The assembly was nearing its end when Silvestor stepped back into the corridor.
The vote of thanks echoed faintly through the classroom speakers–formal, rehearsed, already losing meaning. He didn't stop to listen. His steps were steady, measured, as if nothing unusual had happened.
On the rooftop, Amaya remained where he had left her.
She sat near the corner, knees drawn slightly inward, arms wrapped loosely around herself. Her tears had slowed, but they hadn't stopped. The wind brushed against her damp uniform, carrying with it the smell she couldn't ignore–vomit, spoiled food, old sweat. Acidic. Heavy.
She glanced toward the open water tank.
For a moment, her mind wandered–not toward death, not truly–but toward erasure. To sink beneath the surface. To let the water swallow the smell, the memory, the weight of herself.
Not suicide.
Just silence.
But the sting on her cheek still lingered.
The slap hadn't hurt the way beatings did. It had hurt differently. Sharper. More real. It anchored her.
She didn't move.
Footsteps reached the rooftop again.
Silvestor returned carrying a sports bag slung over one shoulder. Thursday–two hours reserved for sports. Routine. Normality. In his other hand was his tiffin, still warm.
He stopped a few steps away.
"Eat," he said, extending the box toward her. "Here. Now."
She looked up, startled.
"Don't mistake this for forgiveness," he added, voice flat. "I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it because my father saved you once. I won't let that go to waste."
His words were orders, not comfort.
"Change into this," he continued, tossing the sportswear toward her. "Then go home. Immediately."
She caught the clothes instinctively.
Silvestor didn't sit.
He stayed where he was, watching–not her body, but her hands. Making sure she opened the box. Making sure she ate.
Instead, she hesitated. Then quietly began unbuttoning her uniform.
"Oh," he said without interest. "Go ahead."
He turned his back at once, facing the opposite edge of the roof.
For a brief second, Amaya watched him–really watched him. He didn't flinch. Didn't glance back. Didn't shift.
He really won't look, she realized.
The girls' bathroom below was flooded–urine, vomit, spoiled food, the leftovers of cruelty. For her, this rooftop was the cleanest place she had left. And somehow, impossibly, the safest.
She changed quickly. Carefully.
"I'm done," she said softly. "You can turn around."
He did.
She opened the tiffin then, the smell of warm food cutting through the staleness clinging to her. Her stomach twisted painfully.
"Silvie," she said hesitantly. "Please… eat with me."
He frowned slightly.
"You didn't eat breakfast," she continued. "And if you give me this, you won't eat lunch either."
She tried to sound practical. Not pleading.
"I'm a girl. I don't need much. And… even if you don't like me at all–wasting food isn't right."
He considered it for a moment.
Then sat down.
He ate without emotion. Without conversation. Food as fuel. Nothing more.
Amaya ate slowly. Between bites, her eyes drifted toward him–not with shyness, not with hope–but uncertainty. She didn't know whether to keep distance or speak. Whether silence was safer than honesty.
When they finished, she washed the tiffin at the water tank, rinsing it carefully, as if cleanliness could undo something deeper. She placed it back into his bag.
Silvestor stood.
Without a word, he left the rooftop.
Back in the classroom, he collected his bag and stepped out again just as students began pouring back from the assembly–voices loud, movement chaotic, attention scattered.
At the turn near the stairwell, he slowed.
Then merged.
Shoulders brushed past him. Laughter drowned thought. Uniforms blurred together. Within seconds, he was invisible again–just another student returning late.
No one noticed.
No one asked.
No one connected him to the chairman's words.
Silvestor exhaled only after the classroom doors closed behind the others.
Attention avoided.
For today, that was enough.
Teachers separated from the staff line and began moving toward their assigned classes.
Most of them were thinking the same thing.
Which student was it?
Which classroom did the chairman stop at?
For them, the attention wasn't about discipline or inspiration.
It was opportunity.
A student noticed by the chairman meant indirect credit.
Credit meant leverage.
Leverage meant faster promotions, recommendations, salary increments.
Teaching quality never entered the calculation.
Class XII C was already loud before its teacher arrived.
Inside, the room was in its natural state.
Two boys near the window were flicking folded paper at the back benches. Someone had stretched a rubber band between their fingers and snapped it at passing heads. A group near the middle row argued loudly about whether the Lexus was really limited edition or just a publicity stunt. Gum passed from palm to palm. Laughter rose and fell without reason.
One student stood near the doorway, half-leaning into the corridor, eyes fixed on the stairs.
From outside, the sound reached him first.
Click. Click. Click.
Sharp heels against concrete.
He straightened instantly.
"The Specs is coming," he hissed.
Chaos folded in on itself.
Paper disappeared under desks. Rubber bands snapped and vanished. Gum was swallowed or pressed beneath benches. Students shoved books open, some upside down. Benches scraped loudly as bodies snapped into alignment.
A few seconds later, silence settled–not calm, but tense.
The class teacher entered.
Her heels announced every step. Controlled. Precise. The sound alone carried authority.
