Chapter 117: A Matter of Practice

Chapter 117: Chapter 117: A Matter of Practice

Chapter 117: A Matter of Practice

Owen Keats remained at the cafeteria table after Cyrus left, staring first at the retreating figure and then at the folded note beside his tray.

No matter how many times he read it, the instructions did not seem believable.

Cyrus wanted him to visit the west academic building after lunch and wait in one of the upper hallways. The rest of the note was stranger. It described who might approach him, what she might say, and how Owen should respond if the conversation turned toward Cyrus.

The whole thing read less like advice and more like a prediction.

Owen folded the paper again and slipped it into his pocket before anyone nearby could see it. He finished eating at his usual slow pace, returned his tray, and crossed campus toward the west building.

The hallway Cyrus had chosen overlooked a narrow path between two academic wings. From the windows, Owen could see part of the courtyard and the route leading back toward the main building.

Cyrus was already below.

He stood near the rear of the building for a while, apparently waiting for something. When nobody joined him, he checked his phone and eventually walked away.

Owen watched until Cyrus disappeared around the corner.

The note had told him to come here, but it had not explained why Cyrus himself would be waiting below. The next part made even less sense. According to the paper, Owen was supposed to act casual if someone questioned him about lunch.

He had only started wondering whether this was some strange joke when a familiar voice came from behind him.

"Owen, there you are."

He turned before she finished speaking.

Iris Wexley stood a few steps away, one hand resting against the strap of her school bag. They had known each other since childhood, which meant he could recognize her voice even when she spoke quietly.

It also meant she knew exactly where to find him.

"What are you doing over here?" Iris asked.

"I was walking around after lunch," Owen replied. "Sitting down right after eating makes me sleepy."

It was a weak excuse, but Iris did not challenge it.

Owen studied her face. "What about you? Were you looking for me?"

"There was something I wanted to ask."

Her tone carried a hesitation that did not sound natural on her. Iris usually chose her words before approaching anyone, especially Owen. She was rarely the kind of person who began a conversation without knowing where she wanted it to end.

Owen noticed and softened his voice.

"Did something happen? You seem bothered."

"I suppose something did."

Iris adjusted her glasses, then seemed to settle on what she wanted to say.

"Why were you still spending time with Cyrus during lunch?"

Owen remembered the note in his pocket.

The first line of Cyrus’s prediction had just come true.

"I needed to talk to him about something," Owen said. "He asked me for help, and I asked him for advice."

"But he was accused of stealing from the class."

Iris did not finish the accusation directly. She did not have to.

Owen knew exactly what she meant.

His first instinct was to defend Cyrus. He had been ready to say that Cyrus was not that kind of person, that the accusation had never made sense, and that Faye had been treated just as unfairly.

The words stayed in his throat.

He looked at Iris, someone who had been beside him for most of his life, and felt an unfamiliar distance between them.

Had she always rejected people this quickly?

Owen tried to remember whether Iris had spoken this way about other classmates. A few memories surfaced at once. She had warned him away from people who borrowed money, students who wanted his homework, classmates who asked for favors too often, and friends she believed were taking advantage of his patience.

At the time, her concern had seemed reasonable.

Now the pattern felt less comfortable.

Iris continued while he was still thinking.

"Wouldn’t your parents be worried if they knew you were getting close to someone involved in something like this?"

Her voice remained gentle. She sounded uncertain, even reluctant, as though she disliked criticizing Cyrus but felt obligated to protect Owen from a bad decision.

That made the words harder to dismiss.

Owen had heard that tone before.

He had probably heard it many times.

"I understand what you’re saying," he replied slowly.

Relief appeared on Iris’s face. Her glasses and the light freckles across her cheeks gave her an unassuming appearance, but the smile that followed was attractive enough to soften the sharper parts of the conversation.

"You have always been too kind," she said. "Your mother has told me more than once that she worries someone at school might take advantage of you."

Owen said nothing.

Iris moved a little closer.

"I will keep looking out for you. You should not have to notice every dishonest person by yourself."

"Thank you for caring."

The gratitude in his voice lacked warmth.

Iris caught the difference immediately.

"What is bothering you, Owen?"

He reached into his pocket and felt the edge of Cyrus’s folded note.

"I think I finally understand what happened to part of the missing money."

For the first time, Iris’s expression failed to remain steady.

The change lasted only an instant. A colder light passed through her eyes before the concern returned, but Owen had already seen it.

"I should go," he said. "I need to speak with Ms. Hart before lunch ends."

He walked past her without waiting for an answer.

Behind him, Iris remained beside the hallway windows.

He really knew.

She lowered her eyes, hiding the irritation that had entered them.

Why had this become so difficult to manage?

Owen did not look back.

