"Aaah!" Alfred cried out, his voice echoing through the small infirmary. He clenched his teeth, gripping the edge of the cot as the nurse pressed a cloth to the bleeding cut on his arm.
"Stay still," she snapped, not lifting her eyes from the wound. "I can't treat you if you keep jerking around like this."
"How am I supposed to stay still when you're stabbing me with fire?" Alfred hissed, his forehead damp with sweat.
The nurse arched a brow, unimpressed. "You should've thought of that before throwing yourself into a fight. Don't complain now that you're paying the price."
"They were the ones who started it," Alfred muttered, his jaw tight. The sting of the antiseptic burned deeper than the injury itself, but the sting of her words pressed harder.
The nurse gave a small, dismissive snort, wrapping the bandage tighter around his arm. "Excuses don't stitch wounds."
The door creaked open, drawing both their gazes. A girl stepped inside, her steps soft against the wooden floor. She lingered by the side of the cot, her expression unreadable. "The principal is asking for you," she said quietly, though her words carried a weight Alfred couldn't ignore.
The nurse tied off the bandage with a sharp tug and stepped back. Her lips curled in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Then go," she said flatly. "Go and take what you deserve."
Alfred wasn't scared at all. Because he knows he didn't do anything wrong.
Alfred stepped into the principal's office. On one side sat the boys who had beaten him, their parents seated beside them, their faces stern. Opposite them sat his father, watching quietly as Alfred walked in.
"You should be in jail," one of the boys said immediately, leaning forward with a satisfied glare.
"Call the police and report this right away, sir," one of the parents demanded. "This kind of violence cannot be excused."
Another parent nodded sharply. "If this is ignored, what message are you sending to the rest of the students?"
The principal tapped a file on his desk and looked between them. "We can't let this slide," he said firmly. His eyes shifted to Alfred's father. "I'm sorry, Mr. Miller. Your son should be punished."
The parents exchanged looks of agreement. The boys leaned back in their chairs, their smugness plain. Alfred stood near the door, his bandaged arm heavy at his side. But he kept his silence, his eyes fixed on his father.
His father didn't speak. He sat still, his expression steady, though his gaze never left Alfred. The room waited on him, the decision hanging in the balance.
Mr. Miller's "Quiet" sliced through the room. It wasn't loud; it didn't need to be. Heads turned. Conversations died.
He looked at Alfred, voice even but iron-pressed. "Tell me, son, why did you hit them?"
"They were bullying me," Alfred said. His voice was small at first, then steadied. "From the start of term, they shoved me, shoved salt into my lunch, and last week they poured milk down my shirt in front of everyone."
A mother's hand flew to her mouth. One of the boys opened his mouth to protest—"We didn't..."—but Mr. Miller cut him off with a slow, dangerous look.
"Be quiet," he said, and the boy shut up.
The principal cleared his throat. "You should've told us," he said, not looking at Alfred so much as reciting policy.
"I told you," Alfred answered. "Twice, to you and to—" He stopped, because there were too many eyes on him. "No one did anything."
The principal's fingers drum-rolled on a thick file. His voice wavered. "All right. Then what about the girl's photo in your camera"
"That camera wasn't mine," Alfred blurted. "Someone put it in my bag. I wasn't even at school that day."
"You liar," one of the boys spat. He sat up straighter, as if posture could add truth to his words.
Mr. Miller's jaw flexed. "I never bought him any camera," he said calmly. "If he'd had one, I would have known."
The principal's mouth fell into a thin line. "If your son was innocent, why didn't he speak up then?" His tone was accusation, a man trying to recover control.
Alfred swallowed. "Because when I tried, you didn't listen. You believed them straight away. The photo was taken last Friday, I have my father's messages showing I was home. If you'd investigated, you would have found out. Nobody stood up for me." His voice picked up, steadier now with anger. "You called him a pervert. You humiliated him. And you still want to call the police?"
A rustle of indignation from the parents. One of the fathers shifted in his chair, voice rising. "This is our boy—"
"Enough." Mr. Miller's hand came down on the desk, not hard, but final. The principal flinched as if struck. Color rushed into his face; he opened his mouth, closed it.
"If you're going to talk about duty," Mr. Miller said, looking directly at him, "where was that duty when my son reported this? You had an obligation to investigate. You didn't. You took their story as gospel because it was easier. That's not just negligence, it's betrayal."
