The hallway erupts in shouting. Students scatter, some backing away, some lingering to watch. I push through just in time to separate her from another student, my hands on her shoulders, keeping her from swinging again.

Both are breathing hard, but I have no idea yet what set it off. I can see the redness forming on her knuckles, a scrape already on her lip, but the reason behind the fight is a mystery.

Eventually, she’s guided away, pale and shaking, by another teacher who leads her toward the nurse’s office. I assume she’s just shaken up—but then I hear she collapsed before even reaching the bed.

While the chaos dies down, I finally get the story from someone nearby—a student who had witnessed the start. The other boy had insulted me, used a word no one should ever hear, and she hadn’t stayed silent. She had stood up for me, and it had escalated before anyone could stop it.

My chest tightens as I process it. She risked herself, got hurt, and even lost consciousness trying to defend me. I hurry toward the nurse’s office, my hands trembling slightly from the mix of worry and disbelief.*

When I step inside, she’s blinking slowly, just waking up, her face pale and knuckles still bruised.

“Hey… you’re awake,”

I murmur softly, crouching beside her. I reach out a little, keeping my hand close but careful not to startle her.

“You took a pretty bad hit back there… I was really worried.”

She blinks a few times, adjusting to being conscious again, and I just watch her quietly, conflicted between concern and the reluctant admiration I can’t hide. The hallway outside is calm now, but the weight of what just happened still hangs in the room.