Lune's parents stepped inside like they'd been pushed.
His mother's hair was pinned too tightly, a sign she had rushed. His father's tie was crooked, pulled slightly to the left. Both of them smiled as they entered—quick, apologetic smiles that held no warmth. They were not happy. They were performing not being upset.
They looked at Lune. Their expressions changed.
His mother's face softened first, as if instinct overrode embarrassment. His father's mouth stayed neutral, but his eyes narrowed in the way they did when he tried to solve a problem quickly.
"Lune," his mother said, too brightly. "What happened?"
Lune watched their faces instead of answering. His mother's eyes were searching for a script. His father's were searching for blame.
Principal Qiu stood, offering a handshake, speaking in a careful tone. "Thank you for coming so quickly. I'm sure this is… unexpected."
His mother nodded quickly, too many times. "Of course. Is the other child okay?"
"She's fine," Ms. Han said. Then she added, quietly, "She's frightened."
Lune's father glanced at his son, then at the principal. "Frightened? He didn't—he didn't hit her, did he?"
"No," Principal Qiu said. "No. But… there was an incident today that we need to document. It's… concerning."
The word landed like a weight on the desk. Concerning. A word that meant we don't know what this is, but also meant we're afraid of what it might be.
Lune looked at his mother's mouth. The edges twitched. She was trying not to show shock.
Principal Qiu slid a form across the desk. "This is an incident report. And I want to be clear—we're not accusing Lune of being malicious. But the behavior was unusual. It warrants… evaluation."
Evaluation. Another adult word that meant someone else will decide what you are.
His father exhaled sharply through his nose. "He's just—he's young. He didn't understand."
Ms. Han's gaze flicked to Lune, then away. "He said he understood it would hurt."
Silence.
Lune's mother went still. Her hand rose to her own throat, fingers pressing lightly as if checking for breath.
His father's eyes snapped to Lune. "Is that true?"
Lune met his father's gaze and held it. He did not feel shame. He did not feel defiance. He felt only the weight of attention.
"Yes," he said.
His mother made a sound that wasn't a word. Principal Qiu lowered himself back into his chair, careful again, as if sudden movement might break something.
"We recommend," Principal Qiu said slowly, "that Lune be referred to a specialist. Just to understand what's going on. The hospital can do an assessment. It's standard procedure in cases like this."
His father's jaw tightened. His mother's eyes glossed, tears forming without falling.
Lune watched the tears gather, round and reflective, as if her eyes were becoming mirrors. He did not feel anything about them.
His mother's voice came out thin. "A hospital?"
Principal Qiu nodded. "Just for evaluation. No one is in trouble. But… we need to be responsible."
Responsible. Another word. Another mask.
Lune looked down at the incident report form on the desk. The paper was white and clean and empty in places where someone would fill him in later.
He listened to his parents breathe faster. He listened to his own breathing remain steady.
And he understood, without needing anyone to explain it, that whatever had happened in the corridor had followed him here—and it would follow him further still.