The announcement came suddenly that morning. No warnings this time. No rumors. It just showed up on the university's official page and was forwarded by dozens of students, professors, and staff within minutes.
The university, after an internal investigation, has decided on the permanent expulsion of the student Santiago, as well as his formal report to the corresponding authorities.
There were no further details. None were needed. One sentence was enough to set off a storm.
For Saval, the world turned black and white. Sitting on a park bench, phone in one hand, eyes fixed on the screen, he felt something inside his chest quietly snap. Not because of Santiago. It wasn't about him. The break ran deeper—like everything he believed in had just vanished.
—You saw it? —asked a familiar voice beside him.
It was Semiel. His face looked different—almost unrecognizable.
Saval nodded without looking up.
—You okay?
—I don't know who to trust —said Saval, still staring at the phone.
Semiel went quiet. He wanted to sit beside him, but something stopped him. That phrase—said in a low voice, but heavy with despair—stuck to his chest like a thorn.
—I just wanted to...
—It doesn't matter —Saval interrupted him calmly, not angrily—. It doesn't matter anymore.
He stood up, put the phone in his pocket, and walked away into the trees. Semiel didn't follow.
Saval… don't leave me
…
In another corner of the faculty, farther away—where the building shadows stretched longer and fewer students wandered—Antonella sat alone. She was on a stone bench, a small metal box on her lap. Inside, neatly folded, were the last pieces of evidence she hadn't handed over: transcripts, chat logs, screenshots she hadn't needed to use. She'd already won without them. And yet, they remained—reminding her of what she'd done.
She took a deep breath. The air smelled like damp earth, as if it were about to rain.
She pulled a lighter from her bag. Small, silver—one she'd bought years ago at a fair. She flipped the lid open with a sharp click. Looked over the papers one last time. Not out of doubt, but respect. Then dropped them into a small improvised fire pit made of bricks and dry leaves. Lit the flame, and sat watching as the fire slowly devoured each sheet.
The written words crumbled into ashes—and with them, something inside her began to quiet down too.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Xavier.
You sure you're done?
Antonella stared at the screen for a long time before answering. She didn't type anything.
I guess that's everything
…
The news had split the faculty. Some celebrated quietly, relieved. Others whispered with suspicion, asking if it was true, if it had all been blown out of proportion. But everyone felt the tension in the air.
At the cafeteria, a group of students talked in hushed voices.
—Did you see the statement? He got expelled.
—You think they'll actually report him?
—If it's in the statement, then yeah. They will.
—And who reported him? No one's saying anything.
—They say it was anonymous.
—They say a lot of things.
The words drifted like ownerless echoes. No one had all the pieces. No one knew Antonella had been the architect in the shadows, that Xavier had been the thread pulling it all together, that even Semiel had crossed the line in the end.
...
That night, Saval returned to his room without turning on the light. He dropped his backpack onto the desk and sat on the bed, still wearing his shoes. He stared into the darkness as if waiting for an answer—as if something, hidden somewhere in that shadow, could tell him what to do now.
He remembered Santiago's laughter, the shared jokes, the times when they were all together. Then came the darker memories, the harsh words, the guilty silences, the moments he chose not to see.
He covered his face with both hands. He didn't cry—but he wished he could.
...
In the third-floor women's bathroom, Antonella stood in front of the mirror. Her hair was down. For a moment, she looked like someone else. Or maybe, she looked like who she used to be—before all this.
Her phone buzzed again.
Xavier: Are you sure you're done?
This time, she answered.
Antonella: Enough.
She put the phone away. Washed her hands. Then walked out of the bathroom and down the empty hallway, her steps calm, as if finally—finally—she carried a little less weight.
I got my revenge, and yeah, it was fun. But I feel empty.
...
The next morning, Semiel received an email with no sender. It simply said: Thank you for holding up your end. Saval will be safe.
He read the message over and over before closing his laptop.
Deep down, he wondered too—was it really over?
But the truth was, the fire was only just starting to die down.
And the ashes were still warm.