As Elena's legal guardian, lawfully wedded husband, and someone who absolutely needed to project "dangerous and not to be trifled with" energy in front of outsiders, Marcus made a tactical decision during his journey to the principal's office.
He lit a cigarette.
The action was pure theater—he'd never been much of a smoker in his previous life, found the habit vaguely distasteful actually—but the optics were perfect. Cigarette dangling from lips, exhaling smoke with casual menace, radiating the specific brand of working-class masculinity that communicated I will absolutely cause problems for you.
He reached the office door and made another calculated choice: he didn't knock.
Instead, Marcus raised one leg and delivered a percussive kick that sent the heavy wooden door slamming inward with a resounding BANG that probably rattled windows three floors down.
The door swung wide on protesting hinges, and the chaos inside the principal's office underwent instantaneous flash-freezing. Every occupant—the principal himself, Veronica flanked by what must be her parents, Elena in her wheelchair with Adrian standing protective guard—swiveled in unison to stare at the doorway.
Their faces cycled through identical expressions: shock, alarm, confusion. Like someone had pressed pause on a film mid-scene, leaving everyone suspended in various states of startlement.
Marcus swept his left hand through his hair in a deliberately theatrical gesture, pushing the dark strands back from his forehead to fully expose his features—revealing sharp eyes, strong bone structure, and an expression that suggested he was three seconds from committing felony assault.
The cigarette remained clamped between his teeth, adding to the overall aesthetic of "man you absolutely do not want to antagonize." His jaw was set, muscles jumping beneath the skin. He strode into the office with the kind of aggressive confidence that occupied space like a territorial claim, his long legs eating up distance as his gaze cut through the assembled crowd to lock onto Elena.
"Elena!"
Not loud. But weighted with authority that brooked zero argument, carrying undertones of possessive fury.
He crossed to her in three ground-eating strides, dropping into a crouch that brought their faces level. His hands rose to cup her cheeks—large palms framing her delicate features, fingers spreading to cradle her jaw and temples. The contact was firm, proprietorial, unmistakably intimate.
"Are you hurt?" The question emerged rough with apparent concern, his eyes conducting rapid visual triage across her face and exposed skin. "Tell me where it hurts. Tell me who did this and I swear to god—"
The instant his skin made contact with hers, Fortune's notifications erupted in his consciousness like slot machines hitting jackpot.
[Positive Value +1! +1! +1! +1!...]
The cascade was glorious. Every second of sustained contact, every adjustment of his grip, every fractional increase in surface area contact—all of it generating points with the efficiency of a well-oiled assembly line.
But Marcus's face betrayed nothing except worry and mounting rage. His internal celebration—the mercenary glee at this socially acceptable point-farming opportunity—remained perfectly concealed beneath the mask of the concerned husband character he was inhabiting.
His "examination" achieved levels of thoroughness that would've made medical professionals nod with approval. His palms evaluated the temperature of her flushed cheeks—slightly elevated, probably embarrassment or residual adrenaline—before his fingers traced down the elegant column of her throat, ostensibly checking for bruising or swelling.
Then her hands. He lifted each one with reverent care, inspecting her wrists for rope burns before conducting a finger-by-finger assessment—his thumbs stroking across her knuckles, the delicate webbing between digits, the sensitive skin of her inner wrist where pulse points fluttered.
The contact was entirely superficial in medical terms. But it carried an undercurrent of something else—a teasing quality, almost flirtatious, that transformed "concerned examination" into something closer to "invasive caress."
Marcus was absolutely swimming in positive value accumulation (+1+1+1+1...), high on the dopamine rush of watching his point total climb.
He completely failed to register that Elena's eyes had achieved temperatures normally associated with the vacuum of deep space. The disgust radiating off her could have been classified as a biohazard.
His touches felt performative, shallow, carrying that quality of violation that came from unwanted contact masquerading as care. Less like genuine concern, more like harassment wearing a concern costume.
