. At the end of the year, she transferred to a university on the west coast, as far as she could run from the ordeal. Carl couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for her too. She was an innocent byproduct of his decision to expose his old friend, a decision that seemed more complex and fraught with each passing day.

At the time, Carl convinced himself it was an act of moral obligation to report Victor. And for a while, he believed it. But he couldn't ignore the twinge of satisfaction he felt as colleagues who once spoke of Victor in revenant whispers now shook their heads in disgust at the mention of his name. Nor could he deny a certain sense of triumph over winning the contested grant, an achievement that seemed much more attainable with Victor out of the equation. 

It felt as if he had killed a god.

Victor visited Carl’s office on his last day. He stood in Carl’s doorway, his eyes shadowed with deep purple bags. “All packed up now,” Victor said quietly, “Just wanted to stop by before…” His voice trailed off, and his gaze cast downward. The man before Carl wasn’t someone he recognized anymore. The lilt to his gait, the passion in his speech had been washed away, leaving only a corpse. 

“Did you ever figure out who reported it?” Carl asked delicately.

“Yes,” Victor responded immediately, his voice hardening. Carl froze. “Tanya.” It was difficult for Carl to hide the relief in his steadying breath. “She was the only other one with copies of the videos. Of course, she denied it, but who else could it be? Oh Carl,” Victor sighed a sigh of a man that carried all the world’s burdens, “I just can’t believe I was so careless. My wife wants a divorce, and I don’t blame her.” 

“I’m sorry, Victor,” Carl said, and he meant it. Any glimmer of righteous indignation Carl once felt was gone now. He had broken one of his oldest friends, someone who had never once caused him any direct wrong, and he hated himself for it. 

Carl attempted to shake Victor’s hand goodbye, but Victor wrapped him into a firm hug. “You’ll always be a true friend,” he whispered. 

And like that, Victor was gone. 

What have I done?