— What happened here? — Layla asked.
Her authority spread through the infirmary like an invisible pressure, crushing the air itself and forcing the two of them to remain still. The chaos around them—beds pushed out of place, shattered vials, impact marks on the walls—seemed to react to her presence.
Leon was the first to speak.
— I brought Samael to the infirmary at Professor Rock's request — he replied politely, his posture flawless. — When he woke up, he started trying to drive me away.
Layla did not react.
After a brief pause, Leon continued:
— Until…
He looked at Samael.
He said nothing.
He did not need to.
The gesture alone was enough to point out Samael's fault without naming it out loud.
— He became violent — Leon concluded. — He attacked me in a completely deranged manner.
Layla felt immediate discomfort.
Something about that narrative was wrong. Leon was choosing his words far too carefully, shaping the facts to cast himself as the victim. Still, without concrete proof, she could not accuse him of anything.
Not yet.
She took a deep breath, then turned to Samael.
— What happened here? — she asked again, this time directing her voice at him. — I want to hear both sides of the story.
The last sentence carried weight.
A clear, pointed remark.
Samael swallowed hard.
— I… it wasn't exactly like that — he tried to defend himself.
Leon turned his face toward him, his expression calm, almost offended.
— So I'm lying? — he asked. — You didn't attack me?
Samael opened his mouth to answer.
— Well… — he hesitated. — I did attack you, but… it was because…
The words would not come.
His mind was absolute chaos. Fragments of fear, anger, shame, and confusion crashed into one another, making any coherent explanation impossible. He felt the weight of his own body, of his own existence, as if everything about him was wrong.
Samael lowered his head.
All he wanted in that moment was to be alone. To breathe. To put his thoughts in order.
— It was my fault, professor — he said at last.
The words came out quiet.
Exhausted.
Samael gave up on defending himself.
Layla sighed at Samael's admission of guilt.
There was nothing more she could do.
With those words, he had voluntarily placed himself in the position of responsibility. Authority could not ignore a confession—even when it knew the truth had been twisted.
She then cast an inquisitive look at Leon.
A look that made it clear she understood exactly what he had done by manipulating the facts.
But understanding was not the same as proof.
— Samael — she said, turning back to the boy. — You are forbidden from attending classes.
The sentence fell like a blow.
It was a severe punishment. Almost a death sentence.
Without classes, he could not train. Without training, he could not properly prepare for the Nightmare Realm—and in that world, being unprepared meant dying young.
Still, that decision had not been made solely as punishment.
Layla observed Samael in silence for a moment.
— In your current state, you are a risk — she continued, her voice firm. — To the other students… and to yourself.
She paused briefly.
— Staying away is the best course of action.
Samael did not respond.
Perhaps he could not.
For some people, social interaction was support.
For him… it was a trigger.
And Layla knew that.
— Then, if you'll excuse me, I'll take my leave — Leon announced, with impeccable courtesy.
— Don't think I don't know what you did — Layla replied coldly.
Leon smiled as he turned to leave.
— But I didn't do anything.
The door closed behind him.
— Come — Layla said, her voice lower now as she addressed Samael. — I'll take you to your room.
She led him to a more isolated area of the academy, in the wing reserved for professors—a space not divided by gender. Because of that, Samael ended up receiving a considerably larger room than before.
— From today on, you can no longer attend classes — Layla added as they walked.
Samael nodded in silence.
— However — she continued — I'll give you lessons at night. Eight o'clock, in the training hall. Understood?
— Why at night? — Samael asked, without any energy in his voice.
Layla stopped for a moment.
— During the morning, I have classes to teach — she replied. — And don't be mistaken… you won't survive if you keep running away from your own body.
The warning was direct.
Unsoftened.
She then turned to leave.
As she walked away, Samael could still hear her muttering:
— What a pain… if they don't give me a raise, I swear I'll quit…
Her voice grew more distant.
— How I wish I could retire already…
Samael let out a small, tired smile.
When Layla was far enough away that she could no longer hear, he murmured:
— Thank you…
He entered his room and closed the door behind him.
The room assigned to him was still, technically, a single room.
A single bed occupied the corner, simple but clean. Beside it was a small dresser that served as a writing desk, a narrow wardrobe, and a low bookshelf, empty—no books, no personal items, no traces of someone who truly lived there.
A functional space.
And an impersonal one.
Samael stood still for a few seconds, silently observing the room, as if trying to convince himself that this place now belonged to him.
At last, he went to the bathroom.
The shower was brief, but hot enough to relax his still-tense muscles. The water running over his skin helped silence the outside world—but not his thoughts.
When he lay down, staring at the ceiling, it became clear that rest would not come.
Insomnia arrived without warning, heavy as always.
— What do I do with him…? — he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible in the empty room.
He closed his eyes.
— Accept my body…? — he repeated in his thoughts, feeling a knot form in his chest. — How could I do something like that?
The question echoed.
Unanswered.
— I… I'm afraid of losing myself.
The confession came laden with sincerity. There was no one left to lie to.
The fear was not only of his body.
It was of himself.
Still, something inside him was beginning to change.
Running away was no longer enough.
He was tired of merely enduring. Tired of suffering in silence, of accepting everything passively, of letting others decide who he was.
Even if he couldn't accept it…
Even if he failed…
At least he would face it.
— That bastard pinned all the blame on me — he thought, anger slowly surfacing, cold and dense.
Leon.
The polite smile.
The noble posture.
The false elegance.
— One day… — he murmured, clenching his fists beneath the sheets. — One day he'll pay for this.
His eyes opened in the darkness.
— I will crush the nobility and elegance of his so-called legacy.
It was not a promise spoken aloud.
It was something more dangerous.
A decision.