Nijel Rooke pulled open the door to his principal's well-lit office to find the balding man combing over the last of his wispy grey hair.
"I'm here," Nijel announced his presence in a nasally voice.
Since awaking in the nurse's office, every word he spoke sent vibrations through his stuffed nostrils.
"We can do better than that," said the principal without taking his eyes off his hand mirror, continuing to swipe away at his thinning scalp. "So, do better." He sounded more exhausted than infuriated.
Inhaling through his mouth, Nijel licked his back teeth. "Can I come in, Mr. Shaw?" he requested politely. "Please?"
Without moving his head, the middle-aged man wearing a plain white button-up shirt blinked once and his eyes shifted toward the requesting student.
The froggy pale brown pair shared judgment between them as they went over his dreary getup.
Ignoring his washed-out shirt with a faded print of a blind vocalist on the front, and the battered backpack slung over his shoulders, they went down to his oversized trousers and glanced over them as well, finally finding what they were looking for.
Nijel hadn't even folded his letter of apology, knowing he'd be meeting the principal in person.
"I regret my rash behavior against a fellow classmate of mine during today's lunch," he repeated the rehearsed words delicately. "I want to apologize for it, sir."
"May."
Nijel hesitated. "I… may?"
"It is 'May I,' Mr. Rooke," the principal reminded with a stiff smile. "Go on, do better."
Nijel tightened his grip on the strap of his backpack to not crumple up the letter he'd written with such care.
If what Mrs. Harper warned him about was true, he'd have to do everything in his power to prevent it.
Not losing his cool would be the least of it.
"May I please enter your office, Principal Shaw?" Nijel repeated, trying not to sound sour. "So that I may apologize for my fight with Kenith Grant?"
"I prefer the sound of 'Principal Sir,' thank you very much," Deagan Shaw informed curtly, fixing his indigo tie using the hand mirror. "Oh well, expecting more out of you is only my mistake. Come in, Nijel, let's see you wriggle out of this one."
Nijel stepped into the small room as if entering another battle, knowing this one could hurt significantly more than any fistfight, despite not a single act of violence occurring in the following moments within the bounds of its beige walls.
Well, not directly at least.
The principal didn't need to throw a single punch to attack Nijel when he could do far worse to him with some ink on paper.
Without sitting on one of the two deflated cushioned chairs on his side of the dulled mahogany desk, Nijel placed his apology letter between the round rubber stamp of the principal's seal and a dusty fountain pen holder.
Eyeing the submitted letter, Deagan Shaw gently placed his hand mirror and comb upon the dark desk, then turned his high worn-out black office chair to face the guilty student.
"It was a mistake I deeply regret, Principal Sir," Nijel expressed, clasping his hands together to convey his desperation. "I should've come to you instead of resorting to violence against Kenith when he insulted my older brother."
His stuffed nostrils tingled, buzzing from within as he puked out those insincere words.
In no world would Nijel Rooke ever apologize for defending Mikel—especially from lowlifes like Kenith Grant.
An honest man such as him deserved far more than thankyous and handshakes, and it was only justified to punish those who didn't understand that and disrespected him.
"Hm." With one hand, Deagan Shaw slid away the mirror and comb he'd set upon his desk; with the other, he slid the submitted letter closer to him.
"Let's see," the principal said, scanning the crisp sheet of paper line by line. "Sorrys and will-never-happens. Uh-huh. Your side of the story painting you as the real victim. Mm-hm. Words, words, more words."
Deagan Shaw looked up at him with a disappointed gaze. "I didn't expect more, Mr. Rooke, but I'm certainly not impressed by this fluff piece you call an apology letter."
'I'm not trying to impress you, baldy,' Nijel thought bitterly, but instead said, "If only some ink on paper could change what I've done—the grave mistakes I've made. It won't, I'm aware. A thousand apologies aren't enough for my actions, Principal Sir. But I do have to start somewhere. And this is but my humble attempt at that."
"Spare me your honeyed words, boy," the baldy scoffed, "Sweettalk like a salesman all you want, but I not buying it this time. Not a pinch or an inch. Got that?"
Nijel lowered his voice to a pleading whisper. "One more chance, Principal Sir, that's all I ask of you—"
"Let me stop you right there, boy," Deagan Shaw said, leaning forward. "You can't plead your way out of this. I've given you a hundred one-more-chances in the last two years and look where that has led us—back to this same song and dance.
"There's a limit to my tolerance, Mr. Rooke, and you've not only crossed it with an exceptional violation this time around, but lowered it to a new standard that won't be equaled for generations."
Nijel Rooke simply stood there in silence with his head down, biting his lip as the small office echoed with his principal's scoldings.
Inside, he seethed, his blood boiling.
Why should he take any of this old man's dogfilth?
Who was he to judge Nijel anyway? And how could he do so without knowing anything about him and his Phantom possession?
What was even stopping Nijel from smacking that balding head of his right now?
But of course, in that so-called heart pumping his boiling blood, Nijel knew all the reasons why he had to keep his eyes lowered.
He must endure it all for his brother: to not burden him even more than he already was.
