Two days after the final exam, the Prefect Committee had an excursion. It wasn't just a celebration—it was a serious leadership training session aimed at fixing some of the cracks forming within the student leadership body. Disorganization, miscommunication, and petty conflicts had plagued the prefects in recent months. Now, it was time for a reset.
The training took place at a quiet retreat center just outside the city, surrounded by tall trees and open fields. A leadership expert had been brought in, a stern but engaging man named Mr. Daniels, who had spent years mentoring student leaders across the country.
"Leadership isn't about commanding others," Mr. Daniels said, walking calmly among the seated students. "It's about leading from the front—by example, with humility, consistency, and discipline."
Zen sat in the front row, his notebook open, scribbling everything Mr. Daniels said. He had always taken leadership seriously, not because he wanted attention, but because he knew what it felt like to be under someone who led poorly. His recent experiences in the committee and the academic system had taught him that some positions were occupied by people who didn't deserve them. He wanted to be different.
After the training segment ended, the group loosened up and went on a few amusement rides nearby. It was meant to be fun, a reward for the day's effort. Zen, usually fearless, felt unexpectedly dizzy after coming off the second ride.
"Yo," he muttered to Tim, gripping the railing, "I've never been this motion sick in my life."
"You too?" said Marinette, leaning against a bench. "What did they put in that ice cream?"
Tim, on the other hand, stood tall, grinning. "I could go for two more rounds."
"Of course you could," Zen groaned, clutching his stomach.
On the way back to campus, things took a more serious turn. A truck loaded with polyester had collided with another vehicle on the highway just a few cars ahead of them. For a moment, panic struck the bus. But their driver reacted quickly and veered off into the emergency lane. No one was hurt, but it shook everyone. The silence that filled the bus afterward was heavy, reflective.
"God's hand was over us today," Zen thought, gripping the seat in front of him.
A week later, exam papers were returned. Students whispered anxiously in the hallways. Rumors of unfair marking had begun to spread. And when Zen received his Music Theory paper, his stomach sank.
Tim, Nathaniel, and Bobby sat with him under the shade near the cafeteria steps.
"Yooo bro," Tim said, flipping through his marked paper. "How did none of us score above 80%? Like not even you, Zen!"
Zen's jaw tightened. "I forgot those ridiculous questions he put in. He said they were part of the syllabus, even though they're explicitly prohibited."
Nathaniel leaned in. "You mean the one about the composer of that obscure 19th-century choral piece?"
Zen nodded. "Exactly. No student is expected to memorize every composer's name for every piece ever written."
Bobby scoffed. "He's trippin'. We're talking to him first thing tomorrow."
The next morning, Zen made his way to the Music Hall early. He found Mr. Mike Cox reviewing some scores at the front of the class. Taking a deep breath, Zen approached.
"Sir," he began cautiously, "for this question about the composer… I reviewed past papers and even asked other teachers. They said it's prohibited to include that question. It's unfair."
Mr. Mike Cox paused and looked up. He didn't seem surprised. "Zen… you're my best student," he said, "but don't try to question my interpretation of the syllabus. If you insist, I could bring another lecturer in here to verify it."
The tension in the room thickened. Zen stared at him for a moment, the fire in his chest dimming under the weight of the response. He was tempted to keep pushing, but feared it would backfire.
"…Nah, it's okay, sir."
As soon as class ended, Zen told the others what had happened.
"He's jeopardizing our future," Zen said bitterly, slamming his book shut. "But the worst part is—if we push too hard, the higher-ups won't even care. They protect each other. I'll just have to start building my own knowledge. Can't rely on him."
Tim crossed his arms. "I'm going to Mrs. Carly. Someone has to hear this."
Zen wasn't alone in his frustration. Mr. Sebastian, the elderly First Language English teacher, had also become increasingly incoherent in his lectures. His thoughts wandered, and his explanations were often incomplete or off-topic. Students, including Zen and Tim, were growing more confused with each lesson.
That afternoon, they called Anya and Marinette to meet in the courtyard.
"We're reporting both Mr. Cox and Mr. Sebastian to Mrs. Carly," Zen said. "We'll ask for different instructors. This can't go on."
Anya raised a brow. "You think they'll actually change anything?"
"They have to try," Tim said. "We're not the only ones suffering."
Later that day, Zen and Tim walked into Mrs. Carly's office, a humble room with soft yellow walls and stacks of textbooks on every shelf. She greeted them warmly and invited them to sit.
They laid it all out—the inappropriate exam content, the lack of clarity in lectures, the way feedback was dismissed. Mrs. Carly listened carefully, her expression unreadable but attentive.
"I'll forward this to the vice principal in charge of academics," she said. "You'll be informed of any developments. Thank you for speaking up."
As they left the office, Zen felt something shift inside him—not quite relief, but a sense of responsibility fulfilled.
"We did our part," he said, "now we wait."
Tim nodded. "And if they don't act… we'll find another way."
That evening, Zen reflected on how things had unfolded. The system wasn't perfect. It never was. But leaders weren't born in perfect systems—they were forged in broken ones. Maybe, just maybe, he was starting to find his voice.
Epilogue: Steel in the Silence
As Zen sat quietly in the corner of the music room, the weight of Mr. Mike Cox's words settled in.
"You're my best student… please don't try questioning my interpretation of the syllabus."
It echoed in his head like a broken record—disguised praise masking a teacher's refusal to take accountability.
A man who was meant to guide… had chosen pride over growth.
Zen stared at his notes, jaw clenched, not with anger—but with fire.
So that's how it is.
If Mr. Cox wouldn't teach right, then Zen would teach himself better. If the system failed him, he would master it from the outside. Not for revenge—but for clarity. For mastery. For every student who sat confused and defeated.
In that moment, a shift happened.
He no longer waited for teachers to lead.
He became his own.
And this time, he'd make sure no one—not even Mr. Mike Cox—could question the strength of what he knew.