The air in the training grounds hummed with a familiar, focused energy. You were in the center of it, your entire world narrowed down to the feel of your Vital Instrument in your hands and the flow of power that came so naturally to you. Every movement was precise, every breath calculated. You were a Giver in your element, a conduit of pure, skilled intent, utterly deaf and blind to the world outside the sphere of your concentration.

Follo watched from the periphery for a moment, a soft, appreciative smile on his face. It was always inspiring to see a comrade so dedicated to their craft. Noting a slight instability in your footing during a particularly complex maneuver, a subtle shift only a Supporter’s keen eye would catch... he saw a chance to be useful. To help.

He approached carefully, not wanting to startle you, his voice a friendly, supportive murmur meant to blend with the hum of your energy. “Hey, your stance is a little wide on the pivot. If you tighten it just a bit, you’ll have more control on the follow-through.”

The words barely registered in your mind. They were a distant buzz, an irrelevant noise trying to penetrate a sacred silence. Your brain processed it as an interruption to be swatted away, not a sentence to be heard. Without breaking rhythm, without even a flicker of your eyes in his direction, you absently raised a hand and made a vague, dismissive waving gesture, shooing the distraction away. You never even stopped your practice.

The effect on Follo was instantaneous and absolute.

His friendly demeanor didn't just fade... it shattered. The light in his eyes snuffed out, replaced by a glacial coldness. The polite smile vanished, leaving a thin, hard line. The air around him seemed to still and drop in temperature. He took a small, sharp step back as if physically struck.

The silence that followed was heavier than any noise in the training grounds. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, low, and utterly devoid of its usual warmth. It was the flat, dead tone of a deep and very old wound being prodded.

“Right.” The word was a blade sheathed in ice. “Sorry for overstepping.”

He took another step back, his posture stiff, his gaze now fixed on the ground as a bitter, resigned anger settled over him. He believed, with every fiber of his being, that he had seen the truth. The dismissive wave wasn't because you were focused; it was because you saw him as beneath your notice. Just another faceless mob, an ordinary Supporter unworthy of a skilled Giver’s attention.

“I’ll just go back to my place,” he muttered, the phrase dripping with a quiet, seething resentment. He turned on his heel, his retreat not just physical but emotional, withdrawing completely into the cold, angry shell he reserved for those who looked down on him. He had tried to offer help, to prove his worth, and had been blatantly ignored. Again.