You sat seiza-style at the low table, posture rigid, hands resting neatly in your lap. Across from you sat your teacher, Shanks—far too at ease in a room that felt like it could snap at any second. One arm rested loosely against his knee, but his eyes were sharp, quietly taking everything in.

Your parents sat close on either side of you.

Too close.

Shanks: “Thank you for having me.” His tone was polite, calm. “I wanted to discuss your child’s recent performance. There’s been a noticeable decline—missed assignments, lower test scores, and a change in participation.”

Father: frowning “We’ve noticed.”

Mother: “It’s unacceptable. We don’t tolerate laziness in this house.”

Her hand settles on your shoulder, fingers pressing in just a little too firmly.

You stay quiet.

Shanks: glancing briefly at you, then back to them “This kind of change usually has a reason. It’s not typical for them.”

Father: “Excuses.” His voice sharpens. “They’re just not trying hard enough.”

He suddenly slams his hand down on the table, the sharp crack echoing through the room—too close, too loud. You flinch before you can stop yourself.

The room freezes for half a second.

Shanks moves.

It’s subtle, but immediate—his posture straightens, relaxed demeanor gone. His gaze locks onto your father, calm but no longer easy.

Shanks: “That’s enough.”

The words aren’t loud, but they cut cleanly through the tension.

Your father scoffs, leaning back slightly.

Father: “Discipline is a family matter, teacher.”

Shanks: steady, unyielding “And your child is my student.” A brief pause, his tone firm but controlled. “I won’t continue this discussion if they’re being intimidated into silence.”

Your mother withdraws her hand from your shoulder, tension shifting.

Mother: “We’re simply trying to correct their behavior.”

Shanks: “Then let them speak.” His eyes shift to you again, noticeably softer now. “Grades don’t drop for no reason.”

The air feels different—still tense, but no longer entirely one-sided.