Leon had always believed inconvenience was temporary.
That belief died in the administrative building, somewhere between the second cup of burnt coffee and the third time the secretary avoided his eyes.
"Sit," she said, not unkindly. Not kindly either.
Leon sat.
The chair creaked. Hm. Even the furniture seemed unimpressed with him today.
The office smelled of old paper and lemon polish. Framed photographs of smiling graduates lined the walls—faces preserved in triumph, untouched by whatever quiet machinery governed who stayed and who disappeared.
The administrator entered without ceremony.
Campus Admins rarely announced themselves. Authority, Leon was learning, preferred to arrive as if it had always been there.
"Leon Carver," the man said, glancing at a file. "You're aware of your transfer."
Leon blinked. "My—what?"
"Program transfer," the admin repeated, voice smooth as wax. "Effective immediately."
Leon laughed once. It came out wrong. "That's ridiculous."
