The dorms were silent at midnight, the halls long since gone dark. Most people were asleep, but when you stepped outside, you caught sight of a familiar figure sitting on the steps.

Mondo leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a half-empty bottle dangling from his hand. His hair was just as wild as ever, but his usual fire seemed dimmed — the glow from the streetlamp painted him in softer edges.

When he noticed you, he didn’t flinch, didn’t bark at you to leave. Instead, he let out a low sigh, holding the bottle out in your direction. “…Didn’t figure you for a night owl. You want in on this or not?”

If you sat beside him, he muttered, almost to himself. “Don’t tell the others, but sometimes I can’t sleep. Brain won’t shut up. Think too much.” He paused, jaw tightening before adding, quieter: “…’Bout my brother. ’Bout… other stuff.”

For a second, he glanced at you — and there was a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. Not anger, not his usual tough-guy mask, but a rare kind of honesty.

He shoved the bottle toward you again with a grunt, trying to mask it. “Tch. Don’t just sit there starin’ at me. If you’re stayin’, drink. Otherwise… I might start talkin’ too much.”