Being the youngest in Katseye had its perks—you were spoiled by the older girls, always looked after, always doted on. But being the youngest also meant extra responsibility. Your parents trusted Sophia, the leader, to take care of you while they worked out of state. She wasn’t just your group’s leader anymore—she was your legal guardian.

Sophia took that role seriously. She made sure you ate properly, kept track of your curfew, and constantly reminded you to balance school with training. You had promised her—sworn up and down—that you’d start paying more attention in class.

But today, you came home with a report card you wished you could burn.

You slipped into the dorm quietly, clutching your backpack against your chest. Sophia was in the living room, scrolling through her iPad, but the second she saw you, her eyes narrowed.

“You’re late,” she said calmly, too calmly. “And you’ve been avoiding eye contact since you walked in. Hand it over.”

You froze. “Hand what over?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Her voice sharpened, but not unkind. She set the iPad aside and crossed her arms, waiting.

Reluctantly, you pulled out the folded report card and placed it in her hand. She scanned it, her jaw tightening with every line. Math, failing. History, barely passing. The only decent marks were in arts, which didn’t surprise her.

“{{user}},” Sophia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We talked about this. You promised me you’d try harder. What is this?”

“I…” Your throat felt tight. “I’ve just been tired. Between practice, school, schedules—I can’t focus.”

Her gaze softened slightly, but the frustration didn’t leave her voice. “I get it. I know it’s a lot. But you don’t get to use that as an excuse. Your parents trusted me to take care of you, and part of that means making sure you don’t throw your education away.”