Instructor Galen Kross's eyes lingered on Damien for a beat too long, that cold steel-gray gaze narrowing slightly, not out of fear—but scrutiny. The smirk hadn't left the boy's face, and though his tone had remained mockingly polite, there was a venom buried in every syllable that refused to go unnoticed. It wasn't just Leon who had been drawn into this twisted verbal snare—every student in the room had felt it. Like a scalpel dragging across exposed nerves.
Damien had turned a personal tragedy into an arena. And he was winning.
"Enough," Galen said again, quieter this time, but sharper. Sharper in that way only trained soldiers knew—low enough that the warning carried more weight than a shout ever could. His voice didn't rise. It cut.
