Chapter 2

The apartment smelled of grease and stubborn pride. Dad was still in his coveralls, knuckles blackened, but his eyes—those quiet, watchful eyes—had that look I hadn't seen since Mom left.

“I’m done with this, Elena,” he said, sliding a folder across the kitchen table.

I opened it. Photographs. Bank statements. A timestamped email thread from the admissions server. My breath caught.

“How did you—?”

“An old teammate works in the city’s cyber division. Owed me a favor.” His jaw tightened. “They swapped your scores two hours after the exam. Camille’s father paid for the edit.”

I stared at the evidence, then at him. All my life, Dad was the quiet mechanic who fixed other people’s machines. I never asked about the scars on his ribs. Never wondered why he flinched at fireworks.

“I’m confronting Voss tomorrow,” he said. “You stay out of it.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Elena.”

“I’ve been silent my whole life, Dad. I’m done.”

---

The admissions office smelled of leather and old money. Marcus Voss didn’t offer us seats. He looked at the folder, looked at us, and smiled—a thin, practiced smile.

“These are fabrications. You’re threatening a city official’s daughter. One call, and you’ll both be facing defamation suits that will bury your family for generations.”

“It’s not fabricated,” Dad said, voice flat. “And you know it.”

Voss’s smile slipped. “Get out.”

We were halfway to the door when he added, almost casually: “And tell your daughter to drop this. Dean Lange has a personal stake in Camille’s admission. You’re not just fighting us. You’re fighting the whole institution.”

The door clicked shut.

Dad’s hand found my shoulder—steady, warm, stronger than I remembered.

“I’ve got one more card to play,” he said. “But it’s a dangerous one.”

Part of me wanted to say no. The other part—the part that trusted him now—said, “Then play it.”