The upholstery cushion groaned as Nathan sat down in the guest chair. A frustrated sigh spilled from his lips, a nervous hand brushes his bangs back into place. The principal's office is silent, and tension is thick in the air.

Wells is seated in his leather chair, eyeing the heir of the Prescott family. His hands are clasped together in front of his face, shielding everything except his pensive frown. The silence hangs over his shoulders, beckoning him to say something, but he does not.

The sound of voices comes from the receptionist's office beyond the door. Harsh and boisterous tones and equally vague replies echo intelligibly, then pause. There's the sound of footfalls, then the click of the door's handle—

Sean Prescott steps into the room, his suit and tie pressed in sharp creases from his movements. Behind him, a dainty woman in a maroon dress with an equally colorful sunhat steps inside, and gently closes the door behind her, allowing them to begin their discussion in peace.

Well, in relative peace. Even Nathan curled up in his seat when his father opened his mouth—

"Raymond."

"…Mr. Prescott," the principal greeted.

"I'd like to get this settled and put behind us, if you don't mind," Sean made no move for the other guest chair, instead reserving it for his wife. She sat down next to her son, and gave him a loving smile. Nathan rolled his eyes at the gesture, and slumped as far as he could from his father's growling voice, "I want to know how many people were debriefed about the details. You have a list or something?"

"The public does not know," the principal tries to mediate, "I have made sure that the news organizations in and outside the school have the temporary set of facts, and nothing else. Nothing that endangers you or your family is being talked about, I can assure you that."

"Except you can't," Sean retorted, glaring down the bridge of his nose, "I don't want kind words, Ray. I want you to be active, I want you to be pro-active about this. If people start talking about a Prescott being involved with this mess, do you know what that means?"

"…that your son—"

"That MY son," he stressed, "will suddenly be in danger! Bullying, ostracization, death threats! You think those kids wouldn't waste the opportunity to slander my son and have him be blamed for this? I know the sentiment in this academy is no different than in the whole town—Prescott this and Prescott that! Those lousy brats are more than happy to criticize my name for having invested so much into Blackwell and the opportunities it provides, even though it's us that give them the chance to succeed to begin with!"

The man was ready to go further with his tirade, but a gentle hand clasped one of his, and he turned to his wife. She beckoned him to silence, and gave Wells a soft smile, "What my husband's trying to say, is that we'd appreciate it if we knew, for certain, that our son will not get blamed for any reason. After all, Mr. Wells, you know what happens when tragedy comes along—there are those who mourn, and there are those who turn to anger. We all know that this was an accident, and we want to be sure," she emphasized with a dip in her calculated tone, "that our son doesn't become someone's scapegoat by circumstance. Isn't that right, sweetie?"

Nathan nodded silently, his arms crossed and his gaze locked to his lap. He said nothing.

"I am aware of that, Mrs. Prescott," the principal nodded in relief, "It's just a matter of Nathan giving his statement to verify he was not explicitly involved with what happened. Everything else will be handled by me personally."

There was a pause. The woman's eyes glimmered from under the brim of her sunhat, scrutinizing the anxious man sat across from her. Her small smile then grew, to which she bared her pearly white teeth, glimmering like those of a wolf having decided its next hunt.

"Wondrous. I understand for the sake of formality, you need to speak to our son alone. Let us know when all is said and done."

Wells gulped. His reciprocating smile was bent with stress, "Yes, I will. Thank you, Mrs. Prescott."

The wife stood from her seat, and led her husband by the hand out of the office. Despite having a fire still contained in his lungs, Sean managed to say all he needed with a curt glance back to the principal, then closing the door as he stepped out.

And so, it was just the two of them again.

"Alright, let's get this over with," Wells huffed, "What happened? What did you do?"

"I'd watch your tone if I were you," Nathan growled at the sudden interrogation, "One bad comment is all it takes."

"I'm asking you what you did before and during the incident," clarified, though not without his own stubborn temper, "I can't help you get out of this if you don't be forthcoming with the details."

"I was minding my own fucking business, just like everybody else," Nathan started, "I was looking forward to heading back to my dorm and getting some rest. I was stressed out—"

"Why?" Wells interjected, "Why were you stressed?"

"What, you think your teachers just sit around all day?" Nathan cackled, "Those fuckers got all kinds a' tricks up their sleeves. It wouldn't surprise me if your curriculum is the reason behind me having such a difficult time with my classes. After all, I manage my time pretty well."

Wells bit down on his tongue at the obvious bait, "You were stressed out, and heading to your dorm."

"Yeah," Nathan paused in thought, "I was about to step outside, when this chick pulled on my arm and told me to follow her. She seemed harmless, so I went along with it. Ended up in the girls' bathrooms."

At the admission, Wells visibly pales. A hand brushes the sheen of sweat forming on his wrinkled brow. He swears under his breath, then swears again once he realizes—

"…this wouldn't happen to be Ms. Price that you ran into, now would it?"

"I didn't know her name," Nathan retorted a bit too easily, "still don't know, in fact. She just seemed familiar, I guess."

