I Said I Fell While He Held My Bandaged Wrist Under Healing Light...

Sheriff's office smelled like old coffee and paper dust. Late afternoon light cut through blinds in hard stripes across gray carpet. His desk was too big for room.

He'd left his watch at home. I noticed that. Left wrist bare. He kept turning it over like he missed weight.

I sat with my hands in my lap. Right wrist up. Faint scar caught light. Thin white line where cut had been. No bandage now. He'd told me not to cover it anymore and I hadn't.

Sheriff Alvarez didn't look like pack. No crest. No tie. Brown uniform, sleeves rolled, county patch on shoulder. Late forties. He waved us to two chairs across from him.

"You two want to make a report?" he asked.

I nodded. My mouth was dry.

Man beside me spoke first. Voice even. "We want mediated report. On record, but not criminal complaint yet."

Sheriff leaned back. "Explain."

I set folder on desk. Hands shook a little.

Inside: printed timeline, photo of scar taken that morning, nurse slip showing I'd refused antiseptic first day, later acceptance, his watch photo time-stamped.

I slid timeline forward.

"Monday night, between 9:40 and 10:15," I said. "Bathroom on second floor. Crest hallway. I was cut."

Sheriff read. "You said you fell."

"I lied," I said. Short sentence. Truth felt heavier without filler. "I said fall because I didn't want pack discipline. I'm omega without wolf spirit. Fall sounds like clumsiness. Cut sounds like target."

He looked at scar. Didn't touch. "Can I see?"

I turned wrist. Palm up. Light stripes moved across skin as blinds shifted.

He studied line. Angle, length. "This is blade," he said. "Not fall."

Man beside me exhaled. Small sound. "We have angle," he said. "Cut runs diagonal from inside out. Fall on sink would be jagged, horizontal."

Sheriff glanced at him. "You pre-med or something?"

"No," he said. "I healed it."

Silence held.

Sheriff's eyes narrowed. "Healed it how?"

Man paused. Chose words careful. "Pressure. Gauze. Medicine after. Healing took."

He left out light. I understood. We'd agreed before we came—no mention of glow. Off-record.

Sheriff tapped timeline. "Watch?"

Man nodded toward empty wrist. "My watch stopped at 10:07 that night. I checked time when I found her. Blood on bandage had started to dry at edges. Window narrows. She wasn't alone in hallway before then. Someone came through."

Sheriff wrote that down. Didn't ask why watch mattered. He just noted.

"Who had access?" he asked.

"Anyone with crest," I said. "Vest like mine. But mine's dark. His—" I glanced at man—"his was—"

"Different hall, same building," man finished. "Upperclassmen. Pack monitors."

Sheriff pulled out form. Mediated report, not arrest warrant. Carbon paper underneath. He slid it across.

"This puts incident on county record," he said. "Means if it happens again, pattern exists outside school. But school will want internal handling first. Foundation handles crest discipline."

My stomach dropped.

"So nothing happens?" I asked.

"Something happens," he said. "I open inquiry. I notify school counselor and foundation liaison. They can't bury it now. But county won't pull student from class on this alone. No witness. No weapon. Just scar photo and your words."

I stared at photo. My wrist looked so pale against desk wood.

Man reached over. Not holding now. Just fingertips near mine. Light touch.

"What about healing?" Sheriff asked, quieter. Eyes flicked to man again. "You two want that in report?"

"No," man said fast. Quiet call-out from me still hung there. I shook head.

"Off-record," I said. "Please."

Sheriff nodded like he'd expected that. He flipped notebook to blank page, wrote HEALING - VERBAL ONLY, NOT FILED in margin, then drew line through it.

"Understand," he said. "Town law and pack law don't always mix. Some things I write, some things I remember."

He stamped form. Ink thudded. Loud in quiet room.

"Foundation tower will call you both within week," he said. "Ballroom admin level. They review crest privileges. That's bigger than detention."

I felt cold despite warm light.

"Do we have to go?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "If you want protection that lasts past this office."

He handed me copy. Paper warm from copier. My name typed at top. Incident: laceration, wrist, alleged blade.

We stood. Chairs scraped.

Door behind us stayed closed. No one burst in. But I felt next consequence waiting beyond it—higher hall, brighter lights, more eyes on vest, on scar, on us walking in together.