I reach out, ruffle his hair, and say, “You’re allowed to be anything, kid. Both. Neither. All of it. Whatever you want.”
Ben’s smile spreads slow and sleepy. “Even a hero?”
“Especially a hero.”
He grins, tucks the plush under his chin, and mumbles, “You’re one too.”
I sit there long after his breathing evens out, the glow-stars fading slowly overhead.
And for once, I let myself believe it might be true.
CHAPTER 49
KAIRO
The holo-tabloid blares across my screen like a siren in the night: “Former Mob Boss Turned Kindergarten Teacher? Scandal Rocks Haven-7 School”. I feel the air go out of me. My fingertips twitch on the compad. The glow illuminates the tension rising in my chest—bright, angry, flashing.
I should shut it. Walk away. But I don’t. I stay. I read the headline again.
The article under it shows footage—grainy, stolen by a drone above the school playground—of Jav teaching shadow-puppet class, kids laughing, bright plasma tubes in his hands. The caption reads: “Is this safe? Parents demand answer.” The comments scroll beneath: “How did he get hired?” “Where were the background checks?” “Are the kids safe?”
My stomach clenches. The smell of stale coffee from my kitchen fills the room and suddenly I’m nauseous. The refrigerator hums. My heart pounds. I swipe away at the compad until I find the school’s emergency press release:
“We stand by Mr.?Kuraken. The children adore him. His class play yesterday was a highlight of the term.”
Signed, Principal Jennings.
My breath hitches. My hand shakes.
He called me.
I leave my apartment,compad tucked under my arm, head down. The corridor smells faintly of old wallpaper and the city beyond. I push through the lobby, the hum of the building elevator somewhere behind me. Outside, the air tastes like rain on pavement—wet, sharp.
I walk toward the school. All the way I imagine what I’ll say to him. Comfort him? Apologize? And yet the general feeling is panic—an urgent, primal kind of fear that this public blow might yank apart everything we’ve just rebuilt.
The front door of the school opens with that familiar hum of electronic locks. My heels echo in the lobby—the scent of crayons and sanitized classrooms washes over me. I ascend the stairs two at a time, hearing the chatter of kids in uniform, the faint squeak of sneakers on vinyl.
I reach the auditorium where the parent meeting is being held. The room is half-full—chairs set in neat rows, coffee cups and clipboards littering the side table. I slip into a seat near the back. My palms are damp.
Mr.?Kuraken doesn’t step up to the podium like he used to. Instead, he enters quietly through a side door. He’s wearing a simple shirt—no tie, no sharp blazer. His hair’s shorter. His face still bears the faint remnants of old bruises. He doesn’t look around. He just walks to his seat three rows in, one seat in from the aisle, and sits with his shoulders straight.
I can’t help looking back.
A hush falls as the principle begins—“Thank you all for coming this evening… we’ve had a challenging week…” His voice is steady. I taste the metallic tang of tension in the air. Someparents frown. Others cross their arms. I see a woman whisper to the man next to her: “Teacher with a past? That one’s going to blow up.” A man in a crisp suit glares at the back door where Jav sits.
I swallow. I should leave. Maybe this isn’t for me. But I stay.
When the Q&A opens, a mother stands. “How can we trust someone with a background like that in charge of our children?” she asks. “What assurances do we have?”
The principle nods respectfully. “Mr.?Kuraken has been with the school six months. His performance has been exemplary. The children—especially in his class—show marked improvement in participation and empathy metrics.”
Another parent, a father, stands—voice rich and tired. “My daughter told me Mr.?Kuraken told a story about monster-hunters teaming up with kids. She walked away feeling braver.” He nods toward Jav. “I believe in his work.”
Applause. Some hearty. Some tentative.
I glance at Jav. He meets my gaze for a second. There’s a vulnerability there. He doesn’t smile—just a small nod. I feel something inside me shift—an ache of pride tangled with fear.
After the meeting ends, I linger. The crowd drifts out into the lobby. I find a place near the window where light fades and the hallway smells of dust and old books.
