[Principal's Office – Late Afternoon]
The office was thick with perfume, privilege, and people who'd never been told no.
Three mothers sat like they were preparing for a Vogue cover shoot, faces tight with fake sympathy and real judgment. Their children—currently icing their bruised egos and missing ears—were the type who always cried victim the moment their fists didn't work.
Principal Hargrove sat nervously at his desk, doing what all men in administration did best: absolutely nothing.
Lia? Lia sat cross-legged, composed, arms folded over a hoodie that said "I Have Zero Time for This."
"Principal," sniffed the mother with the platinum pixie cut, "I'm just trying to understand how a violent child like that was even admitted. My Toby has asthma. He could've had a panic attack from the trauma."
Another one, with a scarf worth more than Lia's entire apartment, nodded dramatically. "And Chadley is in therapy now. Ethan bit someone's ear, like some sort of rabid animal!"
"Do you even do background checks?" the third chimed in, adjusting her sunglasses even though they were indoors. "His father's a murderer. I'm sorry, but it's public record."
Principal Hargrove gave a weak chuckle. "Let's all just take a breath…"
"Oh, please do," Lia said, uncrossing her legs with calm precision. "You all clearly need the oxygen."
The mothers blinked.
"I've been trying to keep quiet out of respect," she continued, smiling but somehow holding a flamethrower. "But every time one of you opens your mouth, you give me three more reasons to home-school Ethan, change my number, and send you a thank-you muffin basket labeled 'Get Well Soon – From The Kid Who Could've Done Worse.'"
Platinum Mom gasped. "Excuse me?"
"Not yet," Lia said. "But we're getting there."
She turned her eyes to Principal Hargrove. "Let me save you the paperwork. Yes, Ethan hit them. Yes, he bit one. Yes, they were attacking him. No, he didn't start it. And if they try that again, next time I'll be the one doing the biting."
"Your nephew has issues," said Sunglasses Mom.
"Yours has no chin and a vocabulary of Fortnite emotes. Pick your battles."
The scarf lady tried to jump in—"His father is a—!"
"Nope." Lia's voice dropped. "Say it again. Mention his father one more time. I dare you."
They hesitated.
"Oh, now you're quiet?" Lia stood, grabbing her bag. "Interesting. You had all that energy a minute ago, but the second someone smarter, louder, and legally more dangerous gets involved, you play the victim."
She gave them each a look, perfectly disgusted. "You're raising bullies with credit cards. You know that, right? The only thing Ethan's guilty of is giving them exactly what they asked for."
As she walked to the door, she paused.
"Oh—and next time your little gremlins jump someone three-on-one, make sure it's not a kid trained by a hunter who actually survived a portal raid. You can buy them braces, but you can't fix stupid."
She winked at Principal Hargrove. "You might wanna update the emergency contact form. I'm moving him out of this rich kid safari by next week."
And with that, she walked out.
The clock ticked past 5:00 PM. The golden rays of the evening sun stretched across the hardwood floor of their small apartment, casting long shadows over Lia's meticulously tidy office space. Every detail in the room—from the polished mahogany desk to the books organized by color and topic—spoke of someone who had once believed in structure, control, and calm. That structure trembled now as her fingers unfolded the elegant cream-colored letter that bore the emblem of the school board.
Her eyes scanned the lines once. Then again.
"We regret to inform you that your employment at Rosebridge Academy will be terminated, effective immediately…"
There was no storm in her face, just a slow, quiet exhale. She folded the letter with surgical precision, walked calmly to the bin, and dropped it in. No drama. No gasping.
A flurry of papers flew into the air like startled birds. "Benefits? Gone. Severance? A polite suggestion!" Lia muttered as she hurled another paper toward the couch. "They fired me with the same tone you'd use to cancel brunch!"
Ethan sat on the dining table with a pencil in hand, his brows furrowed over a math worksheet that now seemed to blur with his concern. He turned toward her slowly.
"Lia?" he asked.
She looked up mid-rant and immediately pulled on a smile so fake, even a blind raccoon would see through it.
"What are you doing moping, huh? Page four, question six—that's a tough one. Go full nerd on it, show no mercy," she said, snapping her fingers in mock authority.
Ethan raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He closed his book quietly and walked to his room. Lia sighed as she leaned on the kitchen counter, the cool marble against her forehead grounding her from spiraling. Her fingers tangled in her curly dark hair, jaw clenched, and her mind ran through everything—from rent, groceries, to how she'd pay for Ethan's tutor.
The next morning, the apartment was empty before the sun rose.
Lia had left a note on the fridge:
"Don't forget to eat something green. Not moldy. Love you."
She hit the pavements, walking door to door in business flats and a blazer that had seen better days. She applied at clinics, public schools, even at a veterinary office. "No, I don't do cats," she told one, "but I can clean up emotional messes like a pro."
Hours later, she returned home, her heels worn, her spirit threadbare.
Ethan met her at the door. "How'd it go?"
She gave a tired smile but stood tall. "I start Monday. Not at a school—turns out, old people need therapists too. A senior community near downtown."
Ethan blinked. "Old people?"
"Yep. Therapy, games, the occasional bingo rebellion. I'm practically the queen of keeping people alive and insulted at the same time."
They sat on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, each holding a chipped mug of hot chocolate.
"I'm sorry you lost the school," Ethan said.
"I'm not." She looked at him, serious now. "That place told me they cared about kids, but the moment it got messy—your pain, your name, your history—they ran. Places like that aren't homes, they're business parks."
Ethan looked down.
"Hey," she nudged him, "whatever happens, we're not just surviving, Ethan. We're adapting. That's what people like us do. We evolve."
He nodded slowly. "Still… school's gonna be hard."
"You've survived worse," she said. "Besides, I've got your back. Always. And when you graduate, I expect front-row seats. I'll cry obnoxiously loud. Make everyone uncomfortable."
He smirked. "You already do that."
"Damn right I do."
A cluster of hunters stood near the rusted remains of a supply truck, their laughter low and coarse. Dust still clung to their boots, and dried blood stained their gauntlets. They were rough types—veterans of dungeon runs, most of them—and their gazes tracked Ethan as he passed by, hood low over his face.
One of them, a tall man with a jagged scar running down his neck, called out.
"Hey, kid!"
Ethan stopped but didn't turn around. His ears had already caught the footsteps surrounding him.
"We're putting a party together," the man continued, stepping forward. "You've got a fast reaction time and a mean streak. We saw what you did out there."
Another hunter, a woman with short black hair and a blade on each hip, added, "Don't play shy."
A few others chuckled. One snapped a metal toothpick between his fingers.
Ethan finally looked up, his eyes unreadable beneath the shadow of his hoodie. "Thanks," he said, voice calm. "But I work alone."
He turned to leave, but the first man moved into his path.
"You sure?" he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We're not just some dungeon fodder. We've got a lead on a collapsed tunnel—scouts say it's loaded. We go in, hit fast, get out before any mercs or soldiers claim it. You in?"
Ethan looked at them, letting the silence stretch. His fingers twitched slightly by his side—not toward a weapon, just... ready.
The leader leaned in. "You help us crack it, you take a share. One-fourth of the loot. Full rights to anything you solo. Plus... we'll make sure your name starts rising. Right now? You're a mystery. Work with us, we rewrite your reputation."
A few of the others nodded, murmuring agreement.
Ethan tilted his head. His expression didn't shift, but something in the air did.
Then he smiled—not with warmth, but with quiet amusement.