Elena's internal landscape roiled with frustrated fury. Being touched like this—pawed at, manipulated, displayed like property—triggered every defense mechanism she'd spent years constructing. Her body screamed rejection, muscles tensing beneath skin that crawled with the need to escape.
But unlike her interaction with Adrian, she couldn't simply bat Marcus away. Not here. Not in front of witnesses.
He was, unfortunately, her legal husband. In public settings, she was obligated to maintain minimal civility, project the appearance of marital harmony however fictional that harmony might be.
"I'm... I'm truly fine," she managed, voice emerging small and defeated. She ducked her head, cheeks burning with humiliation and some other sensation she refused to examine closely.
Adrian, observing from his position near the wheelchair, registered the dissonance with his psychologist's training. Something was profoundly wrong with this dynamic.
Newlyweds should radiate affection, seek each other's touch, move together with unconscious synchronization. But Elena's body language broadcasted opposite messages—the subtle flinching, the minute evasions, the rigid set of her spine that suggested she was enduring rather than welcoming Marcus's attention.
Interesting, Adrian thought, filing the observation for later analysis.
He stepped forward, his intervention strategic and timely. "Mr. Marcus. The individual responsible for your wife's distress is standing over there." His gesture indicated the corner where three figures huddled like condemned prisoners awaiting sentencing.
Marcus released Elena's hands with visible reluctance—just a few more seconds, couple more points—and pivoted to assess the guilty parties.
Veronica stood flanked by two male students whose fashion choices could charitably be described as "apocalyptic goth cosplay" and less charitably as "nightmare fuel." Their hair defied both gravity and good taste, their clothing appeared to have been assembled in absolute darkness, and their collective aesthetic radiated aggressive insecurity.
Marcus's attention shifted to the room's other authority figure: a middle-aged man whose receding hairline had retreated so dramatically it created a flesh-toned peninsula extending from forehead to crown. His corpulent frame was stuffed into an ill-fitting blue suit that strained at every seam, and his complexion carried the ruddy flush of someone with either hypertension or a serious drinking hobby.
The principal. Obviously.
"Principal," Marcus's tone acquired prosecutorial edge, "what exactly is the school's official position on students being kidnapped and assaulted on campus property?"
Adrian provided a concise incident summary, his narrative aligning closely with what Marcus already knew from personal observation. But the psychology teacher concluded with a pointed addition, his gaze finding Marcus with unmistakable significance.
"Fortunately, I arrived when I did. Any delay and the consequences could have been..." He let the sentence hang, implications clear.
Marcus immediately deployed appropriate gratitude, his expression transforming into relief and appreciation. "Teacher , I cannot thank you enough. Truly. If you hadn't been there—" He let emotion thicken his voice convincingly.
Then his demeanor hardened, attention snapping back to the principal with renewed intensity. "This incident represents severe criminal behavior. How does the administration intend to address it?"
Sweat materialized on the principal's forehead like condensation on cold glass. His internal calculus was performing rapid assessment: the Nightshade family represented significant financial patronage, their donations funding multiple campus initiatives and scholarships. Antagonizing them would constitute career suicide.
Goddamn it, Veronica, he thought viciously. Of all the students to assault, you picked the one with a family fortune that could buy this entire institution.
He wrung his hands in a gesture of nervous supplication. "Mr. Chen, Miss Nightshade, this situation is... delicate. We defer to your judgment regarding appropriate consequences. How would you prefer we handle the disciplinary action?"
Veronica's face contorted with indignation, her carefully maintained innocent act shattering. "Principal! That old building is actually haunted! We were possessed—driven mad by supernatural forces! We didn't mean to hurt anyone!"
The principal's expression curdled into fury. His foot stomped against the floor with enough force to rattle desk ornaments. "Enough! I will not tolerate superstitious nonsense in my office! There are no ghosts, no spirits, no paranormal anything!" His voice climbed toward shouting. "If you admit your actions and show genuine remorse, we might consider leniency. But if you continue with these ridiculous excuses, I'll recommend expulsion!"
