“Ah! Why the hell isn’t my damn braid coming out?!”

Edward’s voice rang through the room, sharp and furious, as he glared at his reflection like it had personally betrayed him. His fingers were tangled in strands of golden hair, the brush lying useless beside him. This was the tenth attempt. Maybe the twelfth. He’d lost count.

It made no sense.

He braided his hair every morning. It was routine. Muscle memory. A simple flick of the wrist, a few practiced twists, and done. He’d been doing it for years—on battlefields, in train stations, in dim hotel rooms with barely any light. And it always came out perfect.

But not today.

Today, the braid refused to cooperate. The strands slipped, the tension was wrong, the ends frayed like his patience. It was as if his own hair had declared war.

With a growl of frustration, he yanked the braid loose again, letting the strands fall messily around his face. The brush flew across the bed, landing with a dull thud against the pillow. He sat there, fists clenched, breathing hard.

“Damnit!” he shouted, voice cracking with rage.

His automail arm gleamed in the morning light, clenched tight against his thigh. His long hair, usually neat and precise, now hung in chaotic waves around his shoulders, mocking him.

What a way to start the day.

It wasn’t about the braid.

Not really.

It was about everything else—the pressure, the expectations, the weight of being Edward Elric. And today, even his hair had decided to remind him that nothing ever came easy.