If Nijel ever got into any trouble—which wasn't that rare—he always made sure it never reached Mikel, for his brother was already carrying way too much upon his shoulders.
But this one… Nijel wasn't sure if it could even be stopped from spilling over in time.
As the time to avoid this trouble altogether was—unfortunately—already past him.
"Do you honestly like this, Mr. Rooke?" the principal asked sincerely, breaking the silence in a softer tone. "Any of this? Just look at what it does to you."
Deagan Shaw picked up his hand mirror and turned it toward him. "Is this who you truly are inside?"
Nijel didn't avert his eyes from his own reflection, eyeing his reddened cheek and busted nose.
The kind old nurse lady had applied some relief gel to cool off the swelling on the left side of his face, making it all glossy and slick.
And after taking care of all its bleeding, she'd also patched up his nose with tapes and bandages the best she could.
While examining it beforehand, she was surprised to find it wasn't broken.
Honestly, Nijel was too.
Kenith Grant had caught him with one mean right hook, knocking him out cold in an instant for close to fifteen minutes.
By the time Nijel regained his consciousness, he was stretched over a bed, the school nurse already fixing him up, while Mrs. Harper stood inside her office with a mix of wrath and relief.
Without hitting him once, she'd told Nijel to write an apology letter before visiting their principal's office.
As for Kenith Grant: he'd already done the same and been suspended for the rest of the week.
They had different plans for Nijel Rooke, he suspected, and turned out to be right.
'Why am I like this?' he pondered resentfully, staring at his ugly face in the mirror. 'Why can I never do the right thing?'
His wounded reflection staring back at him blankly, it only struck Nijel now as he was being held accountable for his recklessness: What if he'd actually killed his classmate?
That would've surely loaded more upon Mikel's shoulders than any amount of studying could lighten them.
But wasn't bloodshed only righteous while defending the honor of a loved one?
'If you've to question it,' Nijel realized, 'maybe it isn't that simple.'
For upon learning of today's incident, the one he thought he was standing up for would've certainly liked him to stay sitting down instead.
Nijel blinked then, realizing once again how he always heard his brother, but never quite listened to his words.
His reflection blinked back from the mirror.
That raven-haired, jet-eyed, tan-skinned thing without a heart.
'Impulsive,' Nijel called that creature with disgust. 'A beast in man's flesh. So emotional, so childish. Always taking things too personal and too far. And will you learn anything from this? No damn way. Truly, an animal of the worst kind.'
"What was your end goal there, can you explain it to me?" Putting the mirror down, Deagan Shaw asked with an exasperated look. "You slammed another kid's head on the floor. A concussion would've been bad—you cracked his damn skull!"
"The nurse said he's fine," Nijel defended himself with the facts of the matter. "There's not even need for any stitches, she told us. It was only a cut, a small one at that. It looked worse than it actually was—her words, not mine. She explained the back of the head is a sensitive area, and because of all the blood vessels in it, even the tiniest scratch can make a remarkable mess—"
"Remarkable mess!" the principal repeated, raising his tone in bafflement. "What you did to that poor kid was a remarkable mess, Mr. Rooke. I've seen that disturbing video of your scuffle with my own two eyes and that's why your words hold no weight here," he said, tapping the apology letter placed before him.
While watching the recordings, Nijel wondered, did the baldy skip the whole part with the headlock and elbows?
After a brief pause, Deagan Shaw sharpened his voice. "I saw that look in your eyes as you turned away from your bleeding classmate, Nijel. Had I not collected all the phones and wiped those videos off from them, we'd have people down the street screaming my school is raising Heathen thugs! Starting today!"
That was all it came down to in the end with this one: caring not for the harm caused to any student of his school, not really, but simply for the harm caused to its reputation because of it.
"A few more of these 'remarkable messes,' and this whole place will be shut down, I swear it!" Deagan Shaw claimed. "Funding has already been thinning through the last couple years as always, but if this kind of behavior is not condoned right as it starts, soon you'll be out of the school and I'll be out on the streets."
Reasonable, all things considered.
Deagan Shaw wasn't some city suit, he was also of the Gutter—so of course he wanted to keep his comfortable job so badly, even if it was only as the principal of Southwater Public, the worst-performing school of Salt Crate District.
"And that's why," said the balding man with all his authority, pulling open the drawer of his dark desk, "strict action must be taken against you, Mr. Nijel Rooke."
Then his nightmare unfolded.
Gulping hard, Nijel tasted bile at the back of his throat as he helplessly watched his handwritten apology letter get buried under a printed out one, which was both bigger and thicker.
Stepping closer with his clasped hands raised in panicked desperation, he immediately begged of his principal, "Please, Principal Sir, I'll do anything—literally anything. Just don't do this! Not this, please. Punch me, kick me, crack my skull open, I don't care. But please don't kick me out of your school!
"I can't afford to go anywhere else. There's only six months left anyway—just a single semester. After the day I get my diploma, you will never see me again in your whole life, I swear by the dead gods and the Revenant! Give me one last chance, Mr. Shaw, and I'll be the best student of this entire school—of our entire country!"
