I remember that moment almost frame by frame — the girl was sitting on the chair, hunched over, as if trying to become invisible.

The guard was already speaking into his radio, throwing her suspicious looks, as if the person sitting before him wasn’t a teenager but a hardened criminal.

And suddenly, the entrance doors swung open.

A tall man walked in. He didn’t say a word, but the air seemed to change density. Conversations fell silent. Even the guard seemed to freeze.

The man surveyed the hall with the confident, habitual gaze of a leader. And when his eyes found the girl — broken, frightened, with wet eyelashes — something cold flickered in them.

He knelt down in front of her, asking quietly:

— What happened here?

She tried to speak calmly, but her voice cracked:

— He… he said I stole the laptop…

At that moment, the guard finally understood who was standing before him. The color drained visibly from his face.

He opened his mouth as if to justify himself, but the man — the superintendent of the entire school district — stood up and looked at him in a way that made any excuses wither before they were even spoken.

Only then did everyone understand: this day would not end at all the way the guard had expected.