The shadow faction believed its greatest strength was ambiguity.
They were wrong.
Ambiguity only protected those who knew when to stop.
Johnson sensed the shift before it became visible. Patterns tightened. Movements accelerated. Conversations ended too abruptly. The faction was no longer probing—they were compressing time, preparing a decisive gesture meant to restore fear in one stroke.
Desperation always shortened patience.
The first signal came from the black-haired girl.
"They're consolidating," she said quietly, meeting Johnson near the maintenance corridor. "No intermediaries tonight. Direct actors."
"Where?" he asked.
"South dormitory annex," she replied. "Unofficial gathering. Closed doors."
Johnson's expression hardened—not with anger, but with certainty.
"They're going to make an example," he said.
That was the mistake.
The annex had always been a gray zone—rarely monitored, structurally neglected, symbolically peripheral. It was precisely the kind of place the faction believed remained invisible.
They underestimated how visibility had changed.
By the time Johnson arrived, he didn't need confirmation. Raised voices echoed down the corridor. A small crowd had already gathered—not intervening, but watching.
Fear draws witnesses faster than authority ever does.
Inside, the situation was clear.
A student—isolated, shaking—stood cornered by three figures. Older. Confident. Unmasked. No intermediaries, no ambiguity.
Pure intimidation.
Johnson stepped into the doorway.
The room froze.
One of them turned, irritation flashing across his face. "This doesn't concern you."
Johnson didn't respond immediately.
He looked at the student first. Calmly. Steadily.
"Leave," he said to them—not loudly, not forcefully. "Now."
The lead figure laughed. "You think standing there changes—"
Hana arrived behind Johnson.
Then Mika.
Then others.
Not summoned. Not directed.
Drawn.
The calculus shifted instantly.
This wasn't authority confronting rebellion.
This was visibility confronting predation.
The lead figure's confidence wavered. Phones were already raised. Names would follow. Faces would be remembered.
"This is a misunderstanding," he said quickly.
Johnson's voice remained even. "No," he replied. "This is documentation."
The student stepped away.
The line had been crossed.
Later that night, the Council was informed—not by Johnson, but by volume. Witness statements. Recordings. Staff inquiries that could no longer be deflected.
The shadow faction had violated its own survival rule: remain deniable.
By morning, disappearances followed—not students, but influence. Spaces reclaimed. Intermediaries severed. Protection withdrawn.
The black-haired girl confirmed it with a single sentence. "They're bleeding."
The silver-haired girl was more precise. "Their cohesion collapsed. Everyone's defecting to avoid association."
Hana reviewed the reports, expression unreadable. "They're done," she said. "Not destroyed. But neutralized."
Mika exhaled slowly. "All that fear… gone in one night."
Johnson stood alone in the corridor where it had happened, the echoes long faded.
They mistook restraint for weakness, he thought.
And silence for ignorance.
Power did not announce itself.
It revealed what others tried to hide.
As the academy resumed its uneasy equilibrium, one truth settled quietly into place:
There would be no more shadow systems.
Not because Johnson ruled them.
But because everyone now understood the cost of building one.