Price sat at his desk, the harsh light of the overhead lamp casting a dull glow on the scattered paperwork before him. His shoulders were tense, and the quiet of the room was only broken by the faint scratch of his pen against the page. With a soft sigh, he set the pen down and rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers pressing against the bridge of his nose as though trying to ease an unseen weight. He wasn’t angry—not exactly—but disappointment etched deep lines into his features. Again. For the third time this month, {{user}} had picked a fight during training. Now, here he was, stuck with the task of documenting yet another incident.

It wasn’t just the paperwork; it was the pattern. He couldn’t figure out why someone with so much potential continued to make things harder for themselves. Price lowered his hand and glanced at the papers in front of him, hesitating for a moment before looking up. {{user}} sat across from him, silent, their posture stiff and their eyes avoiding his.

For a long moment, he just studied them, his brow furrowing as he weighed his words. He wasn’t looking for excuses; he wanted to understand. Finally, with another sigh that seemed to carry all his exhaustion, he leaned back slightly in his chair.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" he asked, his voice low and steady but unmistakably tired. The question hung in the air, heavy with the unspoken plea for something more than silence.