The microphone crackled–then steadied.
The chairman stepped forward.
Behind him, the covered car caught the sunlight, its silhouette enough to draw whispers through the ground. Teachers straightened. Students leaned forward instinctively.
The chairman smiled.
"Good morning," he said, his voice strong, warm, carrying across the assembly.
"Students. Teachers. My future achievers."
The reply came louder than before.
"Good morning, sir."
He nodded, satisfied.
"I want you to look around you for a moment," he said. "Look at your classmates. Look at the ground you're standing on. Because today, you are not just students."
He paused.
"You are candidates."
Silence followed.
"Candidates for a future that will not wait for you," he continued. "A future that will not slow down. A future that rewards only those who prepare for it."
His gaze settled on the final-year students.
"This year will test you," he said plainly. "Not just your memory. Not just your intelligence. It will test your discipline. Your consistency. Your ability to stand up every morning and move forward–even when no one is forcing you."
From the rooftop, Silvestor listened.
"This morning," the chairman said, "I walked through this school before most of you arrived."
Murmurs stirred.
"I walked through empty classrooms," he continued. "Quiet corridors. Still chairs."
Then he smiled again.
"And in one classroom… I saw something that pleased me."
The crowd leaned in.
"There was a student," he said. "Alone. Seated. Writing."
Teachers exchanged approving looks.
"No teacher was there," the chairman said. "No inspection. No pressure."
He tapped the microphone lightly.
"And yet–he was studying."
The words landed.
"That," he said firmly, "is the difference between success and regret."
The students listened now–fully.
"I don't know his name," the chairman continued. "But I know his habit. And habits decide futures."
He raised his hand slightly.
"Every achiever you admire–every topper, every innovator, every leader–started with mornings like that. Early. Quiet. Unnoticed."
From the rooftop, Silvestor remained still.
"You don't become extraordinary overnight," the chairman said. "You become it one decision at a time. One notebook. One page. One disciplined morning."
His voice sharpened with conviction.
"And let me be clear," he added. "Your background does not disqualify you. Your struggles do not define your limits."
Some students shifted uncomfortably.
"What defines you," he said, "is what you do despite them."
He turned slowly toward the covered vehicle behind him.
"This year," the chairman announced, "the student who secures National Rank One will not just receive a certificate."
The cover was pulled away.
Sunlight exploded across polished metal.
A limited-edition Lexus stood revealed.
Gasps. Shouts. Disbelief.
"This car," he said calmly, letting the reaction rise, "is fully paid. Registration. Insurance. Maintenance. Ten years in advance."
The murmurs turned electric.
"Even fuel," he added. "For ten years."
The ground erupted in applause.
"I do this," the chairman said over the noise, "because I want you to understand something."
He raised his voice–not shouting, but commanding.
"Excellence should never be punished by limitation."
The applause grew louder.
"If you earn it," he said, "you will drive it."
He waited until the noise settled.
"Remember this," he concluded.
"The world does not ask where you came from. It asks what you can do."
He smiled–confident, fulfilled.
"And this morning," he said, "I saw proof that greatness is already walking these corridors."
From the rooftop, Silvestor listened.
Above the cheers.
Above the hope.
Above a system that believed effort was visible.
The wind moved softly.
The girl beside him breathed.
And below, the students applauded a future that promised fairness–
unaware of the shadows it refused to see.
"Silvie…"
She said it softly. Always softly.
Not because she was weak–but because she never wanted to provoke him. Never wanted to remind him of herself too loudly.
She adjusted the loosened folds of her uniform, movements small, careful, as if afraid any sudden motion might make him stand up and leave. Her body had woken, but it hadn't recovered. Hunger still sat heavy in her limbs. Her head felt light. The world still tilted slightly when she breathed too deeply.
Silvestor heard her.
He did not look at her.
His eyes stayed on the assembly below–the students standing in perfect rows, the chairman speaking about futures that sounded clean and untouched.
"When did it start?" he asked.
His voice was calm. Flat. As if he were asking about weather.
She knew what he meant.
"…Three years," she said quietly. "I think… around the same time as you."
He nodded once.
"Boys," he asked. "Or girls?"
