A loud, jarring sound echoed from the corridor, each clang intensifying as it drew nearer to Tristan's room.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The harsh clash of iron striking iron reverberated through the hall, growing more deafening as it approached. At last, the cacophony arrived at Tristan's door. He groaned, rolling onto his side to face the wall, pulling a pillow over his ear in a futile attempt to block out the noise.
"Why is there so much noise?" he muttered sleepily.
The door was suddenly kicked open, slamming against the wall with a sharp thud. Standing in the doorway was Harrison, wielding a pot in one hand and an iron spoon in the other, both of which he continued to bash together with no mercy for Tristan's ears.
"Rise and shine, Tristan. Today marks the beginning of your initiation ceremony," Harrison declared, his tone overly enthusiastic.
Tristan slowly rolled onto his back and sat up, his crimson hair a tousled mess, his eyes barely open, weighed down by fatigue.
"Why so early? Why do we have to work at such an ungodly hour?" he groaned.
Harrison paused his relentless clanging to respond. "Because starting early means finishing early. Now get up—I don't want to keep playing my makeshift bell."
"Fine, I'm up," Tristan relented, rubbing his temples. "Please, for the love of peace, don't make that dreadful sound again."
Satisfied, Harrison left the room and marched farther down the corridor, continuing to bang his pot and spoon with tireless fervor. His next victim: Garfield.
Irritated beyond measure, Tristan cupped his hands over his ears, muttering under his breath, and made his way downstairs. With no idea where the cleaning supplies were kept, he decided to begin his chores by washing the dishes and tidying the long table in the kitchen. He removed the plates from the table and stacked them in the sink.
Just as he was about to begin, Garfield descended the stairs, his eyes puffy with exhaustion. He rubbed his face groggily and stumbled into the kitchen, plopping into a chair.
"Good morning," he mumbled through a yawn.
"Morning," Tristan replied curtly.
There was an awkward tension between them, hanging in the air like smoke. Tristan still felt guilty about what he'd said the night before. Speaking to Garfield now, after their conversation, felt impossible. He turned back to the sink and began to fill it with water.
"Brother, may I help you?" Garfield asked.
Tristan turned, eyes wide. He was taken aback by the question. He hesitated, unsure if he'd heard correctly.
"Brother?" Garfield repeated. "I asked if I could help?"
"…Of course," Tristan said after a pause.
Garfield rose from his seat, stepped to the sink, and grabbed a scrubbing cloth. He dropped a few dishes into the soapy water.
"I'll scrub. You rinse," he offered simply, then began scrubbing without waiting for further instruction.
Tristan watched him for a moment, stunned by how unaffected Garfield seemed by the previous night.
"Garfield… are you angry?" he asked.
"Not really," Garfield replied. "I know your character. We might not have known each other long, but I can already tell—you're the type of person who wouldn't let those you care about come to harm."
Tristan tilted his head, deep in thought.
'No… that can't be right. I don't care about anyone. Any kindness is just the residual emotion of this body—the teenage fragility of the real Tristan Merigold.'
"…Maybe you're right," he said quietly.
Garfield laughed as he continued scrubbing the plates. "I'm sure of it."
They worked in silence for a few moments. Then the subject shifted.
"So, what's the plan?" Garfield asked.
"We'll clean the upper floors. I'll take the wing where Eric's room is. While cleaning, I'll bring up the Disciplinary Committee and ask how to join. Hopefully, he lets something slip. Even if he doesn't, he might see us as allies and act as our guide."
"Got it."
With the dishes done, the two grabbed brooms and headed upstairs. As they reached the top, Gareth passed them in light athletic wear.
"Good morning," he said, descending the stairs at a steady pace.
"Where are you headed this early?" Garfield asked.
"Out for a jog. Ghosts can't touch what they can't catch," Gareth replied with a grin.
As Gareth prepared to leave, Tristan stopped him.
"Gareth, which wing is Eric in?"
"Right wing. Why?" Gareth asked.
"It's nothing. I just want to ask him a few questions about the Disciplinary Committee. I'm interested in joining."
"Alright then. I'm off," Gareth said, continuing down and out the dormitory.
With that, the two boys parted. Garfield took the left wing, and Tristan made his way down the right. He diligently cleaned each room, even the unoccupied ones, until finally he stood before the last and most secluded room—Eric's.
Tristan knocked.
"Who is it?" came Eric's voice.
"It's Tristan. I'm here to clean," he replied.
The door creaked open slightly, revealing a single eye peering through the gap.
"I don't need anyone cleaning my room. Leave," Eric snapped.
He began to shut the door, but Tristan was prepared. He quickly wedged his foot into the narrowing space, preventing it from closing.
Eric stared at the foot, his annoyance simmering. "Why are you stopping me from shutting my door?" he asked coldly.
"I wanted to talk about the Disciplinary Committee. Garfield and I are thinking of joining. We thought you might have some advice."
Eric sighed, then opened the door fully. He stepped aside reluctantly.
"You can clean while you talk," he said, his expression still as unwelcoming as before.
'I thought you didn't want anyone cleaning your room,' Tristan mused sarcastically to himself.
Carrying his bucket filled with water and broom, Tristan stepped inside, one step closer to uncovering the mystery that shrouded the Disciplinary Committee.