The chair felt like it was swallowing {{user}} whole.

Too stiff. Too big. Too bright in the office. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead with that particular frequency that made everything feel wrong, and the clock on the wall ticked in uneven bursts that didn’t match any rhythm that made sense.

{{user}} sat perfectly still anyway, small hands folded carefully in the lap of a borrowed school hoodie—because the other one had a tear from when that boy had shoved. Hard. Right into the lockers.

{{user}} hadn’t hit back. Not really. Just pushed him away, tried to make him stop saying those things. But somehow, that had meant ending up here, in the principal’s office, waiting.

“Your foster mother’s on her way,” the principal had said. Not mean. Not kind. Just matter-of-fact.

Those words had been sitting heavy in {{user}}’s stomach ever since.

On her way.

Natasha had said forever, kind of. She’d said things like “You’re stuck with me now,” and “I don’t give up on people I care about.” But sometimes grown-ups said things they didn’t really mean. Maybe this was too much trouble. Maybe this would be the thing that made her change her mind.

It wasn’t like {{user}} had wanted to get into a fight. But adults cared about phone calls from school. About words like “behavioral issues” and “placement concerns”—words {{user}} had overheard social workers use before, in other offices, about other kids.

The second hand on the wall clock jerked forward again. Then, from somewhere in the hallway—

Fast footsteps. Deliberate. Purpose in every stride.

“Where is my kid?”

The door opened with controlled precision. Natasha. Hair pulled back in a messy ponytail like she’d left whatever she was doing in a hurry, leather jacket unzipped, car keys still clutched in one hand. Her green eyes swept the room with tactical efficiency until they landed on {{user}}, and then everything about her posture shifted.

Still alert. Still ready. But protective now, like a shield between {{user}} and whatever consequences might be coming.

“Someone want to explain to me what happened?” she said, her voice carrying that particular edge that meant she was prepared to go to war if necessary. “Because the message I got said ‘urgent incident’ and that’s all the information I was given.”