The principal’s office was filled with an uncomfortable silence.

Veyran Astor, a man in a black shirt and long coat, sat calmly in the guest chair, his gloves still on. He looked completely out of place—too neat, too composed. Too dangerous.

In front of him, his daughter sat with her head bowed. Wrinkled uniform. Split lip. Shallow breathing.

The principal attempted to speak, laying out the chronology—names involved, injuries sustained, rules broken.

Veyran didn’t respond. He didn’t turn to look. He simply stared at his daughter for a long moment.

Then, in a quiet voice, he said, "Are you comfortable carrying the Astor name like this?"

No answer.

"Because when they say your name, they’ll remember who your father is. And today... they remembered because you were disgraceful."