As his frantic flurry of miserable pleas slowed down, he eyed his principal pick out the golden fountain pen from his stand and unscrew its cap.
"I repeat," Deagan Shaw reminded, signing elegantly at the bottom right of the letter of expulsion. "You cannot plead your way out of this, boy."
What more could he do here—get on his damn knees and lick the man's shoes?
The baldy was clearly rejoicing over his misery, and not even trying to hide it at this point!
Before another word stumbled out of Nijel's lips, the principal had already stamped over his signature, making the letter of expulsion even more official and final than it already was.
"Six months is a long time," Deagan Shaw claimed. "How about I never see you from this very day?"
A hollow numbness overcame Nijel as both the letters were slid toward him.
Was this actually happening?
His brother's heart would shatter if he learned about this.
Just thinking of that possibility made Nijel's temple throb and ears ring.
"You are dismissed, Mr. Rooke," his no-longer principal said. "Feel free to leave my office."
Nijel looked at him with dead eyes. "Please, Mr. Shaw," he repeated like a broken toy. "One. Last. Chance."
"It's 'Principal Sir,' boy," Deagan Shaw scoffed, picking up his mirror and comb again. "And trust me, you don't need teachers looking after you in a school. What you need is doctors observing you in a facility."
That did it.
If not all his other judgmental dogfilth, suggesting he was some sort of nutjob who needed to be locked away was enough to snap the thin thread keeping Nijel from cracking open the balding man's head like an egg.
With one hand, Nijel Rooke slid away his letter of expulsion; with the other, he reached over the mahogany desk and grabbed the principal's indigo tie.
"What's this!" Deagan Shaw immediately shot him an astonished glare. "You lost your damn mind, boy—"
"Screw you and that bald head of yours, you piece of shit."
Nijel yanked the silken tie as hard as he could, slamming the man's forehead on his expulsion letter, splattering it with a deep red, then quickly snatched the mirror off his hand.
The principal bounced back with a groan, dropping his comb and covering his bleeding forehead with both hands.
"You're sludging done!" Deagan seethed through clenched teeth, hate flaring in his froggy eyes. "You'll rot in a cell for the rest of your miserable life as your murderer brother should've!"
"Do you honestly like this, Mr. Shaw?" Nijel asked derisively, turning the mirror toward him. "Any of this? Just look at what it does to you and your bald head."
Deagan's eye twitched in vexation as he glared at his own wounded reflection, but before he could spit out another word, Nijel smacked the mirror on his thinning scalp, shattering it into pieces.
Blood gushed out in tens of thin trails as the broken shards cut open his balding head, making the principal stagger and recoil.
Before the baldy recovered from his shock, Nijel rolled up his letter of expulsion into a thin tube. "Shove this up your ass and never show me your face again, you damn rateater." He threw it to the principal's bloody face. "I'm out of this shithole."
"The door's right behind you," Deagan Shaw said flatly.
Nijel Rooke blinked his dead eyes. "Huh?"
"What?" the principal asked, combing over his thinning scalp—which was neither bruised nor bleeding. "You want a hug and a handshake before you get out of my school? Go away before I call a guard or two. Leave my property."
Nijel looked at the desk between them, both crisp letters still waiting to be collected by him.
His mind heard his brother; his body decided to listen to him.
Because that was the right thing to do here.
Nijel picked up both the letters and left the principal's office while his hands were still possessed by his own will and not by that of the Phantom cursing him.
A girl was sitting on the waiting bench outside; she stood up right when he came out.
As Nijel shut the door behind him and decided to put both the letters in his backpack, the mere sight of his apology one and the utterance of the words he'd written on it repulsed him to his very core.
Nijel crumpled it up at once with whitened knuckles before dumping it into the trash can sitting beside the door.
Its scratched lid swung back and forth, taunting him, for all his efforts had only ended up in the garbage.
"Hey," the girl said.
Nijel continued staring at the trash can, wondering if that's where his every struggle led to.
"Listen up."
It took him a moment to realize the girl was talking to him, and another to recognize her.
She was a classmate of his, one of Kenith's close friends—maybe even his girlfriend.
"Whatever's going to happen to you in the coming days," Corie Foley told him matter-of-factly, "it's all on you."
Nijel was about to ask what she meant by it, but the trash can continued to mock him, making a vein pulse in his forehead.
"You have no damn idea what you got yourself into," she claimed. "We're not your everyday guys and girls, and Kenny is far from a regular school kid. You'll pay for your gall, you skinny asshole—"
When the trash can didn't stop talking, Nijel kicked it as if it owed him money, stomping on it repeatedly to break all its bones.
"What's going on out there?" Deagan Shaw's muffled voice asked from the other side of the door.
With the trash can crushed into its silence, Nijel met Corie's uneasy gaze, spreading his arms out. "Do I look any different to you?"
Because back in the nurse's office, even Mrs. Harper denied noticing the ominous fumes of Phantom possession smoking out of him.
And now, when even Corie Foley didn't answer him before the balding principal reached his office's door, Nijel Rooke simply walked past her and left.
At the gate of Southwater Public, he glanced over his shoulder with a silent promise.
'Don't know how—but I'll be back.'