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Summary
“Who did this to you?”
The boy remains still, doesn’t even offer a flicker of acknowledgement. Not the first pampered, overconfident, old-money student to sit in that chair. Francis may not have been born into wealth, but authority is authority, and he has decades of experience in wielding his. “Are you listening to me, child?”
Finally Brandt moves, lifting his gaze and adjusting his glasses with a deliberate slowness. He then exhales, slowly, but with an edge sharp enough to hint at irritation, staring at Francis like his concern is completely unnecessary. “I’m fine,” he says, his voice soft but certain. “There’s no need to make a fuss.”
Francis studies him—the creases in his uniform, the mark on his cheek deepening the longer they linger, the faint bruise just beneath his collar.
“You look more concerned than I am, Father,” Brandt observes.
“You are my responsibility,” Francis scolds, measured and low. “Your well-being is my concern whether you accept it or not.”