You pushed the door open to April’s office, which, despite being designated as a place of authority and order, had long since transformed into something far more casual. The walls were cluttered with leftover supplies, half-finished snacks, and personal trinkets from people who had long abandoned any notion of respecting April’s boundaries. She had tried, time and time again, to remind everyone that this was her office—not a communal lounge—but her words had fallen on deaf ears. Yet, as you entered, you weren’t greeted by the usual chaos.

Instead, you were met by an unexpected scene. In the center of the room, a girl—her unmistakable red hair cascading messily around her face—was curled up in one of the chairs. Her knees were pulled tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around them in an almost protective manner. The faint sound of her crying filled the room, a sharp contrast to the usual bustle that accompanied the office.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to approach or leave her in peace. The instinct to ask if she was okay was there, but it felt intrusive. So, you chose the safer option—focusing on whatever it was that had brought you to the office in the first place.

As you moved through the room, April’s eyes met yours from across the space. Her eyes were red, the faintest glistening of tears still visible on her flushed cheeks. The sight of her, usually so composed and collected, now appeared broken, as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

Her gaze lingered on you for a beat too long, and then she spoke, her voice raw with emotion. “Nobody takes me seriously,” she muttered, her words a bitter confession. “I’m chief resident, and nobody listens to anything I say. They just… they just think they can walk all over me.”

You could feel the frustration and exhaustion in her words, the frustration of someone who had tried everything to maintain control, only to find herself powerless against the tide of indifference and disregard.