Foreigner

Chapter 48: Fire

The next day...
Unburned side of Whittiker
Principal Andrews' office

The office is untouched, and that is what makes it feel wrong.

Everything inside it is still polished, still controlled — Principal Andrews' desk gleams under the pale daylight, every document aligned into neat stacks, every object placed with intention. The tall windows let in a washed-out winter light that feels disconnected from reality, because beyond those walls, part of the school is charred black and still smoldering. The faint scent of smoke clings to the air outside, but in here, it's swallowed by varnish and stale coffee.

It feels like nothing happened.

It feels like a lie.

Mrs. Mai stands in front of the desk like she's about to tear the entire room apart.

Her outfit is immaculate — dark tailored trousers, a silk blouse, a structured blazer — but everything else about her is not. Her blonde hair is pulled back too loosely, strands slipping free around her face. Her eyes are red, not just from crying, but from fury that hasn't had anywhere to go yet. Her hands tremble—not weak, but tight, like she's holding herself back from something physical.

"My son is in a coma." Her voice cracks through the room.

Principal Andrews remains seated behind his desk, his posture straight, his hands folded as if discipline alone can steady the situation. His gray hair is perfectly combed, his tie aligned, his expression measured — but there's a flicker of strain around his eyes now, something that wasn't there before.

"Mrs. Mai," he begins, voice calm in a way that immediately feels wrong, "I understand that this is a very difficult—"

"No, you don't!" she snaps. The words explode out of her.

She steps forward, heels striking the floor, hard and sharp. The sound echoes in the otherwise silent room.

"You don't understand anything!" she continues, her voice rising, breaking at the edges. "Because if you did, you wouldn't be sitting there talking like this is just another incident report!"

Her hand comes down on the desk with a sharp crack, papers shifting under the force.

"My son is lying in a hospital bed, unconscious!" she shouts, her voice shaking now, breath uneven. "He's not waking up. Do you understand that? He's not opening his eyes, he's not talking — he's just—"

Her voice falters for half a second.

Then snaps back, harsher.

"And you're sitting here trying to explain it away?"

To the side, Isadora sits curled slightly into herself, her coat still wrapped tightly around her like she forgot to take it off. Her hands grip the fabric at her sleeves, fingers twisting the material over and over again. Her face is pale, her eyes swollen and red, and every time her mother raises her voice, her shoulders flinch just slightly.

Mr. Mai stands beside his wife, and he is completely still. His navy suit is flawless, every line precise, every detail intentional. He doesn't fidget. Doesn't shift. His hands rest loosely at his sides, his posture straight, grounded. His face is calm—too calm—but his eyes are sharp, cold, fixed on Andrews with an intensity that doesn't waver.

Andrews exhales slowly, trying to regain control of the conversation. "This situation is still under investigation, and based on what we've gathered, Lukas was directly involved in the events leading up to—"

Mrs. Mai lets out a sharp, disbelieving sound. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

She leans forward, both hands planting flat on the desk again, this time harder, her entire body angled toward him.