The note in his pocket no longer seemed absurd. Cyrus had predicted the location, the person, and almost the exact direction of the conversation. More importantly, he had told Owen to pay attention to how familiar the words felt.

That was the part Owen could not ignore.

He left the west building and stopped at the campus store. After buying a small item, he asked the cashier to break a larger bill into smaller denominations. The resulting mix of bills and coins matched the amount missing from the class collection.

Paying it himself was not fair, but leaving Cyrus and Faye under suspicion felt worse.

Owen carried the money to Ms. Hart’s office and repeated the explanation he had prepared along the way.

The older teacher listened without interrupting. When he finished, she pushed her glasses higher and regarded him with open skepticism.

"You are saying the student who took the money approached you privately, returned the missing amount, and asked you not to reveal their identity?"

Owen kept his hands at his sides.

"That is what happened. Cyrus and Faye had nothing to do with it."

Ms. Hart accepted the money and counted it carefully. The total matched what had disappeared.

She placed it on the desk and leaned back in her chair.

"I am allowing this because it is the first incident of this kind in our advisory," she said. "You may protect the student’s identity this time. If anything like this happens again, you will not be permitted to cover for them."

"I understand, Ms. Hart. Thank you for accepting it."

"You should return to class now."

Owen left the office before his discomfort showed too clearly.

Once the door closed, Ms. Hart looked down at the scattered bills and coins.

The security footage had shown nothing useful. Now the supposed thief had returned the money without being caught and trusted Owen to protect them.

She released a tired breath.

Students at that age could be thoughtful and foolish within the same decision. It was often difficult to tell which part mattered more.

The afternoon moved forward without further interruption until Ms. Hart’s class.

Before beginning the lesson, she spent several minutes addressing the missing money. She spoke to the entire room rather than directing her warning toward any particular student.

The money had been returned. She would not name the person responsible, and she expected the class to stop spreading accusations. Whoever had taken it would receive one opportunity to understand the seriousness of what they had done.

There would not be another private resolution.

Most students understood what her announcement meant. The sudden theft that had occupied the morning was officially finished, even if the details remained unclear.

Once Ms. Hart herself confirmed that the matter had been resolved, the students who had suspected Cyrus and Faye had little reason to continue openly blaming them.

A few looked toward the back of the room.

Cyrus sat in his usual place with his attention on the lesson. Faye appeared equally composed at her own desk. Neither looked relieved, angry, or eager to prove anything.

They had carried the accusation all morning without changing much at all.

By the final bell, most of the class had already moved on to other concerns.

Students packed their bags, discussed homework, and hurried toward clubs, buses, rides, or whatever waited after school. The classroom gradually emptied until only Owen and Cyrus remained.

Owen had stayed deliberately.

Cyrus remained because studying gave him something useful to do before work. He sat near the window with a notebook open, moving through the problems at a slow but steady pace.

Once the hallway outside became quiet, Owen approached his desk.

"How did you know Iris would find me and try to convince me to stay away from you?"

Cyrus did not look up immediately.

"I do not think I am the person you should be asking."

Owen considered that answer and gave a reluctant nod.

"You are probably right."

The shock he had felt toward Cyrus’s prediction faded. The more important question was no longer how Cyrus had recognized the pattern. Owen needed to understand why Iris had created it.

He already knew where the missing money had gone. Otherwise, he would never have replaced it himself or lied to Ms. Hart about a remorseful thief.

"You really are impressive, Cyrus."

The praise produced almost no reaction.

There was nothing impressive about it.

Cyrus had simply encountered this kind of behavior before.

Anyone who spent enough time being restricted, watched, redirected, and separated from other people would eventually learn the warning signs. A person did not need special intelligence when experience had repeated the lesson until missing it became impossible.

The situation was not identical, of course.

St. Alder existed inside an orderly human society, not the isolated place Cyrus had come from. There were teachers, school policies, security cameras, parents, police, and rules that people were at least expected to follow.

That made the methods quieter.

It did not make them unfamiliar.

Cyrus noticed the trouble settling over Owen’s expression and stopped writing.

"What are you planning to do next?"

"I will ask her what happened," Owen said. "I need to hear the answer from her."

"That sounds reasonable."

Owen adjusted his bag and stepped away from the desk.

"I should head out. I will see you tomorrow."

"I will see you in class."

After Owen left, Cyrus remained alone.

He turned toward the windows. The afternoon light had already weakened, and the edges of the school grounds were slipping toward evening.

Since the weather began cooling, dusk had been arriving earlier. Cyrus preferred the colder air, but the shorter days made his schedule feel tighter.

He waited until it was time to leave, then stretched in his chair and covered a long yawn with one hand. His notebook went into his bag, followed by the rest of his school things.

A night shift at The Full Moon Lounge was still waiting for him.