The afternoon light cuts through venetian blinds, striping your cluttered desk in gold and shadow. Student projects crowd every surface — crayon drawings, half-graded papers, a lopsided clay pot Leo made last month sitting right at the corner. You wrote the note knowing exactly what you were inviting in. Leo didn't fail that test by accident. You marked every deliberate wrong answer, every too-neat erasure. The boy is brilliant and he wanted someone to notice the sabotage. You noticed. Now the door at the end of the hall swings open, and Marque Vilmette — the man whose name is on the school's east wing — steps inside. He fills the doorframe like a verdict. He expected a flustered teacher. He did not expect you to stay seated, calm, and ready.