It was a strange sensation: walking into the Headmaster’s room in daylight. It was like dream-walking naked to the middle of a busy street. Jaime could not help but shiver as he closed the Office door behind his back. The absolute click made him alerted, acuted to the unnatural environment. Stillness stirred his lungs, eerie in the texture it carried—instead of the usual furious, loud, echoing chak of chalks caving into blackboard and drones of lectures, it was a soft, almost inaudible cursing and a tentative rhythmic shuffles that infused the air.

His eyes raked over the bookshelves lined with a few small, pocket-size battered copies of classic, emphasizing the gaping emptiness and lack of decorations. The sunlight rushed through the windows, bright and cheerful—too quick to fill in the space, too careless to completely erase the blatant memories this room held. Somewhere, covered underneath the heavy pure scent of wood and paper and ballpoint ink, underneath series of sighs—somewhere, if he could sit down and separate each components of the air—there was the stubborn, stale smell of sweat and cum that was missing.

“Headmaster,” Jaime breathed.

“Sit,” The Headmaster finally said in a low, gravel voice without looking up.

Jaime slowly stalked over and sunk down onto the hard chair directly in front of the Headmaster. The chair was still warm and moulded to the shape of whoever sat before.

Early this morning, when he left Passmore and More for a second to grab some early breakfast, he had thought he spotted Fishburne’s deigned defiant figure ventured toward the Headmaster’s Office with a black-clad figure accompanying him.

He didn’t see Fishburne afterward. But, regardless of whether the discipline talk go smooth or not, it didn’t take a genius to guess that the end of this scene wouldn’t be a neat bow. Allowing a party that resulted in sexual and physical assaults as well as many other illegal charges—a party that happened right under his nose, under the name of his prized, high-reputation school—was a dead insult in the Headmaster’s dignity.

To say the Headmaster was angry and disappointed would be an understatement.

When the old man and a pack of school enforcers arrived at the scene, ten minutes after Jaime hit the Emergency hotline, the Headmaster had stared affixed at the wreck at hand, chin trembling. Everybody freezed in their actions, paling as the Headmaster’s eyes shone, a crimson shade further deepened the tan skin of the Headmaster.

They may joked around that the old man almost died of a panic attack at the party sight, but the joke fell flat with the tenseness and the hard reality.

The Headmaster was livid. And he didn’t even bother to conceal it. It was the first time, Jaime could see the Headmaster truly at his worst fury.

It was the first time Jaime actually witnessed the Headmaster displayed public violence. Sure, he knew the Headmaster was capable to getting physical and rough—they hit and hissed and bruised each other with crushing vices times and again. But that was in the dark, in what could be described as “intimate moments.”

This was different. This was in front of hundred of eyes. And Jaime knew the Headmaster well enough that he would never, never allow himself to display such hostile action. So it was either a deliberate move or the rage had completely triggered the man’s natural response.

Jaime examined the Headmaster. His head was bowed, shadowed, palm splayed across his face, fingers pinching spectacles by its wiry frame as though he could barely refrain himself from dropping it onto the floor and crush it with his heels. Despite that it seemed like the man had regained his composure, Jaime could pinpoint the sliver of aggravation.

The roaring man Jaime saw, right there in the packed Attic, was different—far from the calm, cunning man he was supposed to be. Even when Jaime literally shoved a knife at his throat, the Headmaster did not divert from his usual buoyant personality. Last night, though, the Headmaster had almost punched Fishburne before Fishburne opened his mouth to explain the situation.

“You lost control out there,” Jaime said, curt and firm.

The Headmaster abruptly exhaled a long whoosh of air and straightened up like a rod. He shoved his glasses back on his nose and glared at Jaime, clenching his jaws. “Shut your mouth. I am not your equal.”

Jaime stared impassively at the Headmaster’s twitching facial muscles before lowering his chin.

The Headmaster huffed, but Jaime didn’t spit out the absent Yes, Sir. “How’re your friends?” The Headmaster asked, voice barely curbed in his usual calm tone.