The principal's hands trembled now. He picked up the phone as if to call someone, then lowered it. "Procedures—"
"Procedures don't excuse you," Mr. Miller cut in. He turned to the boys. "Teach your boys discipline. Teach them that hurting someone and ganging up on them has consequences. If you can't do that, I will make sure they learn the hard way." His voice was flat; the threat in it was ice, not hot fire.
One of the mothers rose, face pale. "How dare you—"
"How dare I?" Mr. Miller echoed. "How dare you let children make another child's life miserable and then ask for the law when your sons get what's coming to them? If you call the police over this, I will—" He paused, looking at the principal. "I will take this to the board. I will make every complaint public."
Silence pressed in. The boys' smugness drained; the parents' outrage wavered under the weight of Mr. Miller's stare.
"Son," Mr. Miller said, turning to Alfred, softer now. He placed a hand on Alfred's shoulder, firm, anchoring. "If they touch you again, don't hold back, break their arms if it's necessary. But promise me you'll let me handle the rest."
Alfred nodded once, throat tight. Relief flickered across his face, tangled with humiliation and something like pride.
Mr. Miller stood. "We're leaving," he said. He gave the principal one last look, an unreadable mixture of warning and promise, and then he guided Alfred toward the door.
As they passed, one of the boys tried a last sneer. Mr. Miller's hand tightened on Alfred's shoulder. It was not a hit, only a grip that said, Don't make me. The boy fell silent.
They reached the door. Mr. Miller paused, then turned back. "Keep him safe," he said to the principal, each word precise. "Or I will see to it the whole school knows what your inaction cost my son."
Then they left. The door shut behind them with a soft click that sounded, in that moment, like finality. Inside, the principal sat very still, the phone an accusing weight in his hand, the file open and meaningless on his desk. The parents looked at one another, suddenly small. The boys sat frozen, no longer smug, only bare-faced and exposed.
The car door opened. Alfred and his father got inside.
"Your principal is a good-for-nothing guy," his father muttered.
Alfred smiled faintly.
"We have to go shopping. There's nothing to eat," his father added.
"Then let's go shopping," Alfred said.
They stopped at a supermarket, filled their cart, and carried the bags back to the car.
"It's almost night," his father said as he started the engine. "I have a business trip tomorrow. Before you wake up, I'll be gone."
"When will you be back?" Alfred asked.
"I'll be back as soon as possible."
They drove to their apartment, a big, clean, well-kept place. Inside, both dropped onto the sofa and let out a long breath. For a moment, they just looked at each other.
His father stood, but Alfred said, "I'll cook."
"You sure?"
"I learned how to cook."
"Was it the girl who taught you?"
"Why are you always dragging her into the conversation? …But yes."
His father laughed. "Ha ha ha…"
While Mr. Miller bathed, Alfred cooked. When his father came out, Alfred went in. Later, they sat at the dinner table together.
"How is it?" Alfred asked.
"Not bad. I guess she really is a good teacher," his father said.
"Really? Again?" Alfred frowned, but his father only laughed.
"How does it feel to dominate a fight?" he asked.
"To be honest, I felt great," Alfred said. "When I knew I could beat them all alone, I felt unstoppable."
"Yeah, I know that feeling. I was good at fighting too. That's when your mom came. She made rules, said no more fighting."
"She's the reason I'm like this. If she had been here, she would've told you to fight back only if necessary."
"Then she would've slapped everyone in that room, including your principal."
"One day I got curious and asked why, if she hated fighting, she chose a gangster like me," his father said with a faint smile. "She told me all gangsters are bad. Of course I'm bad too. But compared to the others, I was the good among the bad."
"I loved those moments. But those moments didn't last. Then it happened…"
"You're blabbering again," Alfred cut him off. "As punishment, you're washing the dishes."
"What? Is blabbering wrong?"
"Yes. And since you won't be here for days, I'll have to do all the cooking, cleaning, and washing alone. So do it."
"Fine, I'll do it."
After dinner Alfred went to bed early. His father checked on him, saw him sleeping soundly, and closed the door.
Alfred didn't stir. He didn't even know when it began. Suddenly his bed shook. Half-asleep, he tried to open his eyes. His vision blurred, then sharpened.
He was still on his bed, bedsheet and all, but the room around him was gone. Men and women stood in a circle, speaking in a strange language he had never heard before.
"What the hell… am I dreaming?"