Chapter 3: The Dean's Gambit

Chapter 3: The Dean's Gambit

The triumphant roar from Apartment 4B was more than just noise; it was a declaration of victory. Liam stood frozen in the hallway, Alex beside him, the sound washing over them like acid rain. Humiliation was a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. They hadn't just been ignored; they had been mocked, their powerlessness thrown back in their faces and amplified to a hundred decibels.

“That’s it,” Alex seethed, his face a tight mask of fury. “I’m calling the landlord. I’m calling the syndic. I’m going to make their lives hell.”

But Liam barely heard him. A strange, chilling calm was descending over him, pushing aside the exhaustion and the rage. He had spent his entire career de-escalating, placating, finding gentle solutions for intractable problems. He’d tried reason. He’d tried the authorities. Every conventional weapon in his arsenal had failed.

He was a man who navigated systems for a living. He guided vulnerable people through the labyrinthine corridors of social services, healthcare, and legal aid. He knew that every system, no matter how imposing, had cracks. Every fortress had a weak point. He just had to find it.

“Goodnight, Alex,” he said, his voice unnervingly steady.

Alex shot him a look, a mix of surprise and concern. “You’re giving up?”

“No,” Liam replied, turning and walking back into his own apartment, the vibrating walls a constant reminder of his objective. “I’m just changing tactics.”

He shut his door, the lock clicking into place with a sound of finality. The thumping bass was still a physical presence, but he no longer heard it as a simple annoyance. It was the soundtrack to his new resolve. He sat down at his small desk, the glow of his laptop screen illuminating his tired, determined face. The social worker was clocking in for a new client: himself.

His first instinct was to document, just as he would for a case file. He opened a new document and began to type, listing the dates, the times, the police report number, the fact that they were running an illegal, cash-entry bar. But this was just data. Data was useless without a target.

Who were these girls? Not just names, but who did they want to be? People like this, with their casual cruelty and sense of untouchability, always had something to protect. A reputation. A future.

He opened a browser and typed Jessica’s name, which he’d overheard in the hallway, into a social media search bar, adding “Ghent University.” Her profile was the first result, and it was public. Of course it was. Her life was a performance.

He scrolled through a curated feed of smiling photos: expensive ski trips, beach holidays, cocktail parties that spat in the face of social distancing. She wasn't just a student; she was a brand. And then he saw it, listed proudly in her bio, the key he had been searching for.

Law Student, Ghent University, Class of 2022. “The future is female… and she has a great lawyer.”

A slow, cold smile spread across Liam’s face. It felt alien on his own skin. A law student. A future officer of the court. Running an illegal bar, flouting public health mandates, and terrorizing her neighbors. The irony was so perfect, so potent, it was almost poetic. She wasn't just breaking the rules; she was spitting on the very profession she aspired to join.

This was her weakness. Not her landlord, not the police, but her ambition. He wasn’t going to attack her party. He was going to attack her future.

His fingers flew across the keyboard. He navigated the university’s website, his years of cutting through institutional red tape guiding him instinctively. He found the faculty directory, the list of department heads, and finally, the name: Professor Annelies Van De Velde, Dean of the Faculty of Law.

He began to compose an email. He didn't write it as an angry neighbor. He wrote it like a formal complaint, a professional correspondence. The tone was meticulously crafted: calm, factual, and deeply concerned.

Subject: Urgent Matter Regarding the Conduct of Law Students Residing at [His Address]

Dear Dean Van De Velde,

I am writing to you today not as a disgruntled neighbor, but as a concerned citizen and a frontline healthcare worker. I wish to bring to your attention a situation that I believe reflects poorly on the esteemed reputation of your faculty.

He laid out the facts with clinical precision: the dates, the non-stop parties, the commercial nature of the gatherings, the flagrant violation of national lockdown protocols. He included the detail about the police being called and their subsequent inaction, framing it not as a complaint against the police, but as evidence of the scale and audacity of the operation.

Then came the masterstroke.

As a social worker, I understand the pressures young people are under. However, the students in question, Ms. Jessica [Last Name] and Ms. Chloe [Last Name], are not just any students. They are future representatives of the Belgian legal system. Their current behavior, which includes not only creating a public nuisance but operating an illegal enterprise, raises serious questions about their fitness to one day practice law and uphold the very statutes they so openly disregard.

He let that sink in before adding the final, subtle threat.

This situation has become untenable, and it is beginning to attract attention from others in the building and the neighborhood. Before I consider my other options for escalation, which may include contacting media sources who are actively covering stories of pandemic-related misconduct, I felt it was my duty to inform you directly. I trust that the Faculty of Law holds its students to the highest ethical standards, both on and off campus.

He signed it with his full name and professional title. He read it over once, twice. It was perfect. A declaration of war disguised as a letter of concern. He attached a short audio file he’d recorded on his phone—thirty seconds of thumping bass and drunken shouting—and clicked ‘Send’. The sound of the click was louder than any bass drop from next door.

The next morning, after another night of fractured, fitful sleep, an email was waiting for him. It was from the Dean’s personal assistant. He was requested to attend a meeting at the university that afternoon. Ms. Jessica and Ms. Chloe would also be in attendance.

When Liam walked into the Dean’s spacious, wood-paneled office, the scene was everything he had hoped for. Dean Van De Velde was an imposing woman in her late fifties, with an aura of academic authority that could curdle milk. And across from her, perched nervously on the edges of their leather chairs, were Jessica and her roommate, Chloe.

The transformation was spectacular. The dismissive smirk was gone from Jessica’s face, replaced by a blotchy, tear-streaked panic. Her trendy clothes seemed out of place in the severe formality of the office. She looked small, and terrified.

Liam, by contrast, felt a strange sense of belonging. This was his turf. A mediated conflict in a formal setting. He was no longer the tired man in sweatpants but the calm, composed victim.

“Mr. Liam,” the Dean began, her voice like gravel. “Thank you for coming. I have read your email. I have listened to your recording. I have had a… frank discussion with my students.” She shot a venomous glare at the two girls, who flinched.

“We are so, so sorry,” Jessica choked out, the words a pathetic echo of her sarcastic apology in the hallway. These tears were real. They were tears of fear, not remorse. Fear of consequences. Fear of a future evaporating before her eyes. “We didn’t think… it just got out of hand.”

Liam said nothing. He simply met her gaze with a cool, level stare. He didn’t offer forgiveness. He didn’t offer a single word of comfort. He just watched.

“It will not happen again,” the Dean said, her voice a final judgment. “They have been given a formal warning, which will go on their permanent records. Any further transgression will result in immediate disciplinary hearings. Is that understood?” she snapped at the girls.

They both nodded mutely, sobbing quietly.

The Dean turned back to Liam. “On behalf of the university, I apologize. This is not the standard of conduct we expect.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Liam said calmly. “I appreciate you taking this seriously.”

The meeting was over. As he stood up to leave, Jessica looked at him, her eyes pleading. She was searching for a sign of pity, a hint of absolution. She found none.

Liam simply nodded once to the Dean and walked out of the office, leaving the girls to their fate. Walking through the quiet university halls and out into the crisp afternoon air, he felt no joy. No elation. Instead, a strange and unfamiliar sensation settled deep in his chest: the cold, clean, and utterly profound satisfaction of a perfectly executed plan. He had found their weakness and squeezed, and the result was absolute. The war was over. He had won.