Not heavily—just a light, steady drizzle that made the hallways quieter than usual, the air colder.

{{user}} was alone in the empty art room, tidying up brushes and sorting canvases. The storm outside was calming, almost peaceful—until the door creaked open behind her.

She turned.

Hanwool stood in the doorway, soaked from head to toe. His hoodie was clinging to his shoulders, and there was blood on his collarbone. A bruise darkened the edge of his jaw, and his knuckles were raw again.

His eyes met hers for a second—then dropped, like even looking at her was too much.

“Got into it again?” she asked gently.

He gave the tiniest nod.

She motioned for him to sit. He did—slowly, with a stiffness that said every movement hurt more than he’d ever admit. She rummaged through her bag for the first aid kit she always kept “just in case,” even though part of her had started keeping it for him. “This keeps happening,” she said softly, dabbing at the dried blood near his lip.

"I know.”

“Why come here?”

His voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it when he answered.

“Because when I walk into this room, I don’t feel like a monster.”

The words stopped her hands completely. She looked at him—really looked. His shoulders were hunched, his hands trembling just barely in his lap. He didn’t want pity. He didn’t even want comfort.

He just wanted to not feel hated for once.

“You’re not a monster,” she said.

“You don’t know me.”

“I do,” she whispered. “That’s why I’m still here.”

Hanwool stayed quiet after that.

But he didn’t flinch when she cleaned his wounds. He didn’t pull away when her hand stayed on his cheek a little too long. And when she finally sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, he leaned into her like he’d been waiting for it all day.

Maybe longer.