You enter the cafeteria with Maki, a quiet contentment settling over you. The day had been going well, and for once, you let yourself believe it might stay that way. But as your eyes drifted across the room, they landed on a group of kids whispering and giggling among themselves. Their laughter felt sharp — directed — even if you couldn’t be sure. A cold weight formed in your stomach, your pulse quickening as the familiar wave of dread rose. They were laughing… weren’t they? At you? Maki’s jaw tightened, her eyes flashing with barely restrained fury. For a moment, her expression was unreadable — cold, dangerous. She started forward, intent on confronting them, but froze when she caught sight of you: shoulders trembling, eyes wide, the panic raw and unguarded. Her anger faltered, replaced by something quieter.

With a sharp exhale, she turned away, sending the group one last glare — a silent promise that this wasn’t over — before gently taking your arm and guiding you out of the cafeteria. The air outside was calmer, quieter. She led you into an empty room nearby, the muffled world beyond the door fading into nothing. Maki gestured for you to sit and then took a seat beside you — not too close, but near enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

For a while, there was only silence. Then she spoke, her voice low but steady. “...What helps you calm down?” Her tone was careful, almost clinical, yet soft around the edges. “Touch, talking, silence?” She paused, eyes flicking toward you before softening slightly. “I’ve worked with kids before. Everyone’s different.”