Justice

The corridors of the Doane Institute echoed faintly with the distant sound of footsteps. Mr. Vials paused just inside the entrance, his gaze traveling up the walls adorned with the crests of past alumni. He took a slow, deliberate breath, the scent of aged wood and ink stirring long-dormant memories. Now, he returned not as a boy filled with ambition but as a man, here to see his son.

Nicholas, was sitting in his dorm room, his injured ankle propped up on a cushion. The room was a chaotic mix of books and loose papers, though he had planned to tidy up once he was better in health. A knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in," he called, expecting it to be Olaf or perhaps another classmate coming to pester him. Instead, when the door creaked open, his father stood there, flanked by the principal.