"…you're telling me you were not able to identify Ms. Price based on her features and pattern of behavior?"

"No. Why, am I supposed to?"

"No, but—"

"Then there isn't a fucking problem, is there?"

Well's jaw clenched. Inhale, then exhale. Inhale, then exhale.

"You entered the bathroom with Ms. Price," he returned to the conversation.

"Yeah, and then she goes fucking insane on me," the heir's hands are gesturing wildly at what he says, "She was getting all up in my face, yelling at me and spitting all over me, cussin' me out. She started threatening me too. Saying she'd find out where I live, that she'd cut me up. And right when she said that, she pulled out a knife—"

"Ms. Price did not have any weapons on her person," the older man stressed, "Try again."

"Doesn't matter to me how you gotta say it. She threatened to cut me up, and that was good enough for me," Nathan placed a thoughtful hand upon the pocket of his red jacket, "I had my piece on me, in case I had to defend myself. You never know when someone decides to try their luck on someone who they think is a prime target."

"Firearms are strictly prohibited from campus grounds," Wells pointedly reminded him, "I can't cover for you if you're already breaking rules that would have others expelled without any deliberation on my part!"

"Then make an exception."

"It is not that simple," the principal rumbled in his aggravated voice, "I'd have to explain this to the police department, and they already received the statements from the other witnesses—"

"Witnesses?" Nathan reflected, his eyes narrowing, "What witnesses?"

"You discharged a firearm, twice, inside a building full of staff and students, of course there are witnesses," Wells dug into him, "And it's a miracle that I managed to pull the fire alarm in time to make sure nobody noticed you with a damn gun in your hand."

"I was defending myself, thank you very much," Nathan bit back, "Last I checked, it's perfectly legal to do that."

"Then what was the second shot for?"

Now, there's a pause. A long, and dangerous pause. Wells felt the dread roll down his spine as he leaned forwards.

"There was this other girl inside, I didn't get a good look at her face," Nathan finally recalled, "but she came from that space behind the stalls, and I thought she was trying to rush me. I tried to stop her by yelling at her, telling her to stop moving towards me, but…but my finger slipped."

"…you have got to be fucking kidding me."

"Why don't you try keeping calm after nearly getting jumped," Nathan snapped, "I bet your goofy ass wouldn't even hesitate to pull the fucking trigger!"

"Can we please," Wells brought up a hand as a desperate plea for his sanity, and to his relief Nathan was willing to hold himself back, "…this is going to be troublesome. There's not a lot to stop someone from putting two-and-two together if they were to find out about your…personal defense weapon. Madsen has already given me analysis reports about the cartridges that you left behind at the scene, and already handed them over to the police before I could stop him. Now, the police might know better than to ask, but if Madsen finds out about your ability to protect yourself, then he'll use that to justify his search, and then there's nothing I can do."

"Couldn't you just fire him?"

"Oh, and confirm his suspicions while I'm at it?" Wells chided sarcastically, "That is a terrible idea. Madsen is a dog, and I am the owner with the leash. The only way this works for both of us is if I keep a tight hold on the leash, not let it go, nor cut it loose. We need to make sure we have him right where we can see him, so we can preempt his movements as soon as possible."

Nathan nodded, content with the logic behind Wells' advice. But there was something nagging him, a subtle pang of doubt eating at his confidence. It made him fidget in his seat, and he wondered aloud, "Witnesses."

"…yes, witnesses."

"As in, people who might suspect that it was me who did it."

"No, as in people who were close enough to be within earshot."

Nathan frowned, "You said the police had statements from multiple people. Was Madsen one of them?"

"…yes."

"He suspects me. Others might suspect me, too. So, who were the others?"

"I…do not know."

"Bullshit," Nathan pressed, "You spoke with the police, haven't you? They know you've got jurisdiction, especially since you're under our payroll. You would've heard it from one of them about who testified, about who's pointing fingers."

"That does not mean—"

"Who the fuck are they," came the demand, "Names, Raymond. I want names."

"That's Wells to you, Mr. Prescott," the older man straightened his posture, and puffed out his chest with a stubborn pride. Yet, Nathan's gesture to include his parents in the matter caused the principal to yield to his demands, and the latter opened a drawer and pulled from it a manila envelope, sealed with the badge of the Arcadian Police Department.

The envelope passed hands, and its seal was torn open and its contents examined. Nathan sat in silence as he read, his glare catching at the names of the people who he knew and did not know.

"No one named you personally. No one suspects you, and it would be in your best interest to lay low and not make a bigger problem of this than it already is. I've already got a busy schedule meeting with town officials about what happened here and what it could mean for the future of their investments in the town's housing and real estate market. Nobody moves into a place known for its crime, but for its lack of crime—"

"Shut the fuck up," the Prescott heir commanded. Wells bristled, but held his tongue.

Now, the older man waited. Again, a weird nervousness afflicted him. He knew how Nathan solved his problems, and Wells was certain that the aftermath would be similar to this: his task to sweep another incident under the rug was sure to come soon after.

