Broken Hands

69. Lighter days

There was something about the last bell that always made Grayson feel like he was emerging from a suffocating tunnel. Its blaring sound usually carried a note of relief, the chaos of the day was over. Today, however, peace was nowhere to be found. Instead, dread settled inside him. He'd been summoned to the meeting room, a place that rarely welcomed students like him. Antoine, in his casual tone, had let him know it was where teachers held private discussions with students—a place for judgment cloaked in professionalism. All the teachers Grayson had dealt with so far had been quick to dismiss him, cold in their interactions, their words leaving marks invisible with pressure—pressure gathered from remarks that could break a wall.

As the classroom emptied around him, Grayson lingered before rising, his legs reluctant to obey. Mr. Rox had invited him for the meeting after school, but the invitation felt more like a summons to his own execution. Antoine's struggles briefly flitted through his mind—the boy's sore reality made him wonder if he could ever endure such, of course, if he was Antoine, running would be the only solution.

Grayson moved through the hallway, the scuffed line on the floor serving as his reluctant guide. Timothy passed him in a whirlwind, barking orders as if commanding an army. That kid always found a way to be in charge of something.

Reaching the door, Grayson paused, his ears straining to catch any sound from within. Nothing. The silence on the other side was far from comforting. Mr. Rox wasn't known for private meetings, and the very idea of sitting down with that man sent a ripple of unease through Grayson. Mr. Rox had a way of tearing people apart with words, leaving pieces no one else could see but him.

Steeling himself, Grayson rapped gently on the door before easing it open. He stepped inside with an air of forced composure, a facade that barely held under the weight of his unease. Whatever this was, he'd have to keep it from Damien—his uncle wouldn't be pleased to hear he'd been called out yet again for his performance.

The first thing that hit him was the sharp green of Mr. Rox's gaze. The man stood by the desk, pale skin dotted with freckles that seemed to belong on a portrait rather than a person. And then, just to his right, Grayson saw him—Blackwell. His breath hitched, his confidence cracking ever so slightly.

Blackwell. Of all people. That man carried the same weight as his name: cold, severe, and unyielding. Everything about him was dark, from his jet-black attire to the stern lines etched into his face. He seemed like someone who could command a room with a glance—and it infuriated Grayson that he always did.

For a brief moment, Grayson's instincts screamed for him to turn and leave, to escape the oppressive atmosphere.

"Smith," Blackwell's voice cut through the still air like a blade, "lost your nerve?"

Grayson's eyes flicked across the room. Chairs were stacked neatly in the back, as if to make the space feel more imposing. He took a step forward, the movement deliberate, trying to keep control of the situation—even though control felt like a distant dream.

You're screwed, a thought whispered at the back of his mind, but he shoved it down.

Standing before the two men, his chest tightened as the room seemed to close in on him. Mr. Rox leaned against the desk, his arms folded, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Blackwell exuded authority, every inch of him daring Grayson to flinch.

Grayson glanced down and wiped his palms on his trousers, the motion quick but revealing.

"Do you know why you're here?" Rox began, his voice steady, with an undertone that demanded attention.

Grayson met his gaze briefly. "My grades?" he offered, his tone neutral, hoping to steer this conversation to its conclusion as quickly as possible.

Rox arched a brow, his expression unreadable. "I've observed you closely, Smith. You've come to class looking unwell more than once."