“They’re both sleeping. Nurse Pedigree gave them some pill last night. They should be OK.”

“How about you? Did the bruises hurt?”

“I’m fine, Sir. Ahmed didn’t do much damage on me,” Jaime glanced up, smiling a little. The Headmaster’s brow raised, but there was no amusement in his expression.

“Why didn’t you report it to me immediately?”

“Shouldn’t I start from the beginning, Sir?”

“No. I’ve know enough from Olle. Olle came up with the idea. You tried to reason with Dal and Olle, but in the end gave in to them. The party happened. Ahmed punched you because of jealousy, yada yada yada,” The man clasped his hands. “What I am interested is that you could have tell me then, yet you didn’t.”

Jaime stiffened, squaring his shoulders. “Because I thought Fishburne would keep his words. He promised to shut down things before anything get out of hands.”

“Right. And you still hold him onto his words even when there are another three dozens kids turned up? Or when suddenly there were alcohol and weed coming around?”

Jaime drawled sharply. “Sir, with all due respect, they won’t let me get away with being a snitch,” The Headmaster opened his mouth, but Jaime raised his voice, continuing. “Yes, there are many other goody two-shoe who knew the party would be a disaster, but none of them step up to say anything.” Jaime gripped the side of the chair, chin jutting out as he gritted the words out. Do you know how many threats I’ve to endure this morning in the Mess, despite the fact that I only wired you because the circumstances desperately called for it?

“Jaime, this is a safe environment. Nobody would—”

“If it was a safe environment, I should not be here getting interrogated about weed and alcohol. If it was a safe environment, I and More wouldn’t get punch by drunk, intoxicated kids that know shitless what they were doing,” Jaime snapped, gesturing his bruised cheekbones. The Headmaster’s face immediately hardened, and Jaime clenched his teeth shut with an audible snap. He stared, wide-eyed as the Headmaster’s bulky body rising off the seat, suppressing a clawing, nauseous fear if he had taken his acting too far.

But, the Headmaster only growled. “Fine,” The old man bit out. Jaime forced himself sit back, ignoring the stinging on the sides of his face. Although the Headmaster did not lift a hand, Jaime felt as though the man’s irascible had taken on a physical form and struck him. “Fine.” Jaime said nothing. He kept his eyes level to the Headmaster’s warning ones, trying not to flinch when the angry heat seared his skin.

The Headmaster sat back down after a moment. He turned to his computer and clicked open, rotating the screen toward Jaime. Jaime leaned forward slightly, choking back a gasp. He pretended to squint at the four black rectangles, although judging by the instinctive cold tentacle worming its way to his belly, he knew what he was looking at.

The footage at the Main Staircase.

Shadow tinted the screens a dark, anguish purple, fuzzy. A single rip of diagonal light illuminated the corner, but not enough to outline any specific features. Pixels warped along the fumbling shapes at the right, and faintly—buzzily—Jaime could detect his voice raised in a hiss and Passmore’s frantic Sorry’s.

Although the camera indeed captured Passmore and Jaime, he could only vaguely make out Passmore and his features in the dark. With a twenty-feet distance between them and the camera, in addition to the darkness that practically blurred the outlines of bodies, they were both relying on the sound and let their mind conjured the rest.

The Headmaster—whether intentionally or not—had started the footage where Passmore and Jaime were kissing, and Jaime allowed himself to blush a little, playing up the embarrassed charade.

However, his gears were clicking in place.

“You were the last one to be with Cassidy,” The Headmaster stated.

Jaime did not miss the way the man licked his lips a little after he said it.

He ducked his head between his shoulder blades, schooled his expression under a neutral mask under the Headmaster’s razor-sharp scrutinize. “Yes, Sir.”

“And to my understanding, you brought alcohol with you?” The Headmaster cut himself off, scowling a little.

Jaime’s gaze flickered down at the corner of the screen for a split second before glancing back to the Headmaster’s face again, his fingers knotted on top of his kneecaps.

He took a deep breath, blinking at shoe tip as he spoke. “I intended to drink the beer myself, Sir. I received a call from my Aunt about my Mom earlier—” Jaime petered off. He kept his voice a deliberately cautious and breathless, his stomach roiled as he noticed the hard lines around the Headmaster’s mouth softened a little at his hesitation. “Passmore took a bottle after I offered it to him out of politeness, and I didn’t think of it much. I didn’t know how drunk he was at that time. I didn’t even expect that he would drink all six bottles himself, but he did. I went back to the Attic to grab him some water and pill to help sober him up, but there was Ahmed and—” Jaime winced, breathing softly through his teeth. “—and you know the rest.”

The Headmaster nodded, awkwardly. Jaime caught the old man’s eyeballs darted to the side in a single frantic movement, as though he was searching for something to say—perhaps something about his mother, something about his “stability”, something about whatever follow.

In the end, the Headmaster only cleared his throat.

“I know you and Reed are quite close as roommates,” The Headmaster coughed out the words, the smile on his face was rather forceful. “Did he say anything to you, prior to this? Did he maybe mention, or did you suspect he and Cassidy are crossed in any way?”

Jaime masked a frown. “I cannot say, Sir,” His eyes downcasted, teeth pulling at his lower lip. “During the party, Passmore kept glaring at More. Passmore later, erm, confessed to me and I rejected him. I’d admit I glossed over that details because I was thinking of my own situation, but maybe while I was away, More was passing by and Passmore simply took out his jealousy, similar to Ahmed.”

The Headmaster raised an eyebrow, although the motion was more like an indicator that what Jaime said was also the Headmaster’s hypothesis.

Jaime added, almost a whisper. A plea. “More is the guy who always tries to help people without considering his own good. We had boarded the same Dorm Room for almost a full three-years now, so I view him as my brother. You cannot let Passmore get away with this.”

The Headmaster was quiet for a minute as if contemplating Jaime’s words. He moved the cursor and lapsed a chunk of twenty-five minutes, before indicating Jaime to observe close.

More entered the frame from the left of the screen, meaning he had came from from the Dorm entrance since Jaime didn’t encounter him coming down the Main Staircase. Jaime decided to shove away the question that immediately nagged his mind, focusing on the sloppy, natural way More loped across the hall, bounding toward the dozing Passmore.

Jaime held his breath, eyes wide-opened, taking in More’s lithe form slowed and swooped over Passmore, a hand placed on Passmore’s shoulder for three brief shakes, and quickly passed down Passmore’s torso.

However, whatever More was doing with Passmore’s front was concealed, with Passmore’s broad back served as a shield.

Passmore suddenly, violently jerked back from More’s worried Bud, are you alright? and started shoving and shouting and punching More, while More attempted to calm Passmore by pushing him back. Again, More’s hands were hidden so his actions were only deduced by his words and the outline shifts of his shouldercaps.

There was a clear punctuation of zippers pulled down and belt unbuckling.

In a blink of an eye, More was toppling. Passmore straddled him, skinny jeans pulled down low on his hips, and Jaime caught a flash of pale flesh. More turned and cowered behind raised arms, pressing the side of his head hard against the floor as hails of fists rained down on him.

Jaime twisted his head and looked away, his nose crinkled as he frowned, trying to ward off More’s screams for help. His fists tightened on his stomach. The Headmaster muted the sound, abruptly left a black void of laden silence between them. And Jaime could feel his heartbeat strong and maddening, lurking underneath right underneath his skin, pulsing on his neck, his face, his fingertips.

“You cannot let Passmore get away with this,” Jaime said, soft but definite, barely kept seething contempt out of his voice. “Passmore was going to rape More.”

The Headmaster suspired. He was about to take off his glasses again, though he stopped short of himself and instead, settled on rubbing his chin.

“We cannot jump to conclusion, Jaime,” The Headmaster said.

“But he is not innocent, either,” Jaime countered. “You clearly see him pulling down his pants.”

“We heard, not see.”

“So? Are you going to prove that ‘he also has a guilty mind’ before punish him?” Jaime snarled. “Are you going to let a rapist like him get away with this?”