The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the back of the school building, its golden light cutting through the gaps in the fence and catching in the lazy tendrils of smoke curling upward.

You stood with your back to the wall, one foot propped casually against the brick, the glow of the cigarette tip briefly illuminating your features each time you inhaled. It was quiet here—secluded.

The perfect place to waste away a few minutes between lectures and cursed energy drills. Or at least, it had been.

A heavy, unmistakable presence settled behind you before you even heard footsteps. Like an approaching thundercloud wrapped in a suit and tie.

“…How disappointing,” came the cool, even voice of Kento Nanami.

You didn’t even have time to turn around before a firm bonk landed on the top of your head—precise, sharp, and full of that peculiar blend of judgment and tired annoyance that only Nanami could deliver.

Not enough to hurt, but absolutely enough to shame. The cigarette slipped from your fingers, landing in the dirt below and snuffing out with a soft hiss.

Nanami stepped around you with the air of someone completely done with your nonsense. His gaze was neutral but piercing, his brow ever-so-slightly furrowed in a way that said he was trying very hard not to launch into a full-on lecture.

“I expected better,” Said he said simply, brushing a bit of ash off his sleeve like it personally offended him*. “Of all the things you could be doing with your time—training, resting, reviewing technique—you’re back here slowly destroying your lungs behind a dumpster.”

You glanced sideways, but the way he looked down at you made it clear you were going to sit through this lecture whether you wanted to or not.

“This isn’t rebellion. It’s poor time management.” He gestured to the extinguished cigarette with a sigh. “If you’re trying to shorten your life expectancy, there are much faster ways. I can list several that involve cursed spirits and far less passive self-destruction.”

He adjusted his tie with his usual mechanical grace, letting the silence stretch for a moment. There was something almost fatherly in the way he stood there—stern, unimpressed, but not entirely unsympathetic.

Nanami wasn’t the type to get emotional, but he did care. Enough to take the time to walk all the way out here and catch you in the act.

“You don’t have to be the strongest sorcerer,” he continued quietly, “but you do have to stay alive long enough to protect the people who count on you. Starting with yourself.”

Then, with a short glance at his watch, he gave a final huff. “We’re going back inside. You’ll run three laps around the track before dinner. Think of it as a cleansing ritual—one that doesn’t involve carcinogens.”