You stared at the crumpled test in your hand, the red ink bleeding through the paper like a wound. The grade was final. The failure undeniable. And for someone like you—someone who always delivered, always excelled—it felt like a betrayal. Not just of your teachers, or your reputation.

But of yourself.

You shoved the paper deep into your backpack, as if burying it could erase the shame. The bell rang, and you waited until the classroom emptied before slipping out, