The alarm wailed.
Sharp. Mechanical. Exact.
Without opening his eyes or straightening his spine, his hand lifted and came down in a practiced arc. The sound cut off instantly.
Silence returned.
His neck protested as he moved. Sleeping on the chair with his head against the desk had added a dull, sprain-like pain to everything else. He twisted his head slowly from side to side until the stiffness loosened enough to tolerate.
His arms stretched upward in a wide swing, joints cracking softly. Bruises pulled beneath the skin, aching in familiar places.
He stood and faced the mirror.
The marks were there—fading, blooming, overlapping—but his body had already accepted them. If it hadn't, swelling would have come long ago.
If it wasn't me, he thought, my body wouldn't have survived this.
The first few months had been different. Back then, pain had demanded attention.
Now it only announced itself.
He brushed his teeth. Took a quick morning bath. The motions were efficient, stripped of thought. By the time he dressed, the routine had settled him into something steady.
The uniform waited where he had left it.
Clean.
Neatly hung.
Dry in the early sunlight filtering through the window.
No trace of yesterday remained—at least not where others could see.
He packed his books and stepped into the dining hall.
His mother was already there.
Neither of them said good morning.
She placed the warm breakfast on the table. Steam rose faintly. He took it with one hand, slid the tiffin into his backpack with the other.
No pause. No exchange.
He left the house at a quick pace, breaking into a light run as he reached the road.
Routine carried him forward.
School waited.
My mother never asked me to sit and eat breakfast with her.
Not once.
It wasn't because she didn't want to.
Neither of us did.
But for three years now, that wish had remained exactly that—a wish neither of us could afford to act on.
The distance from home to school was nearly eight kilometers.
I woke up early every day, not because of classes, but because I didn't have money for the bus.
My mother always left some money for me—more than I needed. Enough to cover transport for the entire day.
It never reached school with me.
Every morning, a small street gang waited along the route. Not loud. Not careless. They knew exactly when and where to strike. The money disappeared from my pocket before I reached the subway.
What they did was wrong.
And yet—somewhere deeper—I was grateful.
They were the ones who left first-aid kits in places no one would notice. Bandages. Antiseptic. Sometimes painkillers. Always anonymous.
Without that, I would have ended up half-dead long ago.
I ran through the subway, breath steady, legs burning lightly. By the time the school gate came into view, my pace slowed.
That was where the second group waited.
The school security guards.
Three years ago, the street gang had slipped something into my bag—objects I had never seen, never touched, never understood. The guards "found" them during a search.
They had no right to check my bag.
That didn't matter.
From that day on, I was marked.
Every morning since, my breakfast and tiffin were taken. In return, I cleaned their rooms. The bathrooms. Whatever they pointed at.
Officially, I was never punished.
Unofficially, I never stopped serving.
As I reached the gate, they were already there—leaning against the railing, watching.
This time, Silvestor was lucky.
The school chairman arrived at the gate at the same moment he did.
The black car drew attention immediately. Staff straightened. Guards shifted their posture. The usual routine fractured—not because it ended, but because there was no time to perform it.
The security guards did not stop him.
Not today.
The chairman's arrival was deliberate. An inspection—scheduled, public, and inconvenient. Favorable to Silvestor in a way no one intended.
He entered the building without being searched.
Without being touched.
Silvestor reached his classroom first.
He placed his bag on the desk and sat down. The room felt unfamiliar.
Something was wrong.
The arrangement of chairs and tables had changed. New desks replaced old ones. Scratches were gone. Broken legs reinforced. Even his table—the worst one, the one that wobbled and scraped his knee every time he stood—had been replaced.
He understood what that meant.
The chairman was nearby.
Silvestor opened his notebook and began copying notes into the sewn pages. His pen moved steadily. Carefully. The same way it always did.
From the corridor, footsteps approached.
The chairman stopped at the door.
He glanced inside.
Empty classroom. One student.
Silvestor did not look up.
From the chairman's angle, it looked like diligence. A student studying early. Alone. Focused.
The chairman smiled.
Satisfied, he moved on.
Students began arriving in waves—some alone, some in loud clusters. Uniforms half-worn. Shirts slung over shoulders, held by a single finger like decoration rather than obligation.
From the fifth floor corridor, the chairman noticed them and smiled again. Familiar indulgence.
Then his gaze passed the open classroom door once more.
Silvestor.
Still writing.
Approval lingered.
The footsteps faded.
Only then did Silvestor pause.
Something else was wrong.
The class was still empty.
By now, students should have come in—at least to drop their bags. None had.
A sudden thud burst from the speakers overhead.
Metallic. Sharp.
The microphone.
Then the prayer.
The realization came late.
Assembly.
He stood up and stepped into the corridor.
The fifth floor was nearly empty. At both ends stood public bathrooms—boys on one side, girls on the other—with the stairwell between them.
As he turned toward the stairs, a sound reached him.
"Silvie…"
Soft.
Broken.
He stopped.
Silvestor turned back.
No one was there.
He faced forward again.
"Silvie…"
The voice came again—faint, dragged, like breath pushed through water.
From the girls' bathroom.
He hesitated.
Footsteps echoed from the opposite end of the corridor. The chairman was moving toward the boys' bathroom, flanked by staff.
Silvestor stepped the other way.
The voice came again, weaker this time.
That decided it.
He entered the girls' bathroom.
Water covered the floor. Cold. Still. A girl lay crumpled near the sinks, her uniform soaked through. The air carried the sour scent of decayed food—like something left there since yesterday.
She was alive.
Barely.
Her lips moved.
"Silvie… Silvie…"
Half-conscious. Body numb. Mind drifting.
He crouched beside her and turned her gently.
Then he saw her face.
Recognition struck instantly.
Not pity.
Not shock.
What surged through him first was anger.
Sharp. Violent. Immediate.
Not because of what had been done to her—
—but because of who she was.
The anger came fast.
Violent. Immediate.
For a fleeting moment, Silvestor wanted to kill her.
The thought was clear enough to frighten him—not because it existed, but because it felt earned. Because her face carried consequences he had been paying for everywhere he went. Because her existence had shaped the limits of his suffering.
Because of what his mother had been forced to endure because of her.
His hand closed around the collar of her uniform.
Hard.
Her body shifted weakly in response, barely aware of what was happening. The grip tightened—then stopped.
Silvestor held still.
He did not act on it.
Anger stayed—but he chose restraint.
Not mercy.
Control.
He pulled her toward the wash basin and turned on the tap. Cold water splashed against porcelain and spilled across the floor. He cupped it and sprinkled it over her face.
Once.
Twice.
She choked faintly as he poured water into her mouth in careful amounts—enough to wake her, not enough to harm her. He washed her hair, fingers moving through strands stiff with spoiled food and dried milk. Cleansed her face. Her hands.
Routine movements. Efficient. Emotionless.
When she stirred weakly, he lifted her without ceremony and turned his back to her. He secured her arms around his shoulders, adjusting her weight until it was balanced enough not to slip.
She was lighter than he expected.
He carried her out.
Not down the stairs.
Up.
The rooftop access was a prohibited area. No students were meant to be there. The door opened easily—it always did. Rules existed, but enforcement was selective.
The roof was empty.
Wind moved freely there, drying the concrete in uneven patterns. He lowered her gently and positioned her so the sunlight could reach her uniform.
Then he removed his own shirt.
He tied it around her wrist and secured the other end to his own arm—not tightly, but firmly enough to keep her from standing, from wandering, from falling.
From jumping.
Only then did he sit down beside her.
From the edge of the six-floored building, the school grounds lay exposed below. Students stood in orderly lines. Staff gathered near the stage.
The chairman stepped forward.
His voice rose through the speakers, smooth and confident, carrying promises meant for ears that could afford to believe them.
Silvestor listened.
Above everyone with remnants of lingering anger inside him.
And with the quiet certainty that the system speaking below had never intended to see what happened in its shadows.