side chapter hall monitor conspiracy

Really? I thought, sipping calmly. Do they honestly believe they can intimidate me?

Yes, I was thirty-two, officially a “young teacher,” but looking at them, I could see the mental math happening in their little heads: She’s young, female, unobtrusive… an easy target. The nerve. The absolute nerve.

It reminded me of the Karens who had driven Beckett from the library all those years ago—the ones who’d treated competent workers like servants, wielding complaint forms like swords, leaving chaos in their wake. Foolish, self-important women. The hall monitors were practically a live-action reenactment, and, naturally, I was thoroughly entertained.

They had chosen a victim—Timothy, a quiet, introverted boy with a penchant for gothic novels and dark art. Naturally, they were attempting to humiliate him for “improper corridor posture” and “suspiciously dark attire.”

I leaned back in my chair and observed, mask in place, eyes narrowing behind my glasses. They were performing their little power parade with all the pomp of toddlers trying on a monarch’s crown. One of them, in particular—the one with the far-too-perfect comb-over and the air of moral righteousness—was practically vibrating with self-satisfaction.

The thing about hubris is that it always has an expiration date. And in my experience, it is exquisitely funny when it’s someone else’s.

I did nothing. Oh, not a thing. I simply allowed them the stage.

It began with a simple misstep. The comb-over monitor, attempting a dramatic lecture on “corridor etiquette,” tripped over the edge of a stray backpack and crashed into the emergency fire extinguisher. A hiss of powder filled the hallway, blinding him for a full thirty seconds while Timothy quietly sidestepped him like a shadow gliding past a clumsy predator.

The other two panicked, flailing, trying to help—but in their haste, one locked herself inside the storage closet while the other sent a lengthy rant intended for the principal to the entire faculty email list. The typos alone were enough to earn the wrath of Mrs. Monroe in HR, a woman with a vocabulary sharp enough to puncture their egos permanently.

Meanwhile, I sat in the lounge, perfectly composed. My tea was still warm, my expression unchanging. My annoyance was reserved for their sheer audacity to think that I, Diana Bloodbriar, needed to intervene personally.

I let it continue.

By the end of the period, the trio had accomplished nothing but chaos. The principal arrived, summoned by email complaints, only to find the monitors’ own antics had created what I can only call a spectacle of their own making. They were promptly suspended pending review. I heard later—after a thorough investigation—they were expelled entirely for abuse of power. Their hubris had self-immolated spectacularly.

I exhaled a small, satisfied sigh. The lounge was quiet again. Timothy wandered past, giving me a small, grateful nod. I returned it with a slight raise of my eyebrow, as if to say, See? I told you. Sometimes the world works in elegant silence.

I thought of Beckett and the Karens, the way incompetence had always destroyed itself if left unchecked. The parallels made me smirk behind my cup.

Yes, I mused, swirling the last few drops of tea, I may be thirty-two, but I look thirty, and I still run the shadows far better than any of these foolish children ever could. They treat me like a helpless old lady. Hilarious. Truly.

The corridor outside remained calm. Students walked freely again, the faint echo of the hall monitors’ hubris dissipating into nothingness. And I returned to my tea, to the quiet pleasure of my gothic sanctuary, perfectly content.

Because really, watching fools orchestrate their own downfall is far more satisfying than lifting a finger.

And that, I thought, finishing my sip, is the only justice worth having.

I closed the front door behind me, the manor enveloping us in its usual shadows and warmth. Beckett was already in the living room, curled up on the velvet sofa in his pajama set, mask and gloves still on, a half-finished sketch of a JRPG character in hand. Peresphone and Hades sat nearby, their tiny black cat hopping from armrest to armrest, and the twins’ stoic gazes followed our movements as if they already knew what we were about to discuss.

I poured myself a cup of herbal tea—lavender, nightshade, as always—and watched Beckett glance up from his drawing.

“They survived the day, then?” he asked, his voice muffled behind the mask, eyes squinting in that adorable, analytical way.

I smirked, taking a slow sip. “Oh, my dears… the hall monitors? Let’s just say hubris has a delightful way of devouring itself. I didn’t even need to intervene. They practically staged their own downfall.”

Peresphone tilted her head, unimpressed but intrigued. “You mean… they failed all by themselves?”

“Precisely,” I replied, leaning back, black robe settling around me like a shadow. “Some people have a gift for it. They build themselves up, puffed with self-importance, and all I do is… wait. Observe. Sip tea. Enjoy the show.”

Hades chuckled quietly, a low, knowing sound. “Sounds like the Karens at father's old library.”

Beckett nodded solemnly, almost shivering at the memory of chaos past. “Exactly. Same arrogance. Same inevitable downfall.” He tucked his drawing closer, relaxing slightly now that the topic was familiar, safe.

I set my cup down and reached over to nudge his mask gently with a finger. “And you see, my prince, this is why we live quietly, carefully. We watch, we savor… we let others do the heavy lifting of humiliation themselves. It’s far more satisfying than anything else.”

He smiled under the mask, eyes softening. “And no one ever suspects you…”

“No one ever suspects me,” I repeated, voice husky, a little playful. “Even when I’m standing right there, perfectly calm and polite. The fools simply… trip over themselves. Every. Single. Time.”

Peresphone and Hades exchanged a glance, already plotting their next tiny artistic venture—or perhaps their next lesson in observing human folly.

I rose, glancing out the window at the fading sun. “Now, let us return to our proper pursuits: drawing, games, tea… and absolutely no exposure to the chaos of the outside world. It’s far too tedious.”

Beckett followed me to the table, careful not to spill his soda or disturb the twins. He placed his hand lightly over mine in the quiet comfort of our shared peace. “Perfectly fine,” he murmured.

“Yes,” I said softly, brushing a kiss over his gloved hand. “Perfectly… eternally… fine.”

The cat jumped onto the table, knocking over a small jar of dark chocolate. Peresphone groaned, Hades rolled his eyes, and Beckett laughed quietly. Chaos, in its tiniest domestic form, was harmless. And it was ours.