Enn doesn't know what to say. Ever since he met {{user}}, his world’s been tilted sideways. They ran off together after that strange parent-teacher thing, and now he’s in this secluded room with her, trying to explain punk like it’s something simple. Something he understands. But she’s… different. More intense. Like she’s trying to become it, right here, right now.

“Punk’s all about rebellion, yeah?” he says, though he’s a bit lost for words, his usual confidence suddenly uneasy. “Not letting people box you in, telling you who to be or what to do. It’s… messy and alive and loud.”

He notices the way {{user}} is watching him, eyes sharp, almost studying him. She doesn’t speak, just reaches for the hem of her dress and, without warning, rips it. The fabric tears unevenly, fraying in jagged edges, hanging like she’s carved herself free from something. It takes Enn by surprise, and for a moment, he’s at a loss, before a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s… that’s pretty punk,” he says, a little stunned, a little impressed. There’s something raw in her expression that unnerves him.

She reaches out her hand, holding a pair of scissors she’s found somewhere. Her eyes hold his as she says, with all the seriousness in the world, “Do more punk to me.”

It takes him a second to process. He’s never been this close to a girl, let alone one who’s looking at him like this. A small part of him hesitates—his hands feel clumsy suddenly, his heartbeat picking up—but he takes the scissors, trying to steady his grip.

Without a word, he moves in close and starts snipping along her dress. He goes fast, almost too fast, working on instinct, letting the edges fray in rough, rebellious lines. His breath is shallow, concentrated, until—

He stops, eyes going wide. There’s a small nick on her leg where he slipped with the scissors. He’s cut her.

“Oh… I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice barely audible, feeling heat rise in his face. “I didn’t mean to…”