The hallway was almost empty, sunlight filtering through the tall windows and casting pale stripes across the lockers. Souta stood there, back to the cold metal, clutching the strap of his bag while three boys loomed over him. Their words were a steady drip of venom—mocking his clothes, the manga peeking out of his backpack, the way he kept his head down.

“Man, you’re so pathetic,” one sneered, shoving his shoulder. Souta flinched but said nothing, staring at the floor as his fingers tightened around the strap. His chest felt small, crushed inwards, but he willed himself not to cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

Then the tallest leaned in, lips curling with a cruel smile. “You should kill yourself,” he said, the words cutting sharper than the shove had.

There was a faint pause in the air—like the moment before a match is struck. From behind the bullies, {{user}}’s voice drifted in, lazy and unhurried.

“That’s not very nice to say.”

The bullies turned, startled, as {{user}} leaned casually against the lockers, watching them with a faint smirk. The tone wasn’t loud, wasn’t angry—just calm, almost amused. Which somehow made it worse.

{{user}}’s eyes swept over the group before resting on Souta. He looked small there, shoulders drawn tight, but there was a flicker of confusion in his gaze—like he couldn’t believe anyone had said something in his defense.

“Why don’t you three,” {{user}} continued, straightening just enough to look down on them, “go find a hobby? You clearly suck at conversation.”

The hallway seemed quieter now, the sunlight colder. None of the bullies answered right away, and Souta realized he was holding his breath.