Only once Nathan placed the files back in the envelope and handed them over to Wells did the latter speak, "…I can only cover for you if you don't shoot yourself in the foot, both figuratively and literally. Do not do anything stupid, and this will come to pass. Let me do my job, and I can assure you that you'll walk away clean from this."

Nathan hardly looked relieved about that assurance. Perhaps he'd grown tired of Wells' speech. Perhaps, he didn't care. The principal never knew what it was exactly, and it bothered him to no end.

"Thanks," the boy finally replied, and stood from his seat, "We done here?"

"Yes, we are. Until next time, Mr. Prescott."

Nathan seemed to mimic the same parting glare his father gave, then stepped out of the office. Wells waited until he was sure that the Prescott family was not going to step back into his office, then tugged upon another drawer of his desk. From it, he pulled a bottle of hard liquor; and with a swift pop of the cap he slammed the bottle back with a powerful swig, and placed it down upon the desktop, wincing at the harsh bite of the alcohol.

It was going to be a long day.

"…of course, we can talk more about the details of our arrangement some other time," a mighty hand smacked against Nathan's back, jolting him from his slump, "Now, I hope you've been putting some effort into your classes, haven't you, son?"

"Yes, dad."

"Good to hear. You've got a long way to go, and learning's a tough process for those who don't try," Sean then beckoned to the other person in their company, "Why, what was that phrase you told me once before? That if there's no pain, then there's no gain?"

"Yes, something like that," the person smiled, his sharp eyes covered by stylish spectacles never straying from the Prescott patriarch, "Nathan's proven himself as a more-than-capable photographer. I've tried convincing him to take my class and open up his potential, but that is ultimately his choice. Your son truly has a gift, Mr. Prescott."

"Well, I'd hope so," Sean chuckles, "He came from me and my wife, a match made in heaven! They say children are the best gift in the world, and I'd tell them: damn right that is! Now, I'd hate to cut this short, Mark, but the wife and I have to get back for a dinner with the Chase family down at the Rue Altimore. You know how impatient Ed gets when he's not shit-talkin' the Green Bay Packers or getting stuck in that Alaskan crab he likes so damn much."

"Yes, of course," Mark Jefferson laughed along with the boisterous man, "Take care, Sean."

Nathan's father about faced and met with his wife waiting near the exit. They left, and took with them the oppressive atmosphere that followed them. Nathan rolled the invisible weight off his shoulders, shedding his rigid posture.

"What'd he say?" Jefferson inquired. His anxious glance to the principal's office cued Nathan in.

"That he'd sweep it under the rug. No big deal."

"Easy for you to say," came the stern retort, "I've had to stand guard for the past twelve hours to make sure nobody comes poking down the lane. What were you thinking?"

"It all happened so fast, I didn't have the time to think," the Prescott heir defended himself, "One moment, I had it under control—the next, the bitch was trying to rush me. I did what I had to."

"And what did it almost cost us? Everything," the photography teacher hissed, leaning over his grimacing protégé, "I am trying to help you, but if you keep making mistakes like this then we're never going to get anywhere."

"You forget that it's your instructions that get me into some of these situations. Why'd you pick out that one girl, at the Vortex party? That attempt nearly got me busted, just because you wanted her specifically."

"But you didn't get busted," came the self-righteous reply, "because somewhere between you getting away and you getting caught, you set up precautions to save yourself. I don't know what it was, but it saved you from making a very stupid mistake, unlike what you did in that bathroom."

Nathan shook his head in disbelief. Yet this gesture seemed to entice the photographer, "Nate, there is a fine line between making art and making a fuckup. You know this, and that's why you're holding yourself back when it comes to taking that final step. I know it's not easy, I know that your life is in a rough state, but the purpose you would tap into if you'd make that commitment is exceptional. Just think of the possibilities!"

Nathan says nothing. He may be entertaining the madman's wishes, but he's still hesitant, still reluctant about what might become of this weird relationship he's stumbled into. Ever since they met for the first time back when he was a sophomore, so young and dumb and completely oblivious—

"Nate, do you know why I do this?"

"You're doing it for my father's money."

"I am doing this for your potential," Mark corrected, "Money is secondary, money facilitates our ability to find what we're really looking for. I know you've got other things to worry about, but for once, Nate, I'd like for you to understand what's at stake here. Artists do not just sit around all day and wait for inspiration to find them, no—they search relentlessly for that inspiration. However, they do it with precautions in mind, something that you need to take into more consideration when you follow through with my instructions."

Nathan huffed his stress away, and turned to leave.

"Nate."

He stopped, then slowly turned to look back.

"We'll talk later, I'll text you when," there was a sympathetic inflection in these words, "I'm not mad at you. I want you to succeed, but we need to go over some rules before we do anything else. Go on, Nate."

Nathan turned, and went. He was tired, and needed some space to himself. But even more importantly, he needed to converse with his clique; there were doors to knock on, and people to persuade.