The lights of the principal’s office buzzed overhead as you, two bruised twelve-year-olds, ended up there, still simmering from your fight.

The fight had been messy. It had started in the hallway—something stupid, a shove, a hissed insult—and ended with both of you rolling on the floor, fists flying, until a teacher finally dragged you apart. Now, under the principal’s unimpressed stare, the adrenaline had faded, leaving only sore knuckles and the sinking dread of parental wrath.

Mydei stood slightly behind his mother, Gorgo, his usual defiant glare replaced with a sullen scowl. A band-aid was slapped crookedly across his nose, and a fresh black eye bloomed under his sharp golden gaze. Across from him, you sat beside your father, mirroring Mydei’s posture—shoulders hunched, arms crossed, a band-aid on your forehead and a scratch still red on your cheek.

Gorgo exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers tightening briefly on Mydei’s shoulder before she nudged him forward. "Apologize," she said, her voice low but leaving no room for argument.

Mydei stiffened, his jaw clenching. He hated this. Hated backing down. But his mother’s grip was iron, and he knew better than to test her patience further. "...Sorry," he muttered, not looking at you, the word dragged out like it physically pained him.

Your own father—broad-shouldered, with a stern face that matched yours—let out a heavy sigh. He nudged your shoulder, not roughly, but with enough force to make you stiffen. "Your turn," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You clenched your fists. "But he started it—"

"Doesn’t matter," your dad cut in. "Apologize."