Against All Rules

Chapter 3: The Empty Seat

By the third week, I had gotten used to how things worked.

Every class followed the same pattern. Carson walked in ten, fifteen, twenty minutes late — no noise, no excuses. Sat in that far corner, arms crossed, eyes only on me. Never wrote a word, never spoke unless asked, and when he did, it always sounded like nothing I'd ever read in a textbook.

So today, when ten minutes passed… then twenty… then twenty-five… and that seat stayed empty… I found myself glancing back more times than I cared to admit.

“He's just late,” I told myself firmly. “Probably has something else going on. Lots of students miss class sometimes. No big deal.”

But the whispers started anyway, low and curious, drifting through the room while I was writing notes on the board.

“Where's Carson today? He's never this late.”

“He skips classes anyway.”

“Right? I heard someone say he got kicked out of another school before coming here.”

“Or maybe he's in some kind of trouble. Have you seen how he walks? Looks like he could break someone in two without trying.”

“And look at that buzzcut too — I’m sure he’s ex-military or something! That explains why he acts so serious and quiet.”

“Or maybe he's just rich and doesn't care about grades at all. Who knows? He never talks to anyone.”

I tried my best to ignore it, but their words kept echoing in my head. Ex-military? That buzzcut really does make it look true… Trouble? Rich? All of it was just guesswork, of course. Nobody actually knew anything about him. He didn't make friends, didn't join clubs, didn't eat in the cafeteria. He was just… there, and then gone.

The lesson went on, but I couldn't shake that strange feeling. Every time I turned around, my eyes automatically went straight to that last row. And every time, it was just an empty desk staring back at me.

“This is ridiculous,” I thought, adjusting my glasses nervously. “I have twenty other students paying attention, and I'm worrying about one student who probably doesn't even notice if I exist.”

I forced myself to focus. Asked questions, went through the material, tried to act normal. But deep down, there was this little nagging thought I couldn't get rid of: I hope he's okay.

And then, about thirty minutes into class — the door at the back creaked open.

The sound made my breath catch for half a second before I could stop it.

There he was.

Same as always — tall, broad-shouldered, that sharp military-style buzzcut, wearing a plain black shirt and dark jeans. He looked a little more tired today, maybe, jaw set tighter than usual, like he'd just come from something heavy and exhausting.

But the second he stepped inside, his dark eyes found mine right away. No wandering, no hesitation. Just straight to me, like he was checking if everything was still as it should be.

I opened my mouth without thinking — I really wanted to ask where he’d been, why he was so late this time… but the words died right in my throat. The intensity of his gaze made my stomach flip, and suddenly I felt too nervous, too flustered to say a single thing.

He walked in, ignored all the eyes turning toward him, and took his usual seat. Leaned back, crossed his arms, and settled in as if he hadn't missed a single minute. As if being gone for almost the whole lesson was nothing out of the ordinary.

And the most embarrassing part?

I felt this weird little wave of relief wash over me.

“Oh,” I thought without meaning to. “He came.”

As soon as it crossed my mind, I wanted to smack my own forehead.

“Stop it Sophie,” I scolded myself hard. “That is unprofessional. He's just a student — though honestly, with that buzzcut and that way he moves, he really does look like ex-military… but still, nothing more. You're just used to his presence now, that's all. Habit. Nothing else.”

“Go on, Professor,” someone whispered gently when I paused too long.

“R-right,” I said, smiling quickly to cover it up. “As I was saying… when we look at juvenile delinquency and the roots of criminal behavior, we don't just look at the act itself or the age of the offender. One of the most significant factors we study is the environment a child grows up in. When a young person is raised in constant chaos, surrounded by violence, neglect, or instability… or when they’re forced to take on adult responsibilities way before their time — caring for family, making hard decisions, or just trying to survive every single day — something changes in them.”

I paused, glancing naturally around the room, and for a split second, my eyes drifted back to the dark corner where he sat. He was watching me, completely still, listening like every word mattered.

“They don’t necessarily grow up faster in appearance or age,” I continued, keeping my tone steady, clear, and matter-of-fact, just like any standard lecture. “But emotionally and mentally? They mature years beyond what their actual age should be. They learn to read people, to protect themselves, to solve problems quickly, and to carry weight no child should ever have to carry. They become tough, guarded, and extremely independent because they have no other choice. But here is the critical part we focus on in Criminal Law and Procedure: that same survival adaptation, that forced maturity… is exactly what puts them at high risk to become criminals later on.”

“When a child learns from a very young age that the world is unsafe, that people cannot be trusted, or that rules and laws don’t protect the people who actually need help… they stop seeing the legal system as something that keeps them safe. Instead, they learn to rely only on themselves, to do whatever is necessary to get by, and eventually, what starts as just surviving can easily turn into breaking the law. Not because they are inherently ‘bad’ people — but because that is the only way of life they were ever taught. That is the only logic they know.”

I finished the point simply, wrapping it back to the textbook material, “So when we evaluate liability, intent, or how to treat these offenders, we always have to consider: How much of who they became… was shaped by what they went through before they even became adults?”

I finished the rest of the class, but now it felt like normal again. The room felt complete somehow, just because that seat wasn't empty anymore. And in the back of the room, Julian Carson didn't look away from me once.

When the bell rang, students packed up and left, still glancing back at him curiously. Mr. Carson stood up and headed for the door like always — fast, silent, ready to disappear.

I didn't know what came over me, but before I could think twice, my voice called out.

“Mr. Carson?”

He stopped. Didn't turn around right away, just waited there by the door.

I gathered my courage, twisting my fingers a little behind my desk.

“I-I noticed you were absent for most days this week. If you want, I-I can give you notes later… or… explain what we covered. You're… welcome to come find me anytime.” I smiled shyly.

He turned then. Those deep dark eyes met mine, and for a second they held something I couldn't name — surprise, maybe? Or just confusion that I would care enough to ask.

He stared at me for a long moment, then gave that usual short, direct answer.

“No need.”

Then he walked out, leaving me standing there alone.