After returning home, Rowan followed the instructions.
But only partially. Among Dr. Carter's three directives, the heaviest and most terrifying one was instinctively blocked by him.
He did not tell Shivani—just imagining his mother's possible reaction, that suffocating scene mixed with disappointment, rage, and forceful intervention, was enough to completely shatter the fragile "courage" he had barely mustered in Dr. Carter's office.
The fear brought by this thought overwhelmed everything, even surpassing his worries about the photo exposure and his fear of Max.
The next day, he first sought out Ms. Matsumoto Masako. He chose the time right before the first class in the morning, when the office was least crowded.
In her office, the air carried the faint aroma of roasted brown rice tea and the comforting, musty scent unique to old book pages.
He forced himself to straighten his pitifully thin spine, his hands tightly gripping the straps of his backpack, knuckles turning white.
In as steady, objective, and emotionless a tone as possible, as if reciting a rigorous report, he recounted everything that had happened in the restroom of the locker area.
He deliberately omitted most of his feelings and pleas at the time, as if stating a complex mathematical proof that only required listing the known conditions—unwilling to seek help by exposing his vulnerability and eliciting sympathy.
Ms. Matsumoto sat behind her large desk, leaning slightly forward, her hands clasped on the desktop, listening quietly.
Today, she wore a well-tailored navy blue professional suit, the fabric crisp, making her figure appear even more slender and intellectual.
Beneath the skirt, her legs were crossed, the stockings forming delicate and sensual folds behind her knees.
As Rowan delivered his mechanical yet clear account, the usual rational, intellectual expression on her face gradually gave way to an increasingly evident, iron-gray anger.
Her lips pressed into a stern line, and the small tear mole at the corner of her eye seemed to stand out more clearly.
But she did not interrupt, only her gaze grew sharper, her brown eyes behind her glasses like cold detectors scanning every detail in Rowan's words.
When Rowan finished his last sentence, "...later, Jason Miller helped me open the locker door," the office fell into a brief, suffocating silence.
Only the brass pendulum of the old wooden wall clock ticked rhythmically and heavily.
Ms. Matsumoto slowly stood up.
Her movements were unhurried yet carried a weighty sense of power.
Her posture was as straight as a bamboo stalk, the navy blue suit fitting her body curves, appearing serious and inviolable—a stark contrast to her passionate demeanor in class.
She walked around the desk but did not approach Rowan, maintaining an appropriate distance.
"I understand," she said, pulling open a drawer and taking out a standard incident report form printed with the school's letterhead and a black pen.
"I will record the details. This is not an ordinary prank or a scuffle between classmates, Sharma. This is a very serious matter involving physical assault, privacy violation, and the recording and potential dissemination of what may constitute illegal imagery."
"I will immediately initiate a formal investigation and report this to the principal's office and the Student Conduct Committee. First, you need to sign here to confirm the content of your previous statement. I will later supplement it with your full account."
She looked up, her gaze behind the black-framed glasses sharp as a scalpel, piercing through the lenses. Yet there was no scrutiny directed at Rohan—only a serious focus on the matter itself and a certain support for the victim.
"It took great courage for you to come forward and tell me this. Your bravery is commendable. Now, following procedure, I need you to go see Alisa. The student council also needs to be informed and activate their internal response mechanisms. She will help you in her own way."
That was exactly what Rohan had planned.
He took the pen, his fingers trembling slightly as he signed his name at the end of the report. The handwriting was somewhat crooked.
Then, silently and almost reverently, he bowed to Ms. Matsumoto—a gesture that felt somewhat abrupt, carrying the formal courtesy often seen in Japanese school dramas. After that, he turned and left the office.
The door closed softly, shutting inside the grave and quietly furious figure of Ms. Matsumoto.
Shortly after, during lunch break, Rohan found Alisa Matsumoto in the most secluded, shelf-lined corner of the library. She had just finished her morning track team training and was quietly reading there.
She wore a black sports tank top and shorts, with her school uniform jacket casually thrown over them. The muscles on her exposed arms and calves were defined and smooth, her skin flushed with a healthy glow.
Rohan got straight to the point, explaining his reason for coming succinctly.
