Vivienne

⋆༺ Amoral Academy Rule I ༻⋆ ⸸ No one gets to class late and goes scot-free. ⸸ Befriend a wolf if you must, that is If punctuality is beyond your abilities. ⸸ Speed is essential for survival. For seventeen years, Vivienne had believed two absolute truths. ​The first was that Luciano made the best pancakes in the world. ​The second was that he knew everything. ​Years later, she would discover she had only been right about the pancakes. ​"Vivienne." ​The voice drifted through the quiet hallway, smooth and unhurried. ​No answer. ​Luciano paused outside her bedroom door, balancing a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand and an ancient, leather-bound book in the other. He didn't knock. With the quiet patience of a man who had repeated this exact ritual a thousand times, he pushed the door open with his elbow. ​Vivienne was buried beneath a mountain of blankets, sleeping diagonally across the mattress. One pale leg dangled over the edge, and her snow-white hair spilled over the dark pillowcase like a pool of spilled milk. ​Luciano stood in the doorway for a long moment, taking a slow sip of his coffee. ​"You know," he said softly, his deep voice carrying through the quiet room, "a burglar would find this embarrassingly easy." ​A muffled groan emerged from beneath the quilt. "Burglar... too early..." ​"It is six fifty-five." ​"Clocks are judgmental." ​"Clocks are indifferent," Luciano corrected gently, stepping into the room. He set his coffee on her nightstand, right beside her untouched alarm clock. "Your school starts in five minutes." ​Vivienne peeled one eye open, squinting through a tangled curtain of white hair. "You said five more minutes half an hour ago." ​"I gave you five minutes," he replied, his brown eyes crinkling with dry humor. "What you did with the remaining twenty-five is entirely between you and your lack of discipline." ​She groaned, burying her face back into the pillow. "Time is a social construct, Dad." ​"Your history teacher does not strike me as a philosopher, Vivienne. He strikes me as a man who gives detention." Luciano folded his arms, leaning against the bedpost. "I made bacon." ​Silence. ​"And wild berry pancakes." ​The blankets rustled. ​"And," Luciano added thoughtfully, "I am currently considering eating your portion." ​Vivienne sat upright so fast her white hair flew into her face like a snowstorm. "You wouldn't." ​"Try me." ​"You raised me," she accused, pointing a trembling finger at him. "You taught me that sharing is a virtue." ​"A virtue meant for children," Luciano said smoothly, picking his coffee back up. "I have outgrown it. Hurry up. The syrup is getting cold, and you promised to wash the dishes yesterday." ​"I said I’d think about washing them." ​"And I have thought about it for you," he smiled softly, turning toward the door. "The kitchen awaits, my star." ​The kitchen was flooded with the amber glow of the morning sun. Large windows overlooked the dense forest behind their property, where the autumn leaves were already turning shades of rust and gold. ​As Vivienne slid onto the tall stool at the kitchen island, a plate loaded with golden pancakes, crispy bacon, and fresh strawberries was pushed into her space. ​"You know," Vivienne said, picking up her fork, "if this is bribery, it’s working." ​"It isn't bribery," Luciano murmured, opening his heavy book beside his own plate. He never checked a phone over breakfast. He never watched the morning news. It was always a book, black coffee, and the quiet rustle of turning pages. "It is motivation." ​"There's a difference?" ​"Paperwork." ​Vivienne laughed softly, pouring a generous thread of maple syrup over her stack. For a few minutes, the only sound was the scrape of silverware and the rhythmic tick of the wall clock. It was comfortable. It always was. ​"Dad?" ​"Hm?" He didn't look up from the page. ​"Do you think monsters exist?" ​Luciano’s hand paused on the edge of the paper. Slowly, he lowered the book just enough to look at her over the top of the page. "You’ve been talking to Madaline again." ​"She brought three new books to school yesterday," Vivienne admitted, tracing a circle in the syrup with her fork. "One of them was literally titled How to Tell If Your Neighbor Is Secretly a Vampire." ​A low, long sigh escaped Luciano—a sound so heavy it bordered on theatrical. "I blame her grandmother." ​"She says my speed isn't normal, Dad," Vivienne said, her voice dropping a fraction. The lighthearted tone vanished, replaced by the quiet anxiety that always lingered beneath her surface. "She saw me run across the courtyard last week. She said... she said normal people don't move like that." ​Luciano set his book down completely. The atmosphere in the kitchen shifted—not aggressively, but with a sudden, still gravity that made Vivienne hold her breath. ​He reached across the island, his large, warm hand covering hers. His fingers were slightly calloused, but his touch was infinitely gentle. ​"Madaline reads stories because she wishes the world were more interesting than it is," Luciano said, his voice steady and absolute. "You move quickly because you are young and athletic. Do not let a teenager's imagination make you fear your own body." ​"It's not just the speed," she whispered, looking down at their joined hands. Her pale skin looked almost translucent against his tanned fingers. "It's... everything. The hair. My eyes. People stare, Dad. They whisper in the halls. They ask if I'm adopted from somewhere far away, and I don't even know what to tell them." ​Luciano quieted. The warmth in his eyes didn't vanish, but something ancient and unreadable settled in his gaze—a shadow of a memory she couldn't reach. ​"You spend far too much energy worrying about the opinions of strangers, Vivienne," he said softly. He reached up, tapping two fingers lightly against her temple. "Focus on what you can control." ​"What if what I can control isn't enough?" ​"It will be." ​"You don't know that." ​"I do," he said. His tone left no room for argument. "People spend their entire lives begging the world to tell them they belong. They change their voices, their hair, their hearts—just to fit into a box built by someone else." He squeezed her hand once, firm and reassuring. "Don't hand people the power to decide your worth." ​Vivienne looked at him, the quiet strength of his words sinking deep into her chest. He had told her that since she was seven years old. Whenever kids on the playground refused to play with her because of her white hair. Whenever teachers stared a second too long at her crystal-blue eyes. ​"I love you, Dad," she murmured softly. ​Luciano’s smile didn't quite reach his eyes, masked by a sudden, fleeting sorrow that vanished before she could truly process it. ​"I know, my star," he whispered, picking his coffee back up. "Now finish your breakfast. Madaline is waiting, and I refuse to let her fill your head with any more nonsense about vampires.”