"What do you think you're doing, Will? Attacking the principal like that?" Fia's voice sliced the tense air, sharp and cool like tempered steel, as we finally escaped the suffocating quiet of the principal's office. We settled onto a rough, wooden bench near the infirmary clinic, its location a stark reminder of my folly.
I winced, biting back a gasp, as I leaned my awkward burden—my crutches—against the side of the bench. Every minute, careful movement to get myself seated sent waves of unimaginable, fiery pain through my bruised body. It felt like my leg was protesting every decision my reckless mind had made. Maybe I had pushed myself too far earlier, I admitted internally, the price of my rage coming due.
Fia remained standing, her posture rigid, her shadow falling over me like an unyielding judgment. Her beautiful features, usually softened by a kind energy, were set in a firm, displeased line.
