Meanwhile, at the graduation venue...
Everything was pristine. Polished. Perfect. Families sat beneath a soaring glass canopy, sunlight painting soft golden stripes across the marble floor. Graduates lined the stage in crisp grey robes, each bearing the Council's silver emblem on their caps. The air buzzed with polite excitement—the kind of energy that comes from ceremony, achievement, and tightly written programs.
Standing near the front row was Desmond Grant.
He was a man who stood out in any room—not because he tried to, but because he couldn't help it. His dark skin gleamed under the natural light pouring through the dome, his bald head smooth and immaculate. A finely cut navy-blue suit hugged his tall frame, the Council emblem pinned neatly on his breast pocket. His most striking feature, however, were his teeth—perfect, bright, and almost too white, the kind that made people double-take when he smiled.
But today, he wasn't smiling.
He stood stiffly with his hands clasped in front of him, every inch the proud, controlled figure he was known to be in political circles. But beneath that polished surface, his eyes flicked constantly toward the entrance. His jaw was tight. His thumb rubbed anxiously against his index finger in a small, twitching rhythm.
Desmond Grant was many things—one of the elite Council members, The Vice Secretary of Defense, hell he was even a Council representative a couple years ago. But today, he was one thing above all else: Mikey's father.
"Where is he?"
Desmond muttered, mostly to himself, but loud enough that the woman seated beside him gave a sympathetic glance before quickly looking away. Simultaneously, Mikey is still bolting forward.
Up the venue steps, around the corner, coat half-buttoned, tassel flapping somewhere behind him. He slid around a pillar, narrowly avoided a startled usher, and forced his way into the side entrance, already halfway into his robe, which he was now wearing sideways.
On stage The principal approached the microphone with a practiced calm. Her tone was clear, formal, unwavering. "And now," she announced, "our final student graduating this year. Valedictorian for the Class of 2344…"
There's a brief pause.
"Michael Grant."
Applause filled the air instantly—grandparents clapping proudly, students whistling, parents leaning forward with eager smiles. Then it faltered. Seconds passed. No one appeared. Desmond didn't move. His face was unreadable, carved from patience and expectation, but the tap of his foot against the marble floor gave him away. The principal leaned toward the mic again.
"Michael Grant… please come to the stage."
The applause had faded now, replaced by a soft, expectant hush. Heads turned. A few people shifted awkwardly in their seats. One girl, with midnight-black hair and a triangle shaped earring on her left earlobe, sat near the front row and craned her neck toward the side wings of the stage. Almost like she was looking specifically for him. Then, from behind a curtain—
"Here!"
The voice was unmistakable—breathless but confident.
Mikey burst out onto the stage, mid-stride, one arm still threading through the robe's sleeve. His cap was still in his mouth. He spat it out, slammed it onto his head looking like a mess, but he was smiling.Not the cocky smirk from earlier. Something genuine.
Pure relief.
He tossed his headphones to the side, his backpack landing just offstage with a dull thump. As he straightened his robe—still crooked, but presentable enough—the crowd responded with a second wave of applause, louder this time. A few people even stood. He met the principal at center stage, his chest still rising and falling with the sprint it had taken to get there. She gave him a small nod.
"Cutting it close, Mr. Grant," she whispered.
He smiled sheepishly. "Wouldn't be me otherwise."
In the audience, Desmond exhaled for what felt like the first time all day. He didn't smile—yet—but his jaw unclenched. And with that, Mikey Grant stood beneath the lights—messy, late, and entirely himself—ready, as much as he could be, to address his class.