Then he started walking.
Not toward the broken body still leaking blood onto the concrete or towards the flashing lights or the swarm of officers and forensics teams setting up their sterile white lamps around the horror.
He walked straight toward the main building.
Toward the Dean's office.
He had only made it halfway when Dravenna Ashford came sprinting from the opposite direction.
The cleaner had worked at Ashford Elite Academy for eleven years. He had seen the Dean in every conceivable form in her few years as the Dean — furious enough to make walls tremble, commanding enough to silence entire rooms with a single glance, coldly amused in ways that made powerful men sweat blood, icily professional enough to make seasoned lawyers weep.
He had watched her dismantle Legacy messengers with nothing but a raised eyebrow. He had seen her carve through crises like a warship slicing through storm waves — untouched and untouchable.
He had never seen her like this.