She swallowed before answering.
"Both."
He didn't react.
"Sexual?" he asked.
The word landed heavily.
Her fingers tightened against the concrete beside her. Her shoulders curled inward, not in defiance, but in protection. Tears formed immediately–uninvited, uncontrollable.
She didn't answer.
"I know," Silvestor said.
She flinched–not because of his tone, but because he was right.
"I expected it."
She finally looked at him then. Not to challenge him. Not to defend herself. Only to see if there was anything left in his face she could reach.
There wasn't.
"You didn't end up on that bathroom floor by accident," he said. "You didn't stop eating for a day because you forgot."
She lowered her head.
"And you didn't get there because this place suddenly changed," he continued. "It's been like this."
Her breathing grew uneven.
"You were raped," Silvestor said.
He didn't emphasize the word. He didn't weaponize it.
But it cut anyway.
Her breath broke completely.
"And to stay alive," he went on, "you blamed the only person who tried to save you."
She shook her head faintly–not denial, not protest–just pain.
"He's still in detention," Silvestor said. "CSA."
His voice didn't rise.
"Because of you."
Her hands trembled in her lap.
"I don't hate you for surviving," Silvestor added after a moment. "I understand why you did it."
Her eyes widened slightly at that.
"But I hate that you let someone else drown so you could breathe."
She nodded. Over and over.
"I know," she whispered. "I know…"
Her voice cracked completely then.
"I never wanted this," she said. "I never wanted any of this to happen to you… or to your father…"
She reached forward instinctively–then stopped herself, pulling her hand back before it could touch him.
"I'm sorry," she said again. "I've always been sorry."
Silvestor shifted.
Not closer.
Away.
"You didn't come here to die," he said. "If you wanted that, you wouldn't still be here."
She looked at him, confused.
"But if you think disappearing will clean anything," he continued, "you're wrong."
He finally turned toward her fully.
"If you fall from here," he said evenly, "you'll die."
Her eyes widened.
The thought had never crossed her mind.
"I didn't bring you here to scare you," he said. "I brought you here because it was quiet."
She swallowed.
"And because no one looks up," he added.
She nodded slowly, the truth settling in.
"They'll say it was suicide," he continued. "And I'll be the last one who saw you."
Her breath turned shallow.
"The chairman already made it easy," Silvestor said. "I was alone in the classroom."
He paused.
"If anything happens to you," he added, "I'll be convenient."
That was when she broke.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Her knees folded beneath her and she sank down in front of him, careful not to touch him, careful not to cross a line she knew existed.
"I'm sorry," she said again. "Silvie… I never wanted you to suffer."
Her voice shook.
"I liked you," she admitted softly. "I still do."
Not desire. Not expectation.
Confession.
"I know I don't have the right," she whispered. "I just… needed you to know."
She bowed her head, tears falling silently onto the concrete.
Silvestor did not move.
He did not respond.
He stood there, distant even while close–listening to apology without accepting it.
Below them, applause rose again.
She didn't stop.
Her voice broke again and again, but she didn't stop.
"I know I did wrong," she said, pressing her forehead against his foot. "I know I made you suffer. I know I can't undo anything."
Her hands trembled as they clutched the concrete near him, not daring to touch him directly.
"But I've been suffering too," she continued, words spilling out unevenly. "Every day. Physically. Mentally. I haven't escaped anything, Silvie. I never did."
Silvestor stood still.
"I thought about dying," she whispered. "Just now. For a moment."
His jaw tightened.
"But I can't," she said quickly, fear rising in her voice. "I can't throw my mother into those wolves. I can't leave her alone. I can't do that to her."
She lifted her head slightly, eyes red, swollen, desperate.
"If there's anything," she said. "Anything that can make you forgive me… I'll do it."
Her voice cracked completely.
"Whatever it is."
Silvestor finally spoke.
"Whatever?"
She nodded immediately. Too quickly. Without thought.
"Yes," she said. "Anything."
He looked at her then.
Really looked at her.
And what he saw did not soften him.
"Leave," he said.
She blinked.
"This school," he continued. "This place. This city."
His voice was steady. Final.
"Go somewhere far enough that I never have to see you again."
