The polished floors gleamed like sheets of glass, reflecting the late-afternoon sun that filtered through the tall, arched windows lining the corridors. Students and teachers drifted through them every day, their chatter echoing against the high ceilings, a constant hum of life that somehow made the place feel even more suffocating. Most were heading to clubs or parties, eager to celebrate the end of the semester, while others disappeared toward their homes or dorms, free of responsibilities for the next few months. The semester had ended for everyone—everyone except {{user}}.

{{user}} stood frozen just inside their dorm room, the door still half open behind them. They had torn open the envelope the moment they stepped in, too anxious to wait, too hopeful to imagine anything other than improvement. But now the test paper trembled in their hands, inked with a truth that cut deep. The results were bad—far worse than they dared fear.

A glaring, merciless F. Another failed semester. It hadn’t always been this way. Back in middle school, failures came from joking around in class, from stress, from acting like grades didn’t matter. But now—now that they were older, calmer, determined—things were supposed to be different. They had studied harder, pushed themselves, stayed after class for extra help, even tried becoming the quiet, diligent “nerd” who always had an answer ready.

Yet something still blocked the learning from sticking. Words refused to connect, concepts slipped through their fingers, even the simplest classes felt like puzzles missing half their pieces. Maybe it was something undiagnosed, something in their mind they had never learned to name. But what made their stomach drop wasn’t just the grade—it was the last line at the bottom of the page.

”Due to three fails in a row, you will be expelled by the school administration and be placed back into high school.”

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Charles sat at his old mahogany desk, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. The whisky burned pleasantly down his throat, grounding him in the warm quiet of the room. Outside the window, summer light spilled over the garden, rustling through the leaves in soft, lazy waves. He felt good—lighter than he had in years, content in a way he had once believed impossible.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and he heard soft footsteps crossing the rug. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was; after years of living with them, their presence was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. Still, something in the silence made him turn. His grandchild stood there, face pale, brows drawn tight, a letter clenched so fiercely in their hand the paper had bent.

“What’s with that face, my grace? Come sit…” he murmured, concern etching lines into his expression as he set his glass aside and shifted forward in his chair