Jazz froze when Daisy stepped in front of him.
The music thudded behind them, lights flashing in uneven colors across her face. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest, her eyes sharp and unamused. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't laughing. She wasn't playing along.
Jazz's crooked grin faltered just a fraction.
"Daisy… my sweet— I— I can explain," he said lightly.
She didn't move.
Behind them, on the stage, Gilbert stood fuming, one hand braced on his injured leg, scanning the crowd like a predator who'd lost his prey.
The chanting faded.
The DJ hesitated, then lowered the volume.
The room slowly realized something was off.
Daisy tilted her head slightly.
"Explain what?" she asked.
Jazz opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Then sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Not here," he muttered. "Let's go inside."
She didn't step aside.
Instead, she leaned closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear.
"You embarrassed him," she said quietly.
"You humiliated him.
And now you're pretending it was a joke."
Jazz's smile thinned.
"It was a joke," he said. "Mostly."
"Mostly?" Daisy echoed.
He glanced past her.
Gilbert had finally spotted him again.
Their eyes locked.
Gilbert hopped down from the stage and shoved through the last line of dancers, his expression dark.
Jazz raised both hands in surrender.
"Time-out," he said quickly. "Okay. Fine. Time-out."
He stepped around Daisy and met Gilbert halfway.
"Relax," Jazz said. "You were spiraling. I had to snap you out of it."
Gilbert grabbed Jazz by the collar again.
Not choking this time.
Just tight.
"Don't psychoanalyze me," he growled.
"Don't perform on me.
And don't ever use me as your entertainment again."
The music fully stopped now.
The party had gone quiet enough for people to start noticing.
Jazz lowered his voice.
"You were sinking," he said.
"I pulled you back.
That's it."
Daisy stepped in between them.
"By humiliating him?" she snapped.
Jazz looked at her.
"Normal methods don't work on him," he said.
"You didn't see what he was like before he came here. He wasn't even breathing right."
Gilbert loosened his grip but didn't let go.
"That still doesn't give you the right," Daisy said.
Jazz exhaled hard.
"You think I don't know that?" he muttered.
Gilbert's arm slid tighter around Jazz's neck.
Not enough to choke.
Enough to remind him who had teeth too.
"Don't play therapist with me again," Gilbert said low.
"You don't get to decide what fixes me."
Jazz winced.
"Alright," he said quickly.
"Alright. I admit it. I crossed the line."
Gilbert held him there another second.
Then shoved him away.
Jazz stumbled back a step, coughing once.
"Happy now?" Gilbert muttered.
Jazz laughed weakly.
"Yeah," he rasped. "I deserved that."
Daisy stared at both of them like she didn't recognize either.
The party never recovered after that.
The energy drained out of the room like a punctured balloon.
Girls started leaving in small groups.
Some hugged Jazz lazily near the door.
Some kicked off their heels and walked barefoot across the granite floor, laughing too loudly.
Some kissed his cheek and said, "Call me again," before disappearing into the night.
Jazz waved at them like a half-drunk king dismissing his court.
Gilbert did too, slumped beside him on the couch.
"Text me tomorrow," one girl giggled.
"Tomorrow is a myth," Jazz murmured.
They both laughed.
Then leaned back.
Then slowly slid sideways into sleep.
Their words kept coming even after their eyes closed.
"…Silvestor isn't normal…" Gilbert muttered.
"…that's why he's useful…" Jazz replied faintly.
Daisy heard everything.
She didn't comment.
She waited until their breathing evened out.
Then went upstairs.
She took two spare pillows and a clean bedsheet from Jazz's room and brought them down. Carefully, she covered Gilbert first, then Jazz, tucking the sheet around their shoulders so they wouldn't kick it off.
She stood there for a moment, watching them.
Shook her head quietly.
Then turned toward the Great Room.
The faint bloodstains were still visible on the granite floor.
She went to the kitchen, filled a bucket with water, added soap, and took out the mop. She scrubbed the stains until they were gone, wiping away every last mark.
After that, she stepped outside.
Gilbert's bike was still lying where he had dropped it earlier.
She struggled with it, grunting softly, dragging it upright inch by inch. It was heavier than she expected. Her arms shook, but she didn't stop.
She pushed it into the garage and leaned it carefully against the wall.
Then she sat down on the front steps and waited.
It was close to two in the morning when the white Rolls-Royce rolled into the driveway.
The engine purred softly before shutting off.
Jazz's father stepped out.
Grey suit.
Loosened tie.
Polished black shoes.
Beard trimmed sharp and clean.
He looked like someone returning from a board meeting, not from midnight.
He noticed Daisy immediately.
"Daisy," he said gently. "Today too?"
She stood and smiled tiredly.
"I'm used to it," she said.
"After all… friends, right?"
He studied her for a moment.
Then nodded.
"You're a good girl," he said.
"Alright. Go home and take rest."
He walked her to the gate of her house next door.
"Good night, uncle," she said.
"Good night."
She closed the door behind her.
Jazz's father stood there for a second longer.
Then turned back toward his house.
And toward the two boys sleeping inside.
The night passed without effort. By morning, the street looked the same as always, with faint traces of last night's activity clinging to corners and curbs. A crushed cigarette and can near the tea stall. A dark stain on the concrete where something had spilled and dried.
Silvestor woke before the alarm. When it rang, his hand shut it off instantly. He stretched, ignoring the stiffness in his neck and shoulders, and moved through his routine without thought. Wash. Dress. Pack his books. Step into the dining hall.
His mother was already there. She placed breakfast on the table. Steam rose faintly. He took it, slid the tiffin into his bag. Neither of them spoke. He left the house and broke into a light run as soon as he reached the road.
Eight kilometers. Same pace. Same breathing. Same counting. His eyes tracked every familiar corner automatically, preparing for the first checkpoint.
The street gang wasn't there.
He didn't slow down. He didn't look around. He kept running, his hand brushing his pocket out of habit. Nothing happened. The second corner was empty too. The third.
By the time the subway entrance appeared, his breathing had tightened. Not heavier. Just sharper. He crossed the road, ran through the tunnel, climbed the steps on the other side. The school gate came into view.
The security guards were there.
But they weren't blocking the path.
They stood straight. Too straight. When one of them noticed him, he bowed. Not deeply. Just enough to be unmistakable. The other two followed.
Silvestor stopped without realizing it. No one spoke. No one reached for his bag. No one told him to wait. The gate stood open.
He walked through.
No one took his tiffin. No one told him to clean anything. No one pointed him toward the bathrooms. No one touched him.
The courtyard felt wrong.
Too wide. Too quiet. Too clean.
He kept walking.
He reached the building, climbed the stairs, and entered the corridor. No call. No whistle. No order. He reached his classroom door and stopped for a second.
Nothing.
He went inside, sat down, placed his bag under the desk, and opened his notebook. His hands were steady. His mind wasn't.
No bathroom cleaning. No fasting. No beatings. No humiliation.
No transaction.
This wasn't freedom.
It was delay.
He straightened his back, held his pen, and waited.