The words struck her without sound.
She didn't cry.
She didn't protest.
Something inside her simply… emptied.
Her hands loosened. Her posture slackened. The begging stopped–not because she accepted it, but because there was nothing left to say.
Silvestor turned away.
He untied the cloth that connected them earlier, pulled his shirt free, and started toward the stairwell.
Behind him, she rose.
Not consciously.
Not deliberately.
She moved like someone walking in a dream.
Her feet carried her forward–not toward him, not toward help–but toward open space.
Silvestor felt it.
The silence.
The sudden absence of sound behind him.
It was wrong.
Instinct flared.
He turned–
–and saw her one step from the edge.
"Stop!"
He ran.
One more step and she would have been gone.
He reached her just in time, fingers locking around the waistband of her uniform. The force of his pull dragged her backward, her feet scraping against concrete as she stumbled away from the drop.
She gasped.
The world snapped back into her.
Before either of them could think–
his hand moved.
The slap landed sharp and clean.
Not rage.
Not punishment.
Reflex.
The kind that stops motion. That demands awareness.
Her head snapped to the side. Her breath hitched.
She froze.
Silvestor grabbed her shoulders immediately, gripping hard enough to keep her upright.
"What are you doing?" he snapped. "Are you insane?"
His voice shook–not with anger, but with fear barely contained.
"Do you think dying fixes anything?" he demanded. "Do you think it gives your mother peace?"
She stared at him, stunned, breathing uneven.
"You don't get to die," he said harshly. "Not like that. Not now."
Something ancient stirred in him.
Something inherited.
The same instinct that made his father run toward danger instead of away from it.
He pulled her into him suddenly, holding her tight, one arm around her shoulders, the other bracing her head against his chest.
"Don't you ever do that again," he said, voice low, furious. "Ever."
She broke completely then.
Not screaming.
Not collapsing.
Just crying silently against him, body shaking as reality settled back into place.
Silvestor held her for a moment longer–
then loosened his grip.
He stepped back.
The distance returned.
Below them, the assembly began to disperse.
Above them, the sky remained indifferent.
And between them stood a truth neither could escape:
He had saved her.
Again.
Not because he forgave her.
But because the blood in his veins would not allow him to let someone fall.
He stood there longer than he meant to.
The wind brushed against the rooftop, carrying the distant echo of students dispersing below. For the first time in years, something unfamiliar pressed against his chest–not relief, not peace.
Change.
It was subtle. Unwanted. But undeniable.
The hard, monochrome world he had survived in all this time had been scratched–just slightly–by something older. Something inherited.
His father's blood.
Behind him, movement.
Then arms wrapped around him.
Not sudden. Not forceful. Just there.
"Silvie…" she whispered, her voice trembling as she pressed her forehead against his back. "One chance."
He didn't turn.
"One chance," she repeated, holding him tighter. "One chance to change the scars I made in you."
Her grip wasn't possessive. It was desperate–like someone holding onto the edge of a collapsing bridge.
He closed his eyes.
Inhaled.
Slowly. Deeply.
When he spoke again, his voice was steady–but different.
For the first time in three years, he said her name.
"Amaya."
Her breath caught sharply.
"I don't believe you can undo what you've done," he continued. "I don't even believe you can truly change."
He turned slightly–not enough to face her, but enough that his words no longer felt distant.
"But," he said, "I want to see what you'll do."
She didn't speak. She didn't dare.
"If anyone comes to hurt you," he went on, "to touch you–come to me."
Her grip tightened instinctively.
"I'm not promising protection," he added immediately. "I'm not your shield. I'm not your savior."
He paused.
"But my parents raised me a certain way," he said quietly. "And whatever still survives of that… might make me stop it."
His tone hardened again.
"And I want to see how you–and your mother–will pay back what you did to me. And to my mother."
The words weren't shouted.
That made them heavier.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached back and pried her hands away from him. Not roughly. But firmly. Final.
She didn't resist.
Silvestor stepped away.
Without another word, he walked toward the stairwell and descended from the rooftop–leaving behind the wind, the height, and a girl standing alone with a future that no longer allowed escape.
And something irreversible had begun.