Broken Hands

49. Timothy Goldman

The kitchen of Durham Institute was a cavernous, industrial space with gleaming silver countertops and long rows of ovens that hummed softly. The tiled walls were royal white, interrupted only by the occasional rack of utensils or a clock that ticked methodically above the pantry doors. The air was thick with the lingering scent of roasted vegetables and freshly baked bread, a faint warmth radiating from the massive steel stoves lining the back wall.

Only male cooks staffed the kitchen, their uniforms crisp and spotless. They moved with precision, their deep voices occasionally breaking the rhythmic clatter of pots and pans. It was a space of order and efficiency, a well-oiled machine where mistakes were not tolerated.

Grayson stood at the sink, an apron tied around his waist, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, fading and healing scars adorning his hands in small stripes. He dunked a stack of greasy plates into the soapy water, his fingers pruned from hours of scrubbing. The sponge in his hand moved with practiced ease, his mind drifting as the mundane task allowed him time to brood.

He was used to this—punishments that left him alone, tasks meant to humble and discipline. Grayson had spent more time cleaning, organizing, and scrubbing than most students at Durham. It wasn't just his rebellious streak; it was his record. The teachers judged him before he could prove himself, their minds were already made up about what kind of student he was.

It all started with English Literature class, the kind Grayson usually tried to endure without drawing too much attention to himself. Blackwell had been lecturing about the symbolism in Macbeth, his deep, theatrical voice filling the room. Grayson, half-listening and half-lost in his thoughts, had made the mistake of sighing audibly.

"Something you'd like to share, Mr. Smith?" Blackwell's voice cut through the room, and all eyes turned toward Grayson.

Grayson hesitated, but the words slipped out before he could stop them. "Maybe if we didn't dissect every line like a crime scene, it'd be easier to get through."

The silence that followed was deafening. Blackwell's dark eyes narrowed, his expression a mixture of disbelief and icy disdain.

"Excuse me?" he said, his voice low and dangerously calm.

Grayson didn't back down, though he knew he should have. "I'm just saying—sometimes it's a play, not a philosophy class."

The class snickered, a few students stifling laughs behind their hands. But Blackwell wasn't amused. His voice rose, commanding authority.

"Smith, you will learn that Macbeth is not just a play but a mirror to the human condition—a mirror you clearly refuse to look into. Since you seem to believe in shortcuts, I'll give you one: Report to the kitchen after lunch. Perhaps some physical work will sharpen your dull mind."

Grayson gritted his teeth, shoving the lingering memory to the back of his mind as he plunged another plate into the soapy water. The punishment wasn't a shock. Blackwell had a knack for turning minor offenses into spectacles, and Grayson's track record made him an easy mark. Teachers like Blackwell didn't just discipline—they humiliated.

The scrape of footsteps broke his thoughts, and he glanced over his shoulder. Timothy Goldman stood in the doorway, his prefect badge gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. The faint smirk on his face made Grayson's stomach churn with irritation. What now?

"You've got a real talent for ending up in places like this, Smith," Timothy quipped, his voice casual but sharp enough to cut.

Grayson turned back to the sink, his movements rougher now. "Yeah, well, some of us don't spend our free time bossing people around. Go wave your badge somewhere else."

Timothy ignored the jab, stepping fully into the room with an air of unbothered calm. He leaned against the counter beside Grayson, his hands tucked into his pockets, studying him like an experiment.

"Dracula really has it out for you, huh?" Timothy's warm brown eyes flickered with amusement as he spoke.

Grayson's grip on the sponge tightened. "Guess so. Won't be the first." He scrubbed harder, the plate squeaking under the pressure.

Timothy tilted his head, his faint smirk softening. "For what it's worth, you're handling it better than most would." He said his eyes landing on Grayson's bare arms making him want to pull his sleeves down.

Grayson paused mid-scrub, glancing at Timothy with a frown. "What, is that supposed to make me feel better? Thanks for the pity, Goldman."

Timothy shrugged, unfazed. "Not pity. Just saying not everyone's out to get you." His tone was light, but Grayson couldn't shake the feeling that there was more behind those words than Timothy let on.

Grayson snorted, turning back to the sink. "Yeah, right. That's rich coming from you lot. You've been keeping tabs on me since day one." His tone sharpened. "So, what's the deal? Why are you really here? Bored? Or just looking for something to tattle on?"

Timothy raised a brow, his expression unreadable. "I heard about your little accident. Thought I'd check on you."

Grayson let out a bitter laugh, dunking another plate into the water. "Right. Sure. Ask Stephen—he knows everything already."

Timothy's jaw tightened, a flicker of something crossing his face before he smoothed it out. Grayson didn't miss it.

"Or better yet," Grayson added, "why don't you just pull the CCTV footage? You've got cameras everywhere. It's like living in a prison. No privacy, no respect. Just us, the watched, and you guys, the watchers."

Timothy shook his head, his tone carefully measured. "No cameras in the toilets, Smith. Just the halls and other areas. For safety, not control."

Grayson's hands paused, his mind racing. Safety, huh? He filed that detail away, an idea forming in the back of his mind. "Do all prefects stay in the dorms?" he asked, his voice casual.

Timothy raised a brow at the sudden shift in topic. "Not all, but most. Why?"

Grayson shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just curious. You're dorming, too?"

"Yeah." Timothy's response was clipped, his posture straightening slightly. "Problem with that?"

Grayson's smirk widened. "Nah. Just thinking your parents must've really had it out for you, dumping you here."

Timothy's calm demeanor didn't waver. "I like it here, actually. But thanks for the concern."

Grayson's smirk faltered, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. His attempts to rile Timothy up seemed to bounce off like rubber bullets.

"Well," Timothy said, pushing off the counter, his tone light. "I'll let you get back to it. But, Smith?"

Grayson looked up, brow furrowed in suspicion.

Timothy paused at the doorway, his expression unreadable but his tone oddly sincere. "Try not to land yourself in here too often. You might start thinking it's where you belong."

The words hung in the air as Timothy left, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Grayson stared after him, his grip tightening on the sponge. The comment was irritating, sure, but it wormed its way under his skin in a way few things did.

He turned back to the sink, the soapy water swirling around his hands. He didn't have time to dwell on Timothy's cryptic advice. The plates wouldn't clean themselves, and besides, Grayson had bigger plans to hatch. Like revenge.

A/N

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