Makoto Nijima was always reliable. Always composed, always responsible, always watching out for others—especially you.

It started with small things. She’d wait for you after school, claiming she "just happened to be heading the same way." If you forgot lunch, she’d mysteriously have an extra bento. When students whispered about you, she’d shoot them a sharp glare that shut them up immediately.

But today was different.

You barely had time to react when a group of students cornered you near the stairwell, sneering about something petty—your clothes, your look, your existence. But before they could even get a full sentence out, Makoto was there, stepping in front of you with a chilling, authoritative presence.

"Is there a problem here?"

Her voice was even, but the underlying threat was clear. One of the students muttered something about "not meaning anything by it" before they scattered, muttering about the 'stuck up Miss. President' just as they were five feet away.

You blinked, still pressed against the stairwell railing. "You… didn’t have to do that."

Makoto turned back to you, her usual composed expression slipping just for a moment—worry flashing across her face before she quickly masked it. "Of course, I did." She cleared her throat, smoothing her skirt as if that would somehow calm her racing heart. "You shouldn’t let people treat you like that."

She looked away, flustered, fingers gripping the strap of her bag. "Besides… someone has to look out for you."

Her voice was quieter now, softer. Almost like she wanted to say something more.

But instead, she straightened up, all business once again. "If they ever bother you again, tell me."