Broken Hands

54. Sneaky lies

The silence in Durham's hallways was suffocating, like stepping into a forgotten tomb. It was a silence that crept up your spine and dug icy claws into your nerves. Grayson's footsteps echoed faintly against the worn tile floors as he strode forward, his pulse hammering against his ribcage. He could practically hear his heartbeat, a heavy, relentless rhythm that refused to calm.

This place—its eerie stillness, its oppressive rules—had always felt like a prison. Grayson was determined to finish his exams, scrape through the system, and leave this suffocating place behind for good. But now, as he approached the looming shadow of Hawthorne's office, that freedom felt like a distant mirage.

Grayson swallowed hard, trying to push down the unease rising in his chest. What does Hawthorne want now? He had been sitting in Mr. Vik's class, minding his own business, when his name had been summoned over the intercom. Hawthorne's name carried weight, the kind of authority that bent steel and broke wills. Grayson had only met the man twice before, and it had been enough to mark him as trouble.

An idea flickered to life in his mind. Stephen. There was no other explanation. That idiot was asking for it.

He paused in front of the office door, his fingers curling into fists. The hallway here was unnervingly dark, as though the shadows clung tighter around Hawthorne's domain. No doubt, the man had a military background; it was written all over his rigid posture and icy precision.

Taking a deep breath, Grayson adjusted his expression, sliding on a mask of indifference. Whatever this was, he wouldn't give Hawthorne the satisfaction of seeing fear.

He knocked firmly.

"Come in," came the sharp reply.

The words hit like a slap, but Grayson turned the knob, pushing the door open and stepping inside. His movements were calm, deliberate, but his mind raced as he met the first set of eyes—Hawthorne's.

The man's gaze was like tempered steel, cold and cutting. His presence filled the room, a commanding force that made even silence feel suffocating.

"Sir," Grayson greeted, his posture straight, his voice firm. He could almost hear Damien's voice in his head, coaching him to play the part of Timothy Goldman, the untouchable golden child.

His eyes flicked briefly to the side. There stood Stephen, staring at the floor, his body rigid with unease. The faint bruise creeping beneath the edge of a bandage on his temple was unmistakable—a mark Grayson himself had left.

"Come forward, Smith," Hawthorne commanded, his tone far too calm, like a predator toying with its prey.

Grayson moved to stand beside Stephen, his steps measured.

Hawthorne leaned back in his chair, rocking it slowly, his eyes moving between the two boys with an unnerving intensity. Grayson met his gaze every time, refusing to flinch, refusing to let fear gain ground.

The principal spoke, his voice heavy with accusation. "Well, lads. You were brought here for a purpose, and I'll be as clear as possible. You know the rules of this institute and what happens if you break them, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," they both replied in unison, their voices steady despite the tension crackling in the air.

"Last week," Hawthorne began, his voice laced with menace, "Smith had a... misfortune. It was disturbing, really. A sudden trip that ended with his head meeting a locker. And now, just yesterday, King seems to have had his own accident—a door handle in the bathroom, wasn't it? Don't you think that's too much of a coincidence in just two weeks?"

Grayson felt the accusation pierce through the air like a knife. His jaw clenched, but he remained silent, glancing briefly at Stephen. The boy had come up with a story—better for him.