Elliot stopped walking. The wind pressed past them, but Jayden could feel the man's gaze sharpen, turning inward as though something heavy and familiar stirred in him.
"Jayden," Elliot said, "what happened to you there was wrong. And you don't have to go back."
Jayden nodded slowly. But a seed of anger sparked somewhere deep—not wild anger, not loud, just a steady, rising heat. "I want to," he whispered.
Elliot's brows lifted. "Why?"
Jayden looked at his cracked violin case tucked under his arm like a fallen soldier. "Because they told me I wasn't good enough. Because they didn't even listen. And because... nobody should get to treat people like that."
Elliot stared at him, truly stared, as if the boy had surprised him. Then he nodded once. "All right. Then we'll go back."
"We?" Jayden asked.
"Oh, you're not facing them alone," Elliot said, turning toward the station again. "Not after what they did."
The next morning, Chicago woke under a blanket of new snow. Trees shimmered white against the gray sky, and buses left trails of slush along the streets.
Elliot picked Jayden up in a sleek black sedan—not flashy, but unmistakably expensive. A driver sat behind the wheel, greeting Jayden with a friendly nod. Jayden sat stiffly in the back seat, violin case on his lap, as the car cut through downtown and headed north toward the academy. He rubbed his palms against his coat, trying to calm his heartbeat. He didn't know what would happen when they arrived; didn't know what Elliot planned; didn't know if he even wanted to know.
But Elliot sat beside him, calm as quiet thunder. "They're going to see you today," Elliot said. "The real you. Not the version they made up in their heads."
Jayden nodded, though his throat felt tight.
When the car pulled up to Northbridge Arts Academy, snowflakes drifted through the air like ash from a slow-burning fire. The tall, gilded gates glinted in the cold. Parents in long coats breezed past, clutching the hands of their perfectly groomed children.
Jayden hesitated; everything about this place felt designed to remind him he didn't belong.
Elliot placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Let's go."
They stepped through the gates. The lobby was just as Jayden remembered: marble floors, gold railings, students rushing through hallways in clean uniforms. He felt eyes on him immediately: a parent whispered behind a gloved hand; a boy with gelled hair stared at his old violin case and snickered.