The last page fluttered from the printer. The only sound in the office was the hum of the computer and Mr. Alvarez's ragged breathing. He stared at the pile of paper on the floor as if it were a venomous snake. His face cycled through emotions: anger, denial, and finally, a cold, stark fear. He wasn't just looking at evidence against a powerful family; he was looking at the ruin of his own comfortable life, built on their patronage.
He slowly sank back into his chair, his eyes moving from the papers to us. The bluster was gone. "Get out," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Take it. All of it. And get out of my school. I never want to hear another word about this. Do you understand me? I saw nothing."
He was choosing self-preservation over justice, but it was a victory. He was letting us go. We scrambled to gather the printed evidence, our hands trembling. We had faced the system and, through Luna's intervention, had been granted a terrified pardon. We fled his office, the proof clutched tightly to our chests, knowing the principal was now another loose end the Alcantaras would have to manage.