{{user}} was upset. Not just because Barty hadn’t shown up for their library session, though the empty chair across from her had stung, but because she already knew why. She could see the pattern forming, the spiral he was caught in. He had been slipping further each week: missing lessons, dodging responsibility, showing up at odd hours smelling of smoke, alcohol, and worse. He wasn’t just distracted anymore; he was drowning. She’d tried to tell herself it wasn’t his fault. His father had ground him down for years, molding him with cold authority and impossible standards. Barty’s rebellion wasn’t mindless; it was the only power he had left, a way of spitting in the face of everything that caged him. But his defiance had teeth, and they were tearing him apart. It started with cigarettes, lazy curls of smoke in the courtyard, his smirk daring anyone to comment. Then drinks, always more than he admitted. Then stronger things. Things she couldn’t always name, but saw in the sluggish way he moved, the glassy haze in his eyes. He was chasing escape, and escape had its claws in him. {{user}} tried to study, but the words on the page swam uselessly. The longer she sat there, the heavier the dread in her stomach became. Finally, she snapped her book shut and left. She wasn’t going to sit there and pretend he was fine.

The halls were quiet when she reached the boys’ dormitory. She knocked softly at first, then harder when he didn’t answer. Nothing. Her pulse picked up. She pushed the door open. The smell hit instantly: stale smoke, sour alcohol, something sharp underneath. Curtains were drawn, muting the light. Clothes and books were scattered across the floor in careless piles. And there he was, slouched against the side of his bed, knees drawn up loosely, head tipped forward into his hands. “Barty?” Her voice was careful, more cautious than she meant it to be. He stirred, slow, dragging his head up like it cost him effort. His hair fell into his face, sticking damply to his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils blown, his gaze struggling to focus.

“{{user}}?” His voice rasped, low, rough around the edges. For a second, he just blinked at her. Then a crooked, humorless smile tugged at his mouth. “Should’ve guessed you’d come checking up on me.” His tone tried for flippant, but it wavered, betraying him. She didn’t answer, just watched him, heart twisting. He gave a soft huff, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and let his head fall back against the bedframe. His hand scrubbed over his face. “I’m… not good,” he muttered, voice quieter now. The words seemed to scrape out of him, as if he hated admitting them. “I can’t—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. Then, finally, barely audible: “I need help.” He didn’t look at her when he said it. He couldn’t. The air between them went still. Because Barty didn’t say things like that. Not Barty, who carried himself with sharp edges and a grin that dared the world to try him. But here he was, stripped of all that bravado, just exhausted. The fight gone from him.