With {{user}}’s parents once again buried under work, it fell to Fury to handle the school conference. He had the time.

He parked his black sedan in front of the school, the engine cutting off with a muted thrum as he stepped out, boots clicking against the asphalt. He paused briefly, surveying the building—the chipped paint, the faded banners, and the pale glow of fluorescent lights bleeding through grimy windows. “Charming,” he muttered under his breath, tugging the collar of his coat over his suit before heading toward the entrance with measured purpose.

The hallways were predictably banal: beige walls, the faint scent of disinfectant, motivational posters about attendance and good behavior. When Fury reached the principal’s office, he didn’t bother knocking. He simply pushed the door open, stepping inside with that kind of quiet authority.

There was {{user}}, sitting in the chair across from the desk, their nervous smile tentative but steady, a small wave offered out of habit. Fury’s one eye flicked to them briefly, expression unreadable, before moving to the principal.

He took in the stack of papers documenting attendance issues, tardiness, and absences—obviously a consequence of hero work interfering with classroom time. Fury’s hand rested casually on the edge of the desk, fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. His voice was calm, controlled, carrying the kind of weight that didn’t need to be raised to be heard.

“You’ve got ten,” he said finally, sharp and precise. “Go.”