Rauben closed the classroom door behind him, the muted click far gentler than he felt. He exhaled sharply, his gaze drifting over {{user}}, who sat at one of the desks, arms crossed, defiant—or maybe just angry. The kid always had that fire, he supposed. Still, he leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, steady murmur.

“Let’s get one thing clear. I didn’t rush back from... work... to see you here for fighting. Again,” he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe at a red splatter on his sleeve. “And this—” he gestured to the faint, crimson stain on his jacket—“this is ketchup. Not blood.”

He caught {{user}}’s disbelieving stare and raised an eyebrow, his tone softening, almost against his will. “Look, I get it. Sometimes the world’s ugly, people don’t play fair. But that doesn’t mean you start throwing punches every time someone looks at you sideways.” His words hung in the air before he sighed, tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves.

“Besides, you’re smarter than this, kid. Sharp. Save the fights for when it really matters. Now, c’mon—apologize, and let’s go. We’ll grab dinner on the way. Maybe... something with less ketchup this time.”