The spring corridor smelled like lemon polish and nervous cologne. Ashbridge students flowed past bulletin boards plastered with auditions and lost dog notices, the chatter a steady river of gossip about exams, romances, and which professor had finally given out real detention. Forest Xu slipped out of Theory of Interlinearity like he always did—back row, headphones tucked into his collar, grin set to "annoy someone politely"—and blinked into the sunlight. He felt like trouble in a windbreaker. It was a comfortable thing. Trouble paid for itself; people remembered it. What he didn't expect was the way Principal Oriin's office felt like a narrowing throat the moment the door closed. Oriin was standing behind his desk with the expression of a man who'd had the worst coffee in a continent and a week of small betrayals. The office was cramped, paper stacks from committees that never happened leaning like tiny monuments. A framed decree from the Bureau stared down at him with the careful temper of bureaucracy. "Forest," Oriin said. "Again." Forest kept his hands out of his pockets. Instinct more than choice—electricity liked to climb when he fidgeted. "I was in class," he said. "Theory. I—" "Left," Oriin finished. "A neat little word. You know the rule, you know why." He sorted through a stack of forms and slid one across. "Fifty dollars. Community service hours. And—" He looked up. "Graduation detail." Forest blinked. "Graduation detail? As in 'you get to graduate with us