She wore the school's staff uniform: a crisp white collared shirt, a black skirt cut exactly to regulation length, and a black blazer worn today because the chairman was present. Her hair was tied back tightly with a single band, the rest tucked neatly into the blazer's collar. Thin spectacles rested on her nose.
She was young–noticeably so.
Twenty-seven.
Doctorate in English Literature. Former national rank holder. Chairman's wife.
She paused just inside the doorway, eyes scanning the room with habitual efficiency.
"Good morning, ma'am," the class said, standing.
All except one.
At the last bench, a boy remained seated.
He lounged sideways, one leg stretched into the aisle, elbow resting against the desk. His uniform shirt hung open, buttons undone. A black vest clung beneath it. Black jeans instead of trousers. Silver and gold chains lay openly against his chest. His hair fell long, deliberately untrimmed.
He chewed gum slowly.
Loud enough to be heard.
Her gaze locked onto him instantly.
"You," she said. "Stand up."
He didn't look at her.
The chewing continued.
A few students shifted uncomfortably. No one spoke.
"I said stand up," she repeated, sharper now.
He finally lifted his eyes, smirked faintly, and kept chewing.
The room held its breath.
"Get out," she snapped. "Out of my class."
He stood lazily, stretching as if bored.
"Relax, miss," he said. "I'm going."
He peeled the gum from his mouth and pressed it deliberately onto her teaching table.
Sticky. Slow. Intentional.
Then he walked out, the door slamming behind him.
Silence lingered longer than usual.
"Just a rich asshole," she muttered under her breath. "If his father wasn't a shareholder with half the city government in his pocket…"
She stopped herself.
Straightened.
Sprinkled chalk powder over the table and peeled the gum away, her expression already smoothing back into professional composure.
Then her eyes moved.
Not to the obedient students.
To an empty seat.
A seat that should have been occupied.
Her expression shifted–subtle, controlled.
Not anger.
Interest.
Calculation.
The boy left the classroom as if nothing had happened.
No rush.
No anger.
No consequence.
The door closed behind him with a dull sound that lingered longer than it should have.
The teacher inhaled slowly.
Not deeply–carefully.
She straightened the blazer at her shoulders, lifted her chin, and rebuilt the smile she wore in front of students every day. Anyone watching closely could tell it wasn't natural. The corners of her lips held, but her eyes didn't follow.
It was the kind of smile people used when they refused to lose control.
"Well," she said, clapping her hands once to reclaim attention, "before we start attendance, I need to ask–and tell–you something serious."
The class stirred instantly.
Whispers rippled. Chairs shifted. A few students leaned forward, already entertained.
One voice rose deliberately, loud enough to be heard.
"Ma'am," a boy near the middle benches said with mock concern, "are you going to leave this school?"
Laughter burst out–too quick, too coordinated.
"If that's the case," another added, grinning, "you don't need to make it serious. Just tell us."
It was rehearsed.
Timed.
Waiting for an opening.
Her fingers curled slowly at her sides.
For a fraction of a second, her knuckles whitened.
Then she relaxed them.
Her smile returned–thinner now, sharper.
"Yes," she said evenly. "I will."
The laughter cut off mid-breath.
"If," she continued, her voice steady, "anyone from this class secures a National Rank this year."
Silence followed.
"I'll resign," she said. "Immediately. As you wish."
Eyes widened. Murmurs broke out.
"And now," she added, before they could recover, "my question."
She scanned the room–not randomly, but deliberately.
"Do you know," she asked, "who did not attend the school assembly today?"
Students glanced at one another.
A few names flickered in their minds–but none landed.
No one looked at Silvestor.
No one ever did.
In their eyes, he was absent even when present. A boy who never completed a full day. Someone who skipped classes. Someone whose marks hovered low enough to be irrelevant.
Even the teacher didn't think of him.
Not with his attendance record.
Not with his previous exam scores.
Her gaze moved past him without pause.
She exhaled softly.
As expected.
Before she could continue–
A shadow appeared at the door.
The boy from earlier–Jazz–leaned in casually, one shoulder against the frame. His smile was relaxed. Confident. Untouchable.
At the same time, something small snapped through the air.
A sharp sting bloomed against Silvestor's neck.
He stiffened.
An eraser fragment dropped to the floor beside his desk.
He stood up instinctively–not shouting, not reacting–just rising with a tight breath pulled in through clenched teeth.
The teacher turned.
"What is it, Silvestor?" she asked coolly. "Your number hasn't been called yet. Or are you leaving early today too?"
A few students snickered.
Silvestor didn't look at them.
His eyes were on the doorway.
On Jazz's hand, still half-raised.
"No, ma'am," he said calmly. "I just need to go to the washroom."
A pause.
Then she nodded. "Go. Come back quickly."
He stepped out.
The corridor swallowed him.
Jazz straightened immediately, stepping aside to let him pass–then fell into stride beside him.
"I have a lot to ask," Jazz said lightly, as if inviting him to lunch. "Come to the bathroom."
Silvestor didn't hesitate.
"Alright," he replied.
And walked with him.
Toward the one place in the building the chairman would never inspect.