He emphasized that "the photos might be circulating on the campus network."
After listening, Alisa's expression remained unchanged. Only her slightly upturned, single-lidded eyes—inherited from her mother—narrowed slightly, and the faint scar at the end of her left eyebrow twitched.
She didn't ask any unnecessary questions, like "Why didn't you say something sooner?" or "Are you sure?" Instead, she said calmly, "Come with me," and quickly led Rohan to the student council office.
At the desk, Alisa crossed her long legs on top of it, holding a tablet as her fingers tapped rapidly on the screen.
"Good thing you didn't choose to let it slide. They've already uploaded the photos—they didn't spare you despite your silence," she glanced at Rohan and said calmly. "An anonymous account, in a private section of the campus forum. Twenty minutes ago."
Rohan felt a wave of dizziness.
"I've already deleted the original post and traced the upload IP," Alisa continued, staring at the screen without any hint of awkwardness from having seen the photos of the boy's private parts. "It was from a public computer on the third floor of the library. Of course, there's no surveillance pointing to a specific user."
She looked up at Rohan. "But I'll have the campus network administrator strengthen the filters. Any image uploads containing your name will be automatically flagged. Additionally, I'll emphasize the disciplinary consequences of cyberbullying in tomorrow's student council announcement—without naming names."
She paused, then added, "That's what I can do as student council president. As for the rest... you need adult intervention, Rohan."
Rohan looked at her gratefully and nodded. "Thank you. I already went to see Ms. Matsumoto before coming here."
Alisa's expression relaxed slightly. "Good. Then my mother will follow up."
She shut down the computer and stood up. "One more thing you might consider—Max Taylor is the star player of the football team. Their coach, Mr. Walker, is very 'protective' of his players, especially the stars who win games for him."
"If you need witnesses besides your own testimony, or want to apply pressure from within... Sarah Mendoza might be a potential breakthrough."
Rohan blinked in confusion, instinctively objecting:
"Her? She's on Max's side. She was right there watching and said those things..."
"Not necessarily."
Eliza zipped up her backpack, her tone still calm but carrying an insight beyond her years—
"Sarah Mendoza is a very shrewd, goal-oriented person. Hanging around someone like Max Taylor is more about social convenience, campus status, and a superficial sense of 'fitting in'—it's a mutual arrangement."
"What she cares about is her image, her reputation as cheer captain, and her path to graduating smoothly and getting into a good university. If things escalate to the point of potentially seriously affecting her future, bordering on criminal charges, she'll be the first to rush to distance herself..."
"After all, she's graduating this year and doesn't want any 'complications' that could affect her college applications. Leveraging that mindset might get you some useful testimony, or at least make her keep quiet and stay out of whatever comes next."
With that, she slung her backpack over her shoulder, gave Rohan a slight nod, and left the office, leaving him alone to digest her words.
Rohan still had no intention of telling his mother.
That evening, he grew even more silent, burying all his fear, shame, and the twisted sense of "strength" he'd just gained from the Matsumoto women and Dr. Carter deep within himself.
Facing Shivani's increasingly sharp and probing gaze, he built an even higher wall with "I'm fine," "It's nothing," and "I'm just a little tired."
Shivani keenly noticed a deeper, more elusive strangeness in her son.
His silence was no longer mere timidity or resistance but more like a thick insulating layer wrapping around him, shielding him from her scrutiny.
She tried asking about the therapy—"What did Dr. Carter say today?" "Are you getting along with your classmates?"—but received only the briefest, most dismissive replies.
When she casually mentioned, "Dr. Carter said your physical condition is stable, the treatment is progressing well, and she recommends keeping up the frequency," Rohan merely let out a vague "Mhm" from his throat, his eyes not even leaving his dinner plate.
Shivani watched her son's profile as he silently ate, the light casting a small shadow beneath his long lashes. A strange, sharp panic surged in her heart, like an icy needle piercing through.
This panic was different from the risks in business or the collapse she felt when her husband first passed away. It was a more helpless, more corrosive fear—she was losing her understanding and connection with her son.
