Adrian Moreau never delayed when it came to handling problems.
The disciplinary committee meeting was scheduled for precisely nine in the morning. There were no observers and no unnecessary explanations. The student who had been summoned arrived ten minutes early, standing at the center of the room, spine straight, breath tight despite the effort to remain composed.
Adrian sat at the head of the table.
Not the moderator's seat.
The default seat of judgment.
The violations themselves were not complicated—unauthorized access to restricted research areas, the copying of unpublished material, an attempt to reroute permissions through private channels.
At Elite Academy, such cases were not uncommon.
But being brought here meant the decision had already been made.
"You know exactly which regulation you violated," Adrian said, his voice level, without emotion.
The student nodded, his throat working.
"And you know just as well," Adrian continued, "that this is not an academic issue."
"It is a matter of trust."
He did not raise his voice.
He did not offer space for explanation.
The committee members remained silent.
They all understood this conclusion would not be overturned.
"Your enrollment will not be revoked," Adrian said. "However, you will lose permission to participate in all current Academy activities."
The student's head snapped up.
"That includes research projects, exchange programs, and any non-essential public engagements," Adrian went on. "You will remain within the system, but you will no longer be permitted to appear at its center."
A brief pause.
"We will also notify your father," Adrian added, "of the outcome of this evaluation."
His tone did not change.
"I hope your younger brother will be pleased."
For a single moment, the air in the room visibly tightened.
The student's expression finally shifted.
His mouth opened, then closed again.
Because he understood—
this was not merely an institutional penalty,
but a reordering of inheritance priority.
Adrian raised a hand, signaling the end of the meeting.
No discussion.
No supplementary remarks.
All subsequent handling would proceed without his further involvement.
The outcome had already been set.
That afternoon, Adrian left the Academy.
His car entered a family-controlled industrial district, inaccessible to the public. There were no signs and no visible security presence—order did not need to be displayed here, because it had long been internalized.
The traitor had already been secured.
Not a rebel driven by impulse.
But someone who had attempted to establish a secondary channel of authority within the family structure.
Adrian stood in the dimly lit conference room, facing him.
"You thought this was a negotiation," he said.
The other man remained silent.
"But this is merely a confirmation," Adrian continued. "A confirmation of whether you still belong to this system."
He did not mention loyalty.
He did not mention blood.
Those concepts carried no weight here.
"You did not cross a boundary," Adrian said. "You failed a responsibility."
He raised his hand, signaling the end.
no further explanation was required.
Nor would he take part in what followed.
When Adrian turned and left, the room remained quiet.
No pleas.
No resistance.
Like a diseased node cleanly excised, removed swiftly and without sound.
Late that night, Adrian returned to the Academy.
The lights were dimmer than usual, the system operating in low-frequency mode. The outlines of the buildings were calm, controlled.
He saw Luna outside the research building.
She stood on the steps, speaking briefly with a researcher. Her tone was steady, her posture relaxed, as if the judgments, purges, and executions of authority earlier that day had never occurred.
She saw him.
She merely inclined her head.
No avoidance.
No approach.
That made him stop.
"You were busy today," she said.
Not a question.
A conclusion.
"Handling some matters," Adrian replied.
"I could tell," Luna said.
Her voice carried no fluctuation.
As though everything he had done—
disciplinary rulings, familial purges, recalibrations of power—
were simply functions of his assigned role.
"You don't ask about the outcome," he said.
"The outcome has already happened," Luna replied. "Asking won't change it."
In that moment, Adrian realized—
she was not unaware.
She simply did not require confirmation.
"You're not afraid of this," he said.
"I understand it," Luna corrected. "Fear usually comes from misjudgment."
She looked at him, her gaze clear, precise.
"What you do is effective," she continued. "Within your system, it's the correct answer."
"But it isn't my problem."
She neither challenged nor dismissed him.
She simply placed the boundary back where it belonged.
For the first time, Adrian understood clearly—
she was not standing opposite him.
She was standing on another plane entirely.
"You don't need a judge," he said.
"I need the right to choose," Luna replied.
She stepped forward once, then stopped.
"And you're accustomed to choosing for others."
There was no accusation in the statement.
Only accuracy.
She turned and walked away.
She left no opening behind her,
and closed no door ahead.
Adrian remained where he was, realizing for the first time—
the thing he excelled at most
was not an advantage
when it came to her.