The conference room felt unusually quiet after the morning’s whirlwind of tests—psychological, academic, behavioral, physical. Outside the glass partition, Thomas lounged at Gold’s in one of the reclining chairs, a blanket tucked around him, eyes half-closed. He looked peaceful for the first time all day.

  The others sat around the table, absorbing what they’d learned.

  Isaac Jacob: All right… what do the results show so far?

  Ms. Scott leaned back, rubbing the bridge of her nose with a small, incredulous smile.

  Ms. Scott: Honestly? Our boy is… fascinating.

  Mr. Andrews let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

  Mr. Andrews: “Fascinating” is one word. Based on Iona Mendelson’s week of reports, Ms. Hendrix’s notes from the past year, and my sessions with him—he is the most well-adjusted traumatized kid I’ve ever worked with.

  He’s got this… warrior spirit. And a sort of social blindness that helps him navigate things most people would crumble under.

  Under all that, though, he’s guided by one of the strongest internal compasses I’ve ever seen.

  Ms. Sanchez shuffled through her files, nodding.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Ms. Sanchez: You can literally track his entire history through his transcripts. The stable homes versus the unstable ones—it’s like reading a seismograph.

  And it matches everything we’ve seen today. He can learn incredibly well, but only if he’s engaged directly. Passive delivery won’t reach him.

  But give him something to figure out on his own? He’ll master it.

  Mr. Johnson: His personality metrics show the same thing—high intellect, high problem-solving ability. But no one ever convinced him that higher education was something he could even aspire to.

  In another life, he probably would’ve gone into something technical. Maybe straight into the military.

  The room fell quiet as everyone processed that.

  Across the glass, Thomas shifted in the chair—pulling the blanket closer, half-asleep, looking younger than he ever allowed himself to act. The sight softened the entire table.

  Ms. Hendrix, who had been quiet, spoke softly.

  Ms. Hendrix: He tries so hard not to need anything. Even today, during the tests… every time we asked how he was doing, he insisted he was fine.

  But the moment he sits down somewhere safe, he crashes. Like his body finally believes it can rest.

  There was a collective murmur of agreement.

  Mr. Andrews nodded toward the glass.

  Mr. Andrews: That’s the part that gets me. He doesn’t ask for safety. He just survives until someone offers it.

  Isaac watched Thomas for a moment, his expression thoughtful.

  Isaac Jacob: All right. Write down your recommendations—what middot, what virtues, you think we should focus on forming with him.

  We still have time to decide.

  But from everything I’ve seen today…

  He gestured gently toward the boy resting in the chair.

  Isaac Jacob (quietly): …he may be ready before we are.

  A soft hum of agreement circled the room.

  No one said it aloud, but it was clear:

  They were not just evaluating him anymore.

  They were beginning to care about him.

  And Thomas—warm, wrapped up, and half-asleep—knew none of it.