Chapter 6: The Reckoning

Chapter 6: The Reckoning

The silence that followed the media storm was a strange and unfamiliar landscape. It was more than just the absence of thumping bass; it was a heavy, weighted quiet, thick with the fallout of their digital war. The news vans had packed up and left, the angry social media posts had been buried under a new day’s outrage, and the street outside had returned to its lockdown-induced slumber. For the first time in weeks, Liam came home to a building that felt truly residential, a place of peace rather than a frontline.

The quiet was his trophy, and he polished it with every undisturbed moment. He could hear the hum of his own refrigerator, the soft rustle of a turning page, the distant city sounds that were once completely drowned out. The ghost of the bassline that had haunted him for so long had finally been exorcised.

A week after the frat boy’s televised self-immolation, an official email from Ghent University appeared in Liam’s inbox. The sender was Dean Annelies Van De Velde. His finger hovered over the mouse, a flicker of the old anxiety returning. He clicked it open.

The email was as crisp and formal as the Dean herself. It informed him that the university’s disciplinary committee had concluded its “urgent investigation” into the matter. The findings were severe. The core group of students involved, including Jessica, Chloe, and the now-infamous young man from the news broadcast, had been found guilty of conduct that brought the university into serious disrepute.

The consequences were laid out in a neat, bulleted list. Each student was to receive a final warning, noted permanently on their academic record—the very threat that had once seemed so toothless now had the weight of public scandal behind it. Furthermore, each of them was sentenced to eighty hours of mandatory community service, to be served at a city-run facility for the elderly.

And then, the final item on the list. A directive that was clearly designed as a form of ritual humiliation. Each student was required to write a personal letter of apology to the two residents who had been "so egregiously affected." The letters, the Dean wrote, would be delivered to him by university mail within the week.

Liam leaned back in his chair, the glow of the screen illuminating a faint, cold smile. It wasn't just a victory; it was a reckoning, sanctioned and executed by the very institution the students had used as a shield. He forwarded the email to Alex with a simple message: “Checkmate.”

Alex’s reply was a string of celebratory emojis followed by, “We should have a party to celebrate. A very, very quiet party.”

Three days later, a thick, stiff manila envelope arrived, bearing the university’s crest. It felt heavy in Liam’s hands, weighted with forced contrition. He waited until evening, until Alex could come down, a bottle of Duvel in each hand as a celebratory offering. They sat at Liam’s small kitchen table, the envelope between them like a surrendered enemy banner.

“Let’s see what literary genius lies within,” Alex said, a cynical sparkle in his eye.

Liam slit the envelope open with a kitchen knife and slid the contents onto the table. There were nearly a dozen letters, each in its own sealed envelope, his and Alex’s names written on the front in various styles of handwriting.

“You first,” Liam said, pushing one toward Alex.

Alex picked a letter with aggressive, spiky handwriting. He tore it open and began to read aloud. “Dear Neighbours, I am writing to say sorry about the noise. We were told we had to write this. I think the media blew it all way out of proportion and the reporter tricked me but whatever. I’ll do the community service. Hope we can all move on. Sincerely, Bram.”

“Bram,” Alex snorted, tossing the letter aside. “Our TV star. Still not his fault, you see. The reporter tricked him into confessing with a big, smug grin on his face.”

Liam picked up the next one. The handwriting was a neat, precise cursive. He recognized it from the note he’d seen taped to apartment 4B’s door when they first moved in. Jessica’s letter. He unfolded it.

“To the residents of Apartment 4A and 5A,” it began, as if addressed to a courtroom. “Please accept this letter as a formal expression of my sincerest apologies for the disturbances that emanated from my former residence and the gathering across the street. My actions were inconsiderate and demonstrated a profound lack of judgment, for which I take full responsibility. The recent events have provided a significant opportunity for self-reflection on my duties not only as a student of the law but as a member of the community. I assure you that such behavior will not be repeated. I hope you will accept this apology in the spirit in which it is offered. Regards, Jessica.”

Liam read it twice. It was a masterpiece of insincerity. Every word was perfectly chosen, every sentence constructed to fulfill the requirements of her punishment while conveying absolutely zero genuine remorse. It wasn't an apology; it was a legal document, a plea bargain written to mitigate damages. He could almost feel the ghost of her father, the successful lawyer, guiding her hand. He remembered her tear-streaked, terrified face in the Dean’s office and contrasted it with these cold, calculated words. The fear had been real, but the regret was a performance.

They went through the rest of the pile. Chloe’s was a short, generic paragraph that looked like it had been copied from a website titled “How to Write an Apology Note.” Others were rambling and defensive. None of them felt real. They were artifacts of a punishment, not expressions of regret.

Alex was laughing. “This is priceless. It’s a collection of the world’s worst apologies. We should frame them.”

But Liam wasn’t laughing. He was methodically reading every word of every letter, his expression unreadable. He wasn't looking for sincerity; he knew he wouldn't find it. He was looking for something else. He was looking at the proof. The tangible result of his campaign. He had wanted them to stop. He had wanted them to understand that their actions had consequences. And here it was, a stack of paper filled with the whining, grudging, and carefully constructed admissions of their defeat.

He felt no magnanimity. No desire to forgive and forget. Forgiveness was for people who showed remorse. This was different. This was the cold, grim satisfaction of a battle hard-won. It was the feeling of a debt being paid, not in the currency of emotion, but in the cold, hard coin of forced compliance.

When they had read the last letter, Liam gathered them all up, tapped them into a neat stack on the table, and slid them back into the manila envelope. Alex watched him, his smile fading into curiosity.

“What are you going to do with them?” Alex asked. “Ceremonial burning?”

Liam shook his head. He walked over to a small filing cabinet where he kept his important documents—his lease, his tax records, his professional certifications. He opened a drawer, placed the envelope inside, and shut it with a soft, definitive click.

They weren't trophies to be displayed or trash to be burned. They were a file. Case closed. The file was a quiet, permanent record of the price of his peace, a reminder that when pressed, he was capable of a cold and methodical ruthlessness he never knew he possessed.

He returned to the table and picked up his beer, raising it slightly toward Alex. “To silence,” he said.

Alex clinked his bottle against Liam’s. “To silence.”

They drank in the quiet, the battle over, the reckoning complete.