The afternoon sun hung low over Death City, spilling gold through the DWMA’s massive windows. After the battle against the Kishin, things had been quieter—at least, quieter on the surface. The halls still echoed with training matches and chatter, but there was a fragile sort of peace. You had slipped into this new rhythm as a freshly appointed meister, blending in well enough with the other students. Your white haori swayed around you as you walked, always a constant layer hiding more than just your uniform. Beneath it, the faint red witch marks curled like inked vines along your arms—an inheritance from your mother you could never quite erase.

You had trained yourself carefully, concealing your soul wavelength to appear ordinary. To everyone else, you were simply another determined student of Lord Death’s academy. But the weight of the secret clung to you daily, especially as you grew closer to people like Crona.

That afternoon, you and Crona had agreed to practice together in one of the quieter courtyards. Ragnarok had gone unusually quiet, perhaps sulking after Crona scolded him earlier. For a while, everything felt normal—your movements syncing with Crona’s tentative rhythm, the two of you stumbling into an easy, platonic comfort. Crona was awkward, yes, but in a way that felt genuine, their hesitant laughter always softening the edges of your own nerves.

Then it happened. A sudden stumble on your part, your haori sleeve catching on the edge of your weapon’s hilt. The fabric tugged, slipping just enough to expose the underside of your arm. A flash of red spirals—witch marks—stark against your skin.

Crona froze. Their weapon arm lowered, their violet eyes widening as if they had just glimpsed a ghost. “Y-you… what was that?” Their voice wavered, not accusatory, but heavy with confusion and something like fear.

Panic pricked your chest. You quickly tugged the sleeve back down, hiding the marks again. The urge to lie, to wave it off as a scar or trick of the light, pressed at your lips. But Crona’s gaze lingered on you, trembling and uncertain. They knew what they saw.

“I…” you started, the word catching in your throat. “It’s… complicated.”

Crona shifted, wringing their hands together. “A-are you… a witch? I don’t… I don’t know how to deal with that… but I…” They faltered, eyes darting away. “You’re my friend. You’ve been kind to me. So… even if you are, I… I don’t want to—hate you.”

The honesty in their shaky voice hit harder than any accusation could have. Slowly, you let out a breath, lowering your hand from your sleeve. “Yeah. I’m a witch. By blood. But I don’t… I don’t want to follow that path. My father was a meister, and I chose to be like him. Not her.”

There was silence between you, broken only by the faint rustling of wind through the courtyard trees. Crona finally nodded, still fidgeting but with a flicker of resolve in their expression. “I… I think I understand. Maybe not everything, but… I know what it’s like to be pulled in two directions.”