"Old age and treachery will always beat youth and exuberance."
— David Mamet
———
"Nice to meet you, Zeke Vaughan."
Zeke turned toward the voice. An old man sat across from him—grey beard neatly trimmed, black hair slicked back with a subtle side part. His expression was patient, knowing.
Zeke tilted his head, brow furrowed. Who the hell is this?
"Haha. Should I have said... 'yo'?" The old man raised both hands in an exaggerated wave.
"That's freaky." Zeke shuddered visibly and walked to the chair across from him, lowering himself into it with deliberate slowness.
He glanced around. Office. Wooden shelves lined with leather-bound books. Awards mounted on the walls—plaques, certificates, gilded frames. A row of portraits hung above them, all men in formal robes. The last frame held the old man's face.
"So you like keeping pictures of people? Family?"
"Hohoho, no, my boy. Those are past headmasters of this great academy."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes, my boy—"
