CHAPTER 4
The air inside the Founder’s Archive smelled of old paper, polished leather, and cold metal. It was a massive circular room, lit by warm, low-hanging brass lamps. The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with safe deposit boxes and ancient mahogany filing cabinets. It felt less like a school basement and more like the private vault of a central bank.
Elias walked confidently across the room, his boots echoing in the quiet space. He bypassed the rows of standard files and approached a section of the wall protected by a secondary layer of brushed steel.
Engraved into the steel, right at eye level, was a single, heavy keyhole marked B-17.
Kevin stood between the guards, his chest heaving with panicked breaths. The reality of his situation was finally crashing down on him. The safety net of his father’s wealth had just evaporated.
Elias inserted the titanium key into the lock. He turned it clockwise. A heavy, mechanical clack echoed through the room as three internal deadbolts disengaged simultaneously.
He pulled the heavy steel drawer open.
Reaching inside, Elias withdrew a thick, leather-bound portfolio. He walked over to a massive oak reading table in the center of the room and set it down. He flipped it open. Inside was a single piece of yellowed parchment, covered in elegant, looping 19th-century calligraphy.
“The Founder’s Charter,” Elias said, looking down at the document. “Written by Arthur Prescott in 1890. It stipulates that the Chairman of the Trust retains absolute veto power over any decision made by the Headmaster or the Board. It grants the power to fire any employee without cause. And it grants the power to expel any student, instantly, without a hearing.”
Vance swallowed audibly, staring at the floor. He knew his own job was hanging by a thread.
Elias pulled a fountain pen from his breast pocket. He looked across the table at Kevin Baxter.
“Prescott Academy was built to mold character,” Elias said, his voice devoid of anger, which somehow made it vastly more terrifying. “It was built to teach the privileged that with great wealth comes an absolute duty to protect those with less. Instead, I have watched it become a playground for entitled tyrants.”
Elias unscrewed the cap of the pen.
“Wait,” Kevin gasped, his voice breaking. He pushed forward, testing the grip of the security guards. “Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were.”
“That is exactly the problem, Kevin,” Elias replied coldly. “You are not sorry that you pushed an old man into a wall. You are not sorry that you destroyed his property. You are only sorry that the old man turned out to own the building.”
Elias looked at Vance. “Arthur, bring me Mr. Baxter’s permanent file.”
Vance hurried to a nearby terminal, printed a document, and brought it to the table. Elias placed it next to the Charter.
“My father is going to sue you!” Kevin yelled, his fear morphing into a desperate, cornered anger. “You can’t do this! I have scholarships! I’m going to Yale!”
Elias didn’t even blink. He signed his name at the bottom of the expulsion order with flowing, precise strokes.
“You were going to Yale,” Elias corrected.
He reached into the B-17 vault again and pulled out a heavy, cast-iron stamp. He pressed it onto a red ink pad, then slammed it down hard onto the front page of Kevin’s official transcript.
I leaned forward to look. The red ink burned brightly against the white paper.
EXTREME MORAL VIOLATION.