The thud of the blow still echoed as Lucy pushed through the crowd. For a moment his world narrowed to the pounding in his ears and the frozen image of Mark's fist suspended midair. David crumpled like a rag doll against the lockers; his backpack burst open, cans and wrappers spilling across the floor. Screams, snickers, the buzz of phones recording.
Lucy felt his eyes burn. The strand between Mark and David pulsed a black so dense it seemed to swallow surrounding light. At the same time, the visions of David—the intimate scenes of impulsive theft, wrappers piled under the bed, a hollow face eating through the night—hit him so hard he gasped.
In theory, it was simple. There were reasons, causes. If he knew how to use the "Sentence"—how to speak facts so no one could deny them—he could stop this without violence. He could expose the truth and protect the boy. But his grandfather's letter had demanded more than courage: discipline, control. And Lucy didn't feel ready.
He rubbed his face. To the crowd it was a spectacle; to Mark, a chance to assert dominance; to David, humiliation had crossed a line. And Lucy, with the Karmic Eyes blazing, froze.
"Do something!" someone shouted behind him.
He wanted to move. He wanted to step forward and say the truth aloud: "I saw him steal. I saw his nights. I saw the emptiness." But the Sentence wasn't a simple accusation—it required calm, evidence, the proper way to lay out the whole. Lucy hesitated because he feared error. If he revealed only fragments, would he create more harm? If he mixed observation with judgment, would he manipulate?
Instead, his voice came out as a weak —"Stop!"— that did nothing. Mark swatted him aside like a bothersome fly and turned back to David. The first blow had already landed; the second followed.
A teacher finally pushed through and separated them, but the damage was done. David bled from his nose, jaw swollen; his eyes were red from crying. Mark smiled, triumphant, and the crowd murmured while their phones turned the moment into a viral clip.
Something inside Lucy snapped. It wasn't just guilt: it was the bitter taste of helplessness—holding a key he did not know how to use. When David was escorted to the infirmary and administrators whispered in offices, Lucy slipped into the bathroom and leaned against the cold tile.
His reflection showed someone who could no longer pretend to be ordinary. The threads loomed: David's mother tied by yellow threads of indifference, a sister working double shifts unable to tend him; and always, the black line connecting Mark to something larger—absent parents, recycled humiliation, anger made habit.
Called to give a statement, Lucy went back to the office. He refused to lie, to invent strange tales about "threads" and visions. He told the truth as any witness: he had seen the fight, he had tried to intervene, it had been an assault. He didn't mention the Sentence, nor his visions, nor his intimate knowledge of David.
The school acted: Mark was suspended, a meeting with parents was scheduled. David was taken to the hospital for a minor fracture and concussion; the school treated him as the victim. To the public, the incident was resolved. To Lucy, the resolution felt hollow.
That night guilt made sleep impossible. He reran every second—the way his hands had trembled, the phrase he failed to voice, the chance he lost to use the Sentence as a tool of nonviolent justice. He scribbled in his notebook with fury:
—The Sentence needs the whole truth.
—Partial truth wounds more than heals.
—I need proof, practice, and courage.
The notes were an attempt to bring order. But he became aware of something more dangerous: he hadn't only failed David—he had drawn outside attention. Looking out the window, he thought he saw, under a streetlight, the silhouette of the man in the dark suit who had named him heir. Rain and distance could be deceiving; maybe it was imagination. But his gut said they were watching.
The lesson was cold and clear. Seeing the truth was not enough. Knowing how to narrate it so it held, to protect rather than condemn, mattered.
By morning the rumor mill had churned: clips, tags, opinions. Some called him the boy who "did nothing"; others simply a witness. Emily didn't approach him that day; the thread between them held a confusing tone that hurt more than the criticism.
Lucy closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. The word "failure" rattled in his skull, but not as an end—rather, as a summons. If his grandfather had left him more than just eyes, he'd left an obligation to learn. If the Sentence was a weapon, he must learn to wield it responsibly.
That night he reopened his grandfather's black notebook with trembling hands. On a page, as if written for him, was a line:
"The first judgment tests the judge. Many will fall for fear or impatience. You will learn, or you will be learned."
Lucy ground his teeth. Next time he would not hesitate.