Bryce sat on the edge of his bed, arms resting on his knees as he examined the other half of the room. The bed held only a bare mattress. The walls had been stripped of the movie posters. The bulletin board with the five-year plan, the articles about business leaders, and the ream of start-up ideas were long gone. As was his best friend.

In truth, his best friend had been gone since the day Professor Fleming called him into his office to tell Chuck another student had not only accused him of cheating, but had found the answer key to the latest exam under Chuck's bed. His last week at Stanford was spent in a daze. He stopped going to class. He wouldn't talk to any of his friends. He wouldn't have eaten, except that his girlfriend, Jill, would stop by and force him to eat something.

Bryce mostly avoided the dorm room. Even when Bryce was there, Chuck showed little interest in speaking to him. He couldn't blame him in the least: Bryce was the one who made the accusations.

The two spoke exactly twice after Chuck's meeting with the professor. The first was immediately after the meeting: Bryce had purposely hung around the dorm room so that Chuck knew exactly where to find him. The confrontation was inevitable, and he wasn't going to make Chuck chase him around campus. That was the least he could do.

Bryce couldn't remember much of the conversation. He remembered Chuck's hurt, his anger, his utter confusion. He remembered Chuck's justified outrage at the false accusations. And he remembered how he pushed down every last bit of his emotion, putting up a cold wall in the face of his best friend. Bryce let Chuck vent for a while before throwing out one final, bitter accusation. Then he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Afterwards, Bryce ran the three miles to the Stanford football stadium as fast he could. When it wasn't enough, he proceeded to run the steps until he puked. As the last trickles of vomit splattered on the top concourse, he stood up and let out an anguished cry that echoed through the empty stadium. None of it helped.

He shook himself out of the memory. All of this was necessary, he reminded himself. If he hadn't forced the professor to invalidate the test results by claiming Chuck cheated, Chuck would have been forcibly entered into the CIA recruitment track. He didn't have the make-up to be an agent. Bryce knew something about that, as he was in training to become an agent himself.

Chuck would be dead within a year of completing training. Bryce wouldn't let that happen. Bryce couldn't let that happen. Chuck was too good a person.

Still, he hadn't anticipated some of the other consequences. Chuck getting kicked out of school was one of them. Many students who were caught cheating were given probation or a suspension. However, the honor board determined that a student with Chuck's grades was likely to have cheated in other classes as well. Despite no evidence of any other cheating, Chuck was summarily expelled.

Bryce shook his head. That wasn't part of the plan.

The expulsion directly led to the second conversation. The entire fraternity had gathered to see Chuck off. Opinions varied as to how Chuck should be treated, but Chuck was a brother, and all were there to see him off. That was the least they could do.

Bryce played pool as Chuck cleaned out the last of his belongings; it gave him something other than Chuck to focus on, and allowed him to mostly avoid the accusing stares. Still, he could feel the eyes on him. The members of the fraternity knew Chuck too well, and just as many suspected he was the guilty one.

Such was the effect Chuck had on people ... and why he had to do what he did.

He didn't need to look up from his shot to know Chuck was coming down the stairs: the room quickly grew quiet; only the sound of creaking footsteps on the old stairs filled the room. Only the sound of Chuck's sneakers disturbed the silence as Chuck reached the bottom of the stairs. At least, that was the only sound until Bryce callously and deliberately pocketed the 14-ball in the side pocket, drawing the cue ball back to his end of the table on the leave. He lined up his next shot.

"Sucks that you have to leave, Chuck," one of the brothers said. A couple other brothers murmured their agreement. Still, Bryce focused on his shot. He wanted to look at his friend as little as possible. His friend was already gone, he reminded himself. Given time, Chuck would find his way again. That's what mattered.

Bryce heard the footsteps move towards him, several brothers clearing a path to the pool table. Focusing, Bryce pocketed the 10-ball in the far corner, and stood up. It was time for one last confrontation.

Chuck just stared for a moment, his eyes searching Bryce's. Bryce expected anger. He expected emotion. He got neither.

"I don't get it Bryce. Why'd you do it?" Chuck was timid and numb in his questioning, so unlike the friend that had grown in confidence since the day they'd met. Even in that moment, Chuck seemed to expect that Bryce could provide some explanation to make everything right. That was how much Chuck still loved him, despite what Bryce had done.

Bryce's face was a cold mask. "You brought this upon yourself," was all he said. But it was enough. Chuck's expression closed off. It took every bit of Bryce's CIA training not to show any emotion as he cut the last ties to his best friend.

Shoulders slumped in defeat, Chuck began a shamed walk out of the fraternity. Bryce walked around the side of the table, and leaned down to take aim. "8-ball, side pocket," he muttered. The door to the fraternity house slammed shut as he drew his cue back, causing him to flinch slightly. Taking the wrong angle, the cue ball sliced into the corner pocket.