Chapter 5
The dawn didn't break over the city; it simply seeped through the heavy gray clouds like ink into a wet cloth. Ethan had spent the last four hours sitting on Mia's velvet sofa, staring at the tea she had made him until it grew a thin, cold skin.
He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, the digital log from the school server scrolled across his vision. User ID: FACULTY_SCI_02. Mr. Hargrove.
The man was a ghost of a person—thin, with wire-rimmed glasses that always seemed to reflect the overhead lab lights, hiding his eyes. He was the kind of teacher who spoke in a monotone and never used a student's first name. To think of those cold, calculated eyes watching the live feed of Lena and Ryan—watching Ethan's life disintegrate in real-time—made the bile rise in his throat.
"You need to eat something," Mia said, her voice cutting through the heavy silence.
She was leaning against the doorframe of her small kitchen, her dark, curly hair tied up in a messy top-knot. She had changed into a Northwood High sweatshirt that was three sizes too big for her petite frame. In the morning light, Ethan noticed the sharp, observant line of her jaw and the way she chewed on the side of her thumb when she was thinking.
"I can't," Ethan said. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel. He looked down at his bandaged hand. The white gauze was stark against his pale skin. He was tall, but he felt small today, his lanky frame hunched over as if trying to disappear into the cushions.
"The meeting is in two hours," Mia reminded him, her dark eyes softening for a fraction of a second. "If you walk in there looking like a ghost, Hargrove wins. Your dad wins. You need to look like you still have a spine."
Ethan stood up, his joints protesting. He caught his reflection in the hallway mirror. His hair—thick and usually kept in a neat, academic side-part—was a disaster. His eyes, a deep, stormy blue that his mother always called "sensitive," were bloodshot and underlined by heavy purple shadows. He looked every bit the victim the internet said he was.
"I don't have any clothes," he muttered. "I'm in yesterday's hoodie. It smells like... everything I want to forget."
Mia disappeared into her bedroom and came back with a black, high-collared jacket. "It was my brother's. He left it here when he moved to Chicago. It'll fit you better than that rag."
He put it on. The fabric was stiff and smelled of cedar. It forced him to stand straighter. It felt like armor.
The drive back to Northwood High was a blur of gray pavement and pouring rain. Mia insisted on driving him, parking her battered Camry far away from the main entrance so his father wouldn't see.
"I'll be at the library," she said, her hand resting briefly on his forearm. It was a grounding touch, steady and cool. "If it goes south... call me. I mean it, Ethan. Don't go back to that house alone."
He nodded, unable to find the words. He stepped out into the rain and walked toward the massive brick-and-glass facade of the school.
The main office felt like a funeral parlor. The air-conditioning was cranked too high, and the receptionist, a woman named Mrs. Gable who usually smiled at him, wouldn't look him in the eye. She kept her focus on her computer screen, her typing loud in the quiet room.
"They're waiting for you in the conference room, Ethan," she said, her voice thin.
He walked down the narrow carpeted hallway. He could hear the low murmur of voices behind the heavy oak door. He recognized the sharp, authoritative cadence of his father.
He pushed the door open.
The room was small and felt crowded. Mr. Hargrove sat at the head of the table, his thin hands folded over a manila folder. He looked exactly as he always did—gray, meticulous, and utterly devoid of emotion.
To his left sat the Principal, Dr. Aris, a woman who built her reputation on "student wellness" but currently looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.
And then, there was Mr. Hayes.
His father was sitting in one of the low-backed chairs, looking like a king on a temporary throne. He was dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Mr. Hargrove's car. His silvering hair was perfectly coiffed, and his eyes—the same blue as Ethan's, but hardened into ice—snapped to the door the moment Ethan entered.
"Sit down, Ethan," his father said. It wasn't a request.
Ethan sat as far from Hargrove as possible. He kept his bandaged hand under the table, hidden in his lap.
"Now that everyone is here," Dr. Aris began, her voice strained, "we need to discuss the... incident in Room 104. More importantly, we need to discuss the digital fallout. The school's reputation is at stake, as is the privacy of the students involved."
"Privacy?" Mr. Hayes interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "My son's face is being mocked on every local social media page because your security was lax enough to allow two students to use a classroom for... illicit activities. And then, somehow, that footage was leaked."
