In what experts are calling “the worst idea since open-book Suneung,” the IB, AP, A-Level, Gaokao, and Suneung students were forced to sit their final exams… in the same room. At the same time. With the same invigilator, who has since fled the country and is reportedly hiding in the Swiss Alps.

BEFORE THE EXAM: THE PANIC ZONE

The atmosphere was tense. IB was muttering something about “command terms,” organizing highlighters by HL and SL, and trying to locate their lucky pen, their backup lucky pen, and their IA therapist. Their notes were divided by assessment type: DRQ (Data Response Question), RDQ (Research-Based Data Question), essays, and existential dread.

AP was speed-reviewing 19 subjects at once, flipping flashcards so fast they accidentally gave A-Level a paper cut. “I can still pass if I do three essays in the first 15 minutes, right?” they asked, eyes bloodshot.

A-Level, pale and sipping their third black tea of the hour, was reviewing quotes from King Lear while rage-whispering: “These uncultured fools call this an exam?”

Gaokao entered like a trained sniper — silent, emotionless, equipped with seven sharpened pencils, four calculators, and the quiet confidence of someone who hasn't blinked since 2019.

Suneung just laughed. “So you guys get… sleep?” They wore all black, brought no water (“hydration is weakness”), and whispered: “Back in Korea, we shut down air traffic during Suneung. You think a cough is going to distract me?”

DURING THE EXAM: THE MELTDOWN MATRIX

0:10 – IB raised their hand. “Can I clarify the question?”

“No,” said the invigilator. “It’s Paper 3.” IB began whispering to themselves about knowledge being a construct.

0:20 – AP attempted to finish an entire DBQ and a free-response essay before the first water break. Their pencil snapped. They began writing in tears.

0:30 – A-Level had only written two lines of prose but somehow used six semicolons and a quote from Oscar Wilde. “It’s about the depth, darling,” they muttered.

0:45 – Gaokao completed 37 math problems and began grading themselves.

1:00 – Suneung was levitating.

1:30 – IB began drawing a TOK mind map and accidentally invented a new ethical framework.

“Is this CASable?” they asked no one in particular.

1:45 – AP had a nervous breakdown mid-calculus and started conjugating French verbs whilst reciting the Constitution of the United States.

2:00 – A-Level challenged the essay question for being “too vague.” Then wrote a 10-page response anyway.

2:10 – Gaokao submitted early. For fun, they started the Suneung exam.

2:30 – Suneung didn’t blink once the entire exam. A-Level swears they heard them whisper, “The test is temporary. The honor is eternal.”

AFTER THE EXAM: THE POST-TRAUMA DEBRIEF (EXTENDED CHAOS EDITION)

The exam ends. The papers are collected. Pencils fall like wounded soldiers. And for a moment... peace. But as any student knows, the real exam doesn't end when time is called. It ends when someone says, “Wait... what did you get for Question 4?”

THE FIRST QUESTION: THE BEGINNING OF THE END

It starts with AP.

“I think Question 4 was about the French Revolution, right?”

IB turns slowly. “Wait. What French Revolution? That was on paper 2.”

A-Level raises an eyebrow. “There was a Question 4?”

Suneung, who had been meditating with their soul detached from their body, opens one eye: “It was about Napoleon. But the Korean version also included a poetry analysis. In Latin.”

Everyone else immediately starts sweating.

THE ANSWER COMPARISON SPIRAL

IB: “Wait, I wrote about the ethics of revolution using a deontological lens. Was... was tthat not the question?”

AP: “I wrote six pages about guillotines. I didn’t mention ethics once. That’s a 5, right?”

A-Level: “I just quoted Marx, then insulted capitalism for two pages. That’s what they want, right?”

Gaokao: “I derived the statistical probability of a successful uprising using calculus, then wrote a haiku. It felt... elegant.”

Suneung: “I blacked out during Question 4. When I regained consciousness, I had finished it.”

INCREASING PANIC

A small AP student in the corner begins whispering, “Was the mitochondria the powerhouse of the cell or the government?”

IB furiously flips through notes. “I don’t remember writing anything. I think I just cried in MLA format.”

A-Level gasps. “Oh God. I wrote a 10-page answer… to the wrong question.”

Gaokao offers a calm, “You’ll be fine,” then opens a blank notebook to redo the exam from scratch. Just in case.

Suneung stands up and leaves. No bag. No words. Just quiet power.

THE FINAL PHASE: DENIAL, DESSERT, AND DISASSOCIATION

Later, in the school café:

IB orders coffee, sobs into it, and writes a 500-word CAS reflection about emotional growth through failure.

AP Googles: “Can I still get into Harvard if I forgot how to spell ‘Revolution’?”

A-Level debates the barista about whether the muffin menu is too reductionist.

Gaokao redoes their math exam on a napkin. Perfectly.

Suneung is already at the gym. Bench-pressing regret.

THE END OF AN ERA

They may never agree on who won. They may never agree on what the mitochondria actually does. But in that post-exam silence, as the adrenaline fades and the breakdowns begin anew, one truth unites them all:

No one understood the exam. But everyone pretended they did.

POST-CREDITS SCENE (YES, THERE'S A POST-CREDITS SCENE):

Three months later.

They receive their results.

IB: “I got a 6. In everything. I… don’t know if I’m happy or dead.”

AP: “I got a 5. Still don’t know what the question was.”

A-Level: “An A*. Of course. At what cost?”

Gaokao: 749/750. They missed a point for “lacking emotion.”

Suneung: “Top 0.01%. I am now qualified to become an immortal crane in the

mountains.”

And with that, the five academic titans disappear into the mist — until they meet again. Probably in grad school.

Or therapy. Or both.