Silvestor took out the chopsticks and lifted a greenish roll slice from the tray. The thin edible sheet sagged slightly under its own weight, its surface dull with oil. Instead of eating it, he held it closer to his eyes, studying it with an attention that had nothing to do with hunger.
There was a lot said in that pause. Not in words, not even in thought, but in the slow movement of his eyes and the faint tightening of his jaw. Then he brought it to his mouth and bit down.
Except for bitterness, nothing registered. No texture worth noticing, no lingering taste, no contrast. The chewing itself looked reluctant, as though his body was performing a task his mind had already rejected.
He tried the side dishes next. The result was the same. Whatever flavor should have been there simply wasn't. That absence wasn't new to him. He had long ago accepted it as a strange gift, a quiet message from God that the colorful world people admired was bitter underneath.
Sweet is bitter.
Spice is bitter.
Sour is bitter.
Then what would bitter itself taste like?
He glanced sideways. Groups of students crowded the tables, laughing too loudly, leaning into each other, sharing tiffins, feeding one another without embarrassment. Someone flicked rice at a friend's forehead. Someone else wiped curry from another's mouth with their sleeve.
"Really," he thought, hollowly, "who is the one dreaming?"
The tray was soon empty. By then, the lunch hall had thinned out, the rush reduced to scattered clusters and scraping chairs. He stood, rinsed the tray, washed his mouth at the sink, and turned to leave.
Four boys stepped into his path.
They carried half-filled waste tiffins, lids dangling loosely from their hands. They were dressed alike in posture if not uniform–same hairstyle, same careless slouch, same single stud in one ear, identical in size and emblem. They looked less like individuals and more like a small gang rehearsed into shape.
Silvestor tried to step around them. They shifted with him and blocked the way again.
"Trash," one of them said casually, "where are you going? We hardly saved these for you."
They dumped their tiffins onto his tray in a messy pile and walked past him without waiting for a response. As they moved away, one of them glanced back over his shoulder.
"You should return our tiffins in our classroom."
For a brief moment, Silvestor imagined smashing the plastic boxes against their heads and emptying the waste over their faces. The image formed cleanly, violently–and then dissolved just as quickly.
His mind was not ready to come out of the darkness it was carrying.
A few minutes later, the bell rang. Students poured back into their classrooms, noise trailing behind them like static. Silvestor followed the current and took his seat.
None of the teachers came.
A moment later, the speakers crackled on every floor.
"All students should remain in your classrooms. A small staff meeting is ongoing. Teachers will return after a few minutes."
The announcement echoed and died, leaving behind a restless quiet.
In the conference hall, the Principal, Chairman, and Vice Principal sat on the stage. Teachers filled the audience seats in uneven rows, murmuring softly among themselves.
A young teacher walked up to the podium and adjusted the microphone. She was meant to be the emcee. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, the Chairman stood up from his seat.
"No need for formalities," he said, his voice carrying easily through the hall. "We are not here to conduct a ceremony. I called all of you to inform something."
He gestured for her to return to her seat.
She bowed slightly and stepped back into the audience, the microphone left standing and unused.
The Chairman walked toward the podium without ceremony. He reached up, adjusted the microphone's height, and leaned in slightly, testing the distance as if this were a routine meeting and not a disruption of an entire school day.
"Good evening," he said with an easy smile. "I know I've disturbed your classes. Don't worry. It won't take long."
A few polite nods moved through the hall.
"You heard what I announced at the assembly," he continued. "What are your thoughts? Don't take this as a speech. This is just a discussion."
Silence followed.
Teachers glanced at one another, waiting for someone else to step forward first. No one did. The weight of being wrong in front of the Chairman settled into the room.
The Principal rose from his seat.
"Chairman," he said carefully, "we'll do our best to improve results. We'll ensure all students pass with better scores. But a national rank… that can't be promised."
The Chairman nodded once, as though he had expected exactly that.
"I know what you mean," he said. "And I expected it."
Then his eyes shifted.
"Mrs. Carol," he said calmly. "As a former national rank holder, do you agree with them?"
Carol stood.
"Mr. Chairman, I disagree," she said evenly. "I've already told my students that I will resign if none of them enter the national rank list."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"As a teacher, and as a former rank holder, I know what it takes," she continued. "Everyone has their own methods. I have mine. And I've already started implementing them in my class today."
The Chairman's expression softened into something close to approval.
"Good," he said. "That's the answer I wanted."
He nodded at her once.
"I'm entrusting this to you. Don't disappoint me."
Then he turned back toward the rest of the staff.
"If you succeed," he said casually, "your salaries will be doubled. Your positions will be made permanent."
The words landed harder than applause ever could.
Without waiting for reactions, he stepped down from the podium and left the hall.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the murmuring began–numbers, promotions, reputation, security. Faces brightened. Backs straightened. Futures were being recalculated in real time.
Carol didn't stay.
She walked out quickly, heels sharp against the floor, already thinking several steps ahead.
The teachers remained in the conference hall after the Chairman left. Low voices filled the room as they dissected his words and Carol's declaration. Some called it dramatic. Others thought it reckless. A few dismissed it as overconfidence.
But none of them believed Carol had been bluffing.
They had seen her results before. They had seen what her students used to become.
That made her words dangerous.
–
Carol entered the staffroom without slowing down. She went straight to the cabinet, took out the attendance register of XII C, and turned back toward the staircase.
On the fifth floor, the sound of her heels reached the corridor first.
Inside the classroom, heads lifted. Whispers died instantly. Chairs stopped creaking. Someone near the window hissed, "She's coming."
Silence folded itself into place.
Carol entered, opened the register, and called names in a flat, efficient tone. No comments. No expressions. Just presence.
When she finished, she closed the register.
"This period is free," she said. "You may go to the sports ground or the courts."
Then she turned and left.
No warnings. No lectures. No conditions.
For half a second, no one reacted.
Then the room exploded.
Chairs scraped back. Bags were grabbed. Shoes were kicked off. Sports uniforms appeared from backpacks like contraband. Laughter burst out loud and unfiltered.
Students rushed into the corridor in waves.
Silvestor stood up quietly and walked out with them.
He didn't change.
Still in uniform, he turned away from the sports ground and headed toward the basketball court instead.
Jazz followed him.
Not openly. Not close.
Just far enough to look accidental.
The basketball court was empty.
Silvestor stopped at the balcony railing overlooking it and stood there, motionless, eyes fixed on the court as if a game were already in progress.
No phone. No ball. No movement.
He stayed like that until the bell rang.
Students from XII C began flooding into the court, laughing, shoving, calling out teams. The sudden movement broke Jazz's line of sight for a few seconds.
When he looked again–
Silvestor was gone.
Jazz exhaled slowly.
He hadn't expected anything else.
He turned around and walked back toward the classroom.
He already knew exactly where Silvestor would be.