The relief in the classroom was immediate and uncontrolled.
Pens dropped. Shoulders loosened. Low whispers crept back into the air as if students were reclaiming oxygen after holding their breath too long. But the clock on the wall was unforgiving.
School wasn't over.
Two periods remained.
Jazz leaned back in his chair, tore a corner from a scrap page, scribbled nothing on it, crumpled it once, and flicked it forward. The paper bounced off Silvestor's desk and slid to a stop near his elbow.
Silvestor turned slowly. He unfolded it.
Blank.
Without looking back, he wrote a single line on the uneven sheet, crushed it again, and tossed it behind him.
Did you read the questions?
Jazz caught it mid-air, opened it, and stared for a moment longer than necessary. He leaned back, eyes unfocused, then wrote his reply with lazy confidence before throwing it back.
That's not important.
Silvestor didn't smile.
He wrote again–this time slower–and sent it back.
Then you're a fool. The results will come out soon. And no one will score well. Not even half the total marks.
Jazz's posture changed.
He stood.
Chairs creaked as attention flickered toward him, but his face stayed neutral. He walked down the aisle and stopped beside Silvestor's desk.
"What do you mean?" he asked quietly.
Silvestor closed his notebook and stood as well.
"Come with me."
They exited without asking permission.
The corridor was quieter than the classroom, sound absorbed by long walls and open windows. Their footsteps echoed in sync as they moved toward the stairwell.
"What did you think of the paper?" Silvestor asked, voice calm.
Jazz shrugged. "MCQs. Fill in the blanks. Standard format. Nothing special."
Silvestor didn't stop walking.
"And you didn't feel it?" he asked.
"Feel what?" Jazz confused.
They reached the walkway leading to the staffroom.
Only then did Silvestor speak again.
"We're going to see Miss Carol."
Jazz halted for half a step before matching pace again. "Why?"
"You'll see."
Carol hadn't entered the staffroom yet. She was halfway down the corridor when Silvestor spoke.
"Ma'am."
She stopped and turned, surprise flickering briefly across her face.
"Yes?"
Silvestor met her gaze without hesitation.
"Please don't reveal my result," he said evenly. "Fabricate it as zero."
Jazz stiffened–but said nothing.
Carol's eyes narrowed. "And why would I do that?"
"After evaluation, you'll understand why I asked," Silvestor replied. "Give my original paper to Jazz. Keep the fabricated one for records."
A pause.
"This stays between us," he added. "I'll make the same request in the coming days as well."
Carol studied him in silence, measuring something unseen.
"I'll think about it," she said finally.
Then her voice hardened, professional again.
"Class time isn't for corridor discussions. Go back."
She turned and walked away.
Jazz didn't ask questions.
He didn't react.
Both returned to XII C without a word.
Jackson lifted an eyebrow the moment Jazz entered, silently asking where did you go?
Jazz answered with a single blink.
The next two periods crawled by.
Lectures blurred. Chalk scratched the board. Time stretched thin and dull.
But something had already shifted.
Jazz stared ahead, mind working now–not drifting.
And Silvestor sat quietly, as if the outcome had already been decided.
The long bell rang.
Chairs scraped. Bags swung onto shoulders. Voices burst back into the corridor as students spilled out in clusters, relief loud and careless. Within minutes, XII C emptied itself, noise draining away until only silence remained.
Silvestor didn't move.
Jazz paused at the door, then turned back.
"You're waiting for Carol," he said. "Or Amaya?"
"Teacher Carol," Silvestor replied without looking up.
As if summoned by the words, footsteps approached. Carol entered the classroom alone, her expression stripped of neutrality. She didn't bother closing the door.
She dropped a stack of papers onto Silvestor's desk.
Hard.
"Explain this."
The papers fanned out–past exam results from previous years, each marked low, careless, forgettable. On top lay today's revision test.
Perfect.
Near the window, Amaya had stopped. She didn't enter. She didn't speak. She only watched. Outside the classroom, James, Gilbert, and Jackson hovered half-hidden, peeking through the glass until Jackson deliberately shifted position to block passing eyes and pulled them closer.
Carol's voice cut through the room.
"Answer me."
Jazz stepped forward before Silvestor could.
He picked up the top sheet and scanned it once–then again, slower. Sixty out of sixty. Not a single error. Every MCQ circled with all of the above or none of the above. Every fill-in-the-blank left intentionally empty–each dash crossed cleanly.
Jazz exhaled through his nose.
Carol didn't look at him. Her attention was locked on Silvestor now, sharp and unblinking.
"I spent three days designing those questions," she said. "Every option was crafted to look correct unless the student understood the full structure behind it. Not memory. Not speed. Understanding."
She tapped the paper once.
"To answer even one correctly, the mind must process four possibilities at once–and discard them cleanly."
She picked up another sheet.
"The fill-in-the-blanks were worse. Every sentence was complete. Every gap was a trap. Anyone confident would still add something–because they'd assume something was missing."
Her voice tightened.
"Nothing was missing. And you saw that in minutes."
Silvestor didn't react.
Carol leaned closer.
"Now tell me why," she demanded, "your past years look like this."
Silvestor finally spoke.
"Chill, teacher."
The word landed wrong–but deliberate.
