The cafeteria buzzed with laughter and conversation, but Francis barely heard it.
He was watching Philip—every nervous step, every glance toward Darius's smug grin across the hall.
Francis's eyes narrowed slightly. "Clinton," he said quietly, not looking away.
Clinton, halfway through a meat pie, paused mid-bite. "What's wrong?"
Francis set his fork down, his tone calm but razor-sharp. "That boy over there—he's not coming to make friends."
Clinton blinked, then followed Francis's line of sight. His expression darkened. "You've got to be kidding. He's carrying his food like a weapon."
"Exactly." Francis leaned slightly forward, voice low.
"When he gets close… stretch your leg out—naturally, like you're relaxing. Don't make it obvious."
Clinton swallowed, eyes gleaming with mischief. "You mean—?"
Francis smirked. "Let gravity do the rest."
---
Across the room, Philip's hands trembled as he walked.
Each step felt heavier than the last. The plate sloshed with watered food, drops trailing behind him like breadcrumbs of humiliation.
He could feel every gaze on him—the curious, the judging, and somewhere in the crowd, Darius's expectant smirk.
Just do it and walk away, Philip told himself. He said his father will handle everything.
He took another step. Francis's calm expression didn't help. It wasn't fear, nor anger—it was knowing.
That unsettled him even more.
---
By the time Philip reached the corner table, Clinton had leaned back casually, arms crossed, a lazy grin plastered across his face.
Francis looked up, his eyes cold but patient.
"Need something?" he asked mildly.
Philip froze. "I—uh…" He hesitated, gripping the plate tighter.
Francis tilted his head slightly. "You seem tense. Careful, you might trip—"
Before the words even finished leaving his lips, Clinton's leg slid out just enough.
Philip stepped forward—his foot caught.
Time seemed to slow.
The plate launched upward, spinning once in the air before crashing down—right on Philip's face.
A cold, soupy mess splattered across his hair, dripping down his collar and shirt.
The entire cafeteria went silent for one stunned heartbeat—then erupted.
Laughter thundered through the room.
Some tried to stifle it behind their hands; others couldn't hold it back at all. Even a few instructors hiding behind the enchanted viewing screens couldn't help but chuckle.
Clinton leaned over, struggling to keep a straight face. "Oops," he said innocently. "Didn't see you there."
Philip's face turned beet red. His hands clenched, and for a second, it looked like he might explode.
Francis simply raised his cup and took a calm sip. "You should be more careful next time," he said quietly, his tone almost kind—but the gleam in his eyes told a different story.
Philip stumbled backward, dripping and humiliated, as the laughter rolled on.
---
At Darius's table, the grin vanished.
He gripped his spoon until it bent. "That… was not supposed to happen," he muttered.
One of his lackeys whispered, "Should we do something?"
Darius's glare silenced him instantly. "No. Not here. Not now." His voice was low, but cold. "He made a fool of us in front of everyone. He'll regret it."
Across the hall, Clara watched it all unfold with a slow, satisfied smirk.
"Well," she murmured, "it seems the quiet one has teeth."
---
At another corner, Angel and Angelina were frozen in disbelief.
Angel blinked, trying to process what she'd just witnessed. "Did he really—?"
Angelina nodded slowly, eyes wide. "He did."
Angel leaned slightly forward, her gaze fixed on Francis. "Where have I seen him before?" she whispered. "He looks… familiar."
Angelina frowned. "You've seen him?"
"I don't know," Angel murmured, her tone distant. "But there's something about him. I just can't remember where."
They exchanged a glance, the sound of laughter echoing faintly around them. Neither spoke again—but both kept watching.
---
Above the cafeteria, inside the observation chamber, Greem and Betty stood before the glowing screen.
Greem laughed so hard his eyes watered. "Now that's entertainment! I told you this year's batch wouldn't be boring."
Betty rolled her eyes, trying to maintain composure. "Entertainment, yes—but it's just the beginning. You can already tell the tension building among the students."
Greem nodded, wiping his face. "Exactly! The real excitement has begun."
"Let's just hope it doesn't turn into chaos," Betty muttered, folding her arms.
"Chaos?" Greem grinned. "At Writer's Academy, chaos is the excitement."
They both chuckled, their eyes lingering on the screen as Francis and Clinton exchanged calm, quiet smiles below.
---
Elsewhere, in the council's upper office, Mr. Townsend, Mr. Alastair, and Instructor Elira were gathered before a crystal orb replaying the scene.
Elira sighed softly. "Shouldn't disciplinary actions be considered? It's clear that incident was deliberate."
Mr. Alastair nodded thoughtfully. "He's right, Townsend. If we let things like this go unchecked—"
Townsend raised a hand, his tone calm but resolute. "No."
They both looked at him.
"As writers," Townsend said, "that's how they'll survive. Discipline teaches order—but chaos teaches creativity. They'll learn from this. Both the proud and the patient."
A silence followed, heavy yet thoughtful.
Finally, Elira nodded slowly. "Then let the academy watch."
Townsend turned away from the orb. "Yes," he said, almost to himself. "Let the story write itself."