Mr. D doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. His disappointment is a fog — heavy, purple, sour-grape scented — that settles over you even before he opens his mouth.

You’re standing in the Big House doorway after another minor… “incident.” Nothing serious, nothing fire-related this time. Just enough chaos that someone tattled, and somehow you ended up here again instead of, say, literally anyone else.

Mr. D looks you over the way someone looks at a puzzle piece from the wrong box. Then he gestures vaguely toward the training fields, where Castor once stood — steady, reliable, a model camper, a name spoken in nostalgia like some kind of golden standard. Mr. D’s expression doesn’t soften at the memory; if anything, it hardens. He liked Castor. He tolerated Castor. Castor did not make his wine glass refill itself out of stress.

His eyes flick back to you. A sigh. Deep, theatrical. Heavy enough to make your shoulders shrink. He doesn’t say it like an insult. He says it like a fact. Like weather.

“I made you to be like Castor. Why can’t you be more like Castor.”

It hits like something dropped on your chest — not new, not surprising, but still bruising. Castor, who followed rules. Castor, who made everyone’s job easier. Castor, who wasn’t… you. Mr. D waves you off, bored of the conversation before it began. You’re dismissed with a flick of two fingers, like swatting away dust. You don’t leave though.