A month ago, she could still use maternal authority, even physical punishment, to force him to voice his discomfort.
Now, right under her nose, he had built a fortress she couldn't enter.
And the key to that fortress seemed to be in the hands of that woman named Emily Carter...
That night, Shivani knelt before the shrine for an unusually long time.
The flame of the eternal lamp flickered restlessly, casting the shadow of the sandalwood deity onto the wall—magnified and distorted. The thick scent of sandalwood enveloped her, yet it brought no peace.
What kept surfacing in her mind was no longer the deity's merciful, lowered eyelids, but Dr. Carter's face—always wearing a professional smile, her eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses inscrutable.
That woman, each time they met, wore different dresses that increasingly accentuated her figure, along with garish stockings. The perfume she wore grew stronger with every visit.
Was her "treatment" of Rohan truly confined to the medical realm?
What exactly happened behind those closed doors that could bring about such noticeable changes in Rohan—not only relief from physical pain but also a… disquieting, subtle distance and a hidden restlessness?
"Emily Carter… could she be trying to steal Rohan from me, his employer, his mother?" This sharp, hostile thought flashed through Shivani's devout haze like lightning, leaving a scorching mark in its wake.
It wasn't just about stealing a child—it was about stealing his trust, his dependence, the key influence over his growth, even… stealing parts of him that had yet to awaken?
The thought sent a chill down her spine.
Shivani's full lips pressed into a tight, bloodless line, appearing cold and hard as stone in the dim light.
In her deep brown eyes, piety was gradually replaced by the vigilance of a mother protecting her young and a cold, scrutinizing gaze.
She had to do something.
She couldn't allow that detestable woman to exert an influence over her son that she couldn't control.
Now Shivani also realized that the source of her daily peace didn't come from faith, but from her identity as a mother…
In the brief two days before the ninth treatment, the atmosphere at South Bay High School underwent subtle yet undeniable changes, like undercurrents stirring beneath a calm lake—the surface undisturbed, but the deeper currents already shifting direction.
First, Max Taylor was personally summoned by the assistant principal during the Wednesday morning break and taken to the principal's office.
He stayed there for an entire class period.
When he emerged, his face—usually wearing a smug, cocky grin—was dark enough to drip water, his eyes gloomy, fists clenched. He kicked the hallway trash can hard, producing a loud clang that drew fearful glances from nearby students, but he said nothing, lowering his head and walking away quickly.
Then, during the afternoon football team practice, Coach Walker—known for his rough demeanor and favoritism—unusually criticized Max in front of the entire team in blunt terms, citing his "lack of focus," "poor training attitude," and warning him "not to slack off just because of some achievements." He ordered Max to run an extra set of shuttle runs.
Max completed them with a grim expression, sweat soaking through his training gear, but he kept his mouth tightly shut the entire time, offering none of his usual complaints or backtalk.
Later, during Thursday's lunch hour, many noticed that Sarah Mendoza—who was usually inseparable from Max and sat at his exclusive long table—wasn't in her usual spot.
She sat on the other side of the cafeteria with a few other cheerleaders, laughing and chatting as if that had always been her place.
When Max and his cronies passed by with their trays, Sarah didn't even glance up at him, engrossed in discussing nail polish colors for the weekend with her friend.
Max's steps faltered for a moment. He cast a complicated look her way but ultimately said nothing, walking away with a dark expression.
There was no public apology, no school-wide disciplinary announcement, not even a mention from any teacher on the matter. Yet the intangible "atmosphere" on campus had shifted.
When Rowan walked alone through the hallway again, he could still feel the gazes from all directions—each carrying its own meaning: curiosity, scrutiny, sympathy, schadenfreude, and even a new, barely perceptible hint of wariness?
In civilized society, the power of procedure outweighs violence, even on a school campus.
Ms. Matsumoto privately pulled Rowan aside in an empty stairwell corner and spoke to him in a low voice:
"The matter is being handled according to procedure. It's currently in the internal investigation and warning phase. Student Taylor has received a formal warning, which is now on record. The school administration has made it clear that if he engages in any further inappropriate behavior toward you or similar misconduct, he will face serious consequences, including immediate suspension from the team or even expulsion. Additionally, his parents have been called in for a meeting."