"I was recovering," he continued calmly. "From things people don't grade. No one would believe I could perform anyway. And I don't want attention."
Carol stared at him. "Then what's the point of pretending?"
Silvestor met her gaze evenly.
"If you let me keep pretending," he said, "and give Jazz my real answer sheets–then I'll write sincerely in the final examination."
A pause.
"Consider it a barter."
Silence filled the room.
Carol straightened slowly.
"Fine," she said at last. "I agree."
She extended her hand.
Silvestor shook it.
Outside, the four observers vanished instantly–ducking into adjacent classrooms, scattering like nothing had happened. When Carol left, footsteps fading down the corridor, they re-entered XII C as if they'd simply been late.
Jazz looked at Silvestor differently now.
–
Amaya entered the classroom behind Jazz's friends and stopped near the door.
She didn't move further in. She didn't try to squeeze into the space they occupied so naturally. Jazz's friends were loud now–jokes flying, laughter easy, congratulations tossed at Silvestor for earning Carol's approval as if it were a shared victory.
Silvestor didn't respond.
He picked up his bag and walked past them, heading straight for the door. He didn't look at Amaya even once.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
No space appeared.
Gilbert lingered behind while the others drifted out. He watched Amaya for a moment, then clicked his tongue.
"Idiot," he said bluntly. "If you want him close, stop standing like you're waiting for punishment."He grabbed her wrist and pulled her out into the corridor."Guilt doesn't attract anyone. Chase him. Make him feel something instead of reminding him what you were."
Amaya froze.
Gilbert pushed again. "Take my bike. If you can, make him ride it with you. Create chances. Or he'll disappear and you'll stand there wondering why."
He shoved the bicycle keys into her hand.
"Go."
Amaya bowed quickly–more instinct than thought–and ran.
Down the stairs, Jazz and the others deliberately slowed, spreading out just enough to leave space between Silvestor and the rest of the corridor. No one said anything. No one followed.
Amaya's focus tunneled on Silvestor's back.
She missed a step.
Her foot slipped.
Silvestor's hand shot out on instinct. He caught her wrist and yanked her upright. Momentum carried her forward anyway–her nose struck the wall with a dull crack.
Blood spilled instantly.
Silvestor released her at once, already stepping back. He pulled out his handkerchief, pressed it into her hand without looking at her face, and turned to leave.
He made it three steps.
Stopped.
Exhaled sharply.
Then turned back.
Jazz's friends, watching from a distance, muttered quick goodbyes and vanished down the stairs as if on cue.
Silvestor stood in front of her again.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I'm fine," Amaya said, voice unsteady but stubborn.
"I told you to stay away from me," Silvestor said flatly.
"No," she replied. "I want to follow you. I want to fix what I broke. I won't leave."
"Then stay here," he said. "I'm going."
He turned.
Amaya followed, blood still seeping through the cloth.
"What do you want now?" Silvestor snapped, stopping abruptly.
"Let's go home together," she said.
"Impossible."
He bolted down the stairs, skipping steps two at a time.
Amaya panicked.
She chased him.
She tried to match his pace.
She failed.
Amaya's foot missed the step.
The sound was wrong–too sharp, too hollow–and it echoed up the stairwell before her body did. She fell hard, rolling, her shoulder striking first, then her leg twisting beneath her weight. Her cry followed late, cracked and panicked.
Silvestor froze.
Then turned back.
"Idiot," he muttered, already moving.
She lay curled near the landing, blood streaking from her knee and ankle bent at a wrong angle. Her hands shook as she tried to push herself up and failed. Silvestor crouched beside her, checked the angle once, and exhaled through his teeth.
"Don't move," he said flatly.
He lifted her in one motion–not careful, not gentle, just controlled. She gasped, fingers clutching his shirt out of reflex. He didn't acknowledge it. His eyes were already on the corridor.
They didn't go toward the gate.
They turned right.
Toward the security room.
The guards noticed immediately.
Two of them straightened when they saw him approach. Yesterday's memory still sat fresh in their posture–Jazz standing there, the tone he used, the silence that followed. But today it wasn't authority that stopped them.
It was the girl in Silvestor's arms.
Blood. Pain. Barely contained sobbing.
"What happened?" one of the guards asked, already unlocking the door.
"She fell," Silvestor said. "Badly."
He didn't ask permission. He stepped inside.
"I need a cab," Silvestor continued. "And money. Now."
There was no hesitation.
One guard pulled his wallet out immediately. Another reached for the desk phone, dialing without waiting for instruction. A third brought a chair closer, gesturing for Silvestor to sit–but he didn't.
"Hospital," the guard said into the phone. "Emergency pickup. Yes. Yes–injured student."
He hung up and turned back.
"Take this," he said, pressing folded bills into Silvestor's hand. "Pay us back later."
Silvestor nodded once.
That was all.
The cab arrived in minutes.
Silvestor adjusted his grip and carried Amaya out again, the guards holding the door open. No one stopped them. No one stared. The driver took one look at her leg and started the engine without a word.
Inside the cab, Amaya pressed her forehead against the window, breathing shallow, trying not to cry. Silvestor sat rigid beside her, one arm braced to keep her steady, his gaze fixed forward.
"This doesn't change anything," he said quietly.
She nodded.
The hospital lights swallowed them whole.
White. Bright. Impersonal.