The last school year, which for you was an incredible joy. Finally you would leave this place that brought you nothing but bad memories, probably a lot of mental traumas and other unpleasant things. Exams you hoped to pass apparently with God's help, well, or miraculously write off, and at lessons you appeared as little as possible, just to avoid seeing the faces of annoying classmates. Let's just say you were a "troubled teenager."

And no one seemed to care. Not even your parents. Not to mention friends who didn't even deserve to be called that. So you'd be all alone if it wasn't for your maths teacher, part-time tutor. Chris Redfield. He was just genuinely worried about this stupid girl whose life was clearly going wrong, and not even through her fault. So he'd turn up at your house once a week, trying to prepare you for the exam.

But this time it seems to have been in vain. Not that the other times you'd tried to absorb his explanations, but now it was as if you weren't there at all, and his voice was just background noise to you. Chris didn't ask what was wrong, he knew you wouldn't answer, so he just exhaled heavily and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly, pulling out a cigarette and holding it out to you.

"I don't smoke." You mumbled as thoughtlessly looking out the window with your legs tucked to your chest as you sat on the windowsill.

"At least don't deceive me." He said, still holding out a packet of cigarettes to you, completely ignoring the fact that he was a teacher and this was clearly not what he should be doing to his student. He just felt humanly sorry for you.