She looked at Rowan's still-pale but seemingly slightly straighter face, her eyes holding a deep, adult sympathy tinged with resignation to reality:
"I know this outcome may not fully heal the hurt you've experienced. There's no public apology, no 'fair justice' you might have hoped for..."
"How to put it... Within this vast system, especially when it involves student-athletes and graduating seniors, this is the most powerful and practical result we could secure for you in a short time. At the very least, it draws a safety line for you."
Rowan nodded. He understood what Ms. Matsumoto meant.
He wasn't naive; his mind was sharp.
From Alisha's analysis and Dr. Carter's attitude, he had already sensed the complexity of reality.
He said softly, "I understand. Thank you, Ms. Matsumoto."
Rowan's precocious composure made Matsumoto Ayako look at him a moment longer.
That afternoon after school, Shivani came to pick him up as usual.
The black sedan merged smoothly into the traffic.
Inside the car, the faint scent of sandalwood and jasmine from Shivani mingled with a stagnant silence.
"How was today?"
Shivani kept her eyes on the road, her voice steady, but her knuckles tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
"Fine."
Rowan turned to look out the window at the London streets rushing past—gray buildings, red buses, hurried pedestrians—everything seemed veiled behind frosted glass.
His reply was as brief as an automated response.
Shivani's fingers tightened silently around the steering wheel, her neatly trimmed nails pressing into the leather-wrapped rim, leaving faint impressions.
This sense of distance grew more tangible and heavier each day, like an ever-thickening, cold glass wall rising between her and her only son.
She could clearly see his profile in the passenger seat—his fine, soft hair, his overly thin shoulders beneath his school shirt.
But she couldn't reach the real him—his emotions, his thoughts, the turbulent storms or stagnant ripples he was navigating.
He had shut himself away, and the key was not in her hands.
Silence spread through the car, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the soft rustle of tires against the road.
"Dr. Carter called this afternoon," Shivani mentioned casually, her gaze darting briefly to her son's expression in the rearview mirror. "To discuss scheduling the next session. She suggested... given your unstable condition, perhaps we could consider slightly increasing the frequency of your sessions?"
"For example, from every two or three days to every other day? Of course, only if it truly helps alleviate your symptoms more and doesn't interfere with your studies."
Her words carried a probing tone, concealing a barely noticeable attempt to regain control of the rhythm.
She wanted to see how her son would react to the idea of "increasing the frequency of meetings with Dr. Carter."
Rohan's eyes visibly brightened almost the moment he heard the words "Dr. Carter" and "increase frequency."
The light was quickly restrained, but that momentary brightness, along with his almost instinctive reply, pierced Shivani's sharp nerves like a fine needle.
"Of course," Rohan said, his voice even carrying a trace of hurried affirmation. "I think... that would be fine."
In that instant, Shivani's heart sank, plunging into a cold, bitter abyss.
It wasn't just simple disappointment or worry, but a sharper, more acute panic mixed with a sense of betrayal and a fierce competitive instinct.
She realized with painful clarity that the consultation room in the private medical wing of St. Mary's Hospital, always permeated with the scent of disinfectant and that woman's perfume; that female doctor, Emily Carter, with her expensive stockings, delicate high heels, professional smile, and inscrutable gaze, had quietly and successfully infiltrated the space between her and her son—becoming an absolute presence she could not intervene in, supervise, or even comprehend.
And he, her Rohan, would rather devote his time, trust, and even a dependence she dared not dwell on to that woman, than open up to her—his mother, his only blood relative and protector—and reveal even a sliver of truth.
This realization sent a piercing chill and a surging, challenged fury through Shivani as she sat in the congested London evening traffic.
Once again, urgently... she had to do something!
She had to reclaim control!
This silent war was not just about her son's health, but about her position as a mother, and the small kingdom she had built with faith, tradition, and her absolute authority—a kingdom she would defend at all costs. The boy was the only subject in her kingdom, and the only one she needed.
Emily Carter had transformed from a service provider into a dangerous invader.
And she, Shivani Sharma, would not stand idly by.
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