He turned his cold gaze to Mr. Hargrove. "I was told you were the one who flagged the footage, George. How exactly did you come across it so quickly?"
Hargrove didn't blink. He adjusted his glasses, the light reflecting off them, masking his eyes. "I was conducting a routine check of the department servers, Mr. Hayes. We had reports of equipment being moved. I happened upon the recording during that audit."
Ethan felt a surge of heat in his chest. Liar. He thought of the log. Remote Access Initiated. Hargrove hadn't "happened upon" anything. He had been a spectator.
"The footage is disturbing," Dr. Aris continued. "And while Lena and Ryan are facing suspension, the board is concerned about Ethan's presence in the video. It looks... intentional. The timing of his entry, the camera angle. There are rumors, Ethan, that this was a coordinated stunt. A 'cuckold' prank for views."
Ethan felt the air leave the room. The accusation was so absurd, so cruel, that he couldn't even find his breath to protest. He looked at his father, expecting him to roar in his defense.
Instead, Mr. Hayes was silent. He was looking at Ethan with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. He wasn't disgusted by the school or by Lena; he was disgusted that his son was being associated with something so low-class.
"Is that true, Ethan?" Mr. Hayes asked, his voice deathly quiet. "Did you involve yourself in this filth for attention?"
"No," Ethan rasped. "I didn't know. I was just going for my notes."
"And the hand?" Hargrove asked, his voice smooth as oil. He gestured to the table. "You've been hiding your right hand since you walked in. I noticed you were quite... agitated when you left the room on Friday. Did you damage school property, Ethan? Is that why the mirror in the East Wing bathroom is shattered?"
Ethan slowly pulled his hand from his lap and placed it on the table. The white gauze was stained with a single, small dot of fresh red.
The room went silent.
"I tripped," Ethan lied. The words felt like lead in his mouth.
"He's lying," his father said, standing up. The chair screeched against the floor. "He's falling apart. He's weak. He's allowed this... this girl and this boy to turn him into a laughingstock, and now he's acting out like a child."
Mr. Hayes looked at Dr. Aris. "I want him out of this school. I want his records transferred to the academy in the city. I will not have the Hayes name dragged through this public circus for another day."
"Dad, no—"
"You will be silent!" Mr. Hayes turned on him, his face flushing a dark, angry red. "You have cost me enough. You have been a distraction. You have been a failure. You couldn't even keep your own girlfriend from the captain of the football team, and you think you can negotiate with me?"
He turned to Hargrove. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, George. I appreciate the... thoroughness of your report."
Hargrove nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his thin lips.
Ethan looked between them. The teacher and the father. Both men of discipline. Both men of cold, hard facts. He realized in that moment that they weren't on opposite sides. They were the same. They both thrived on the destruction of something they couldn't control.
Ethan stood up. His legs were shaking, but his voice was suddenly, terrifyingly clear.
"You watched it," Ethan said, looking directly at Hargrove.
The room went still.
"Excuse me?" Hargrove asked.
"The logs," Ethan said, stepping closer to the table. "I saw the server logs last night. You didn't find the video during an audit. You logged in remotely at four-oh-four PM. You watched them for six minutes. You watched me walk in. You sat in your office, or your house, and you watched us like we were a lab experiment."
Hargrove's face didn't change, but his fingers twitched on the manila folder.
"And you," Ethan said, turning to his father. "You don't care that I'm hurt. You don't care that she cheated. You only care that people saw it. You're not mad at them, Dad. You're mad at me for being human."
Mr. Hayes didn't shout. He didn't move. He simply looked at Ethan as if he were a bug he was about to crush under his heel.
"Pack your things, Ethan," his father said. "We're going home. And then, we're going to talk about your future. Or what's left of it."
As Ethan turned to leave, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't need to look. He knew what it was. The video wasn't just on the blog anymore.
Someone had just uploaded a new version.
A version with audio.
And as he walked out of the conference room, he heard it—Lena's voice, clear and breathless, echoing from a student's phone in the hallway outside.
"Ethan will never know... he's too busy studying to notice what a real man feels like."
The hallway erupted in laughter.