Veronica's composure cracked further. She lurched toward Elena's wheelchair, desperation bleeding through. "Elena! TELL them! You saw it too! You know something was there!" Her voice pitched into pleading territory. "Tell everyone what happened!"
Elena's right hand curled into a loose fist, her pale index finger rising to press against lips that had acquired the faintest flush. She produced two delicate coughs—perfect theatrical timing—before lifting eyes that had gone liquid and luminous with manufactured emotion.
Her voice emerged soft as silk, clear as crystal: "I didn't... see any ghosts."
But as she spoke, her gaze drifted sideways toward Marcus, and her expression shifted fractionally—just enough to communicate: Is my so-called guardian just decorative? Are you going to actually DO something here?
Marcus caught the signal immediately. He rose fluidly, stepping between Veronica and Elena's wheelchair, his body forming a physical barrier while his presence radiated threat.
"My wife," he stated, each word precisely enunciated, "was abducted, restrained, terrorized in an abandoned building by three assailants. She's traumatized. And you're standing here spouting ghost stories like that constitutes a legal defense?" His hand moved toward his pocket, extracting his phone with deliberate slowness. "I see no reason to continue this farce. We'll let law enforcement handle the criminal charges. Kidnapping, assault, conspiracy—the police can sort it out downtown."
He began scrolling through contacts, thumb hovering over the emergency services number.
The effect was instantaneous and dramatic.
Veronica went chalk-white, her bravado evaporating like water on a hot griddle. She lunged for Marcus's coat sleeve, fingers clutching fabric. "Wait! Please! Don't call them!"
The two male students dropped to their knees so hard Marcus heard the impact of kneecaps against floor. They began kowtowing with the frantic energy of people facing execution, their foreheads producing rhythmic thumps against tiles.
"We're sorry! So sorry! It was a mistake—terrible judgment—we'll never do anything like this again!" The words tumbled out in panicked cascades. "Please don't involve the police! Our lives will be ruined! We're begging you!"
Marcus held his phone aloft like a weapon, his expression carved from granite. "Oh, now you understand consequences? Now you experience remorse?" His tone dripped scorn. "You should've considered that before committing felonies. But don't worry—prison rehabilitation programs are very effective. You'll emerge as completely reformed citizens. Eventually."
His finger descended toward the screen's surface—
And stopped when he felt a gentle tug on his coat hem.
Marcus rotated his head to find Elena gazing up at him with an expression that could've melted titanium. Her eyes had gone impossibly soft, brimming with unshed tears that caught available light and refracted it into something approaching halos. Her voice emerged sweet as honey, trembling with virtuous compassion.
"Marcus... maybe we should... let this go?"
She covered her mouth, producing another series of delicate coughs that emphasized her fragility. "I'm not seriously injured. Perhaps... perhaps the principal could handle this through school discipline? Give them an opportunity for redemption?"
Marcus's internal monologue erupted into sardonic commentary. Oh, PLEASE. The white lotus act in full bloom! Look at her—butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. This entire performance is for Adrian's benefit.
Which made perfect sense, strategically. She'd just established herself as the vulnerable victim in her "hero's" eyes. Now she needed to cement the secondary character traits: merciful, magnanimous, possessing moral superiority that transcended petty revenge.
But Marcus knew—with absolute certainty born from reading the source material—that this forgiveness was purely performative. Elena's actual nature was "eye for an eye" taken to psychopathic extremes.
She'd let Veronica walk today. Build a false sense of security. Then months or years down the line, when everyone had forgotten this incident, Elena would orchestrate something far worse. Something untraceable. Something that would destroy Veronica so completely that investigators would find no connection to this afternoon's events.
The original novel had been explicit about her methods.
Today's mercy is tomorrow's horror show, Marcus thought. Veronica just doesn't know she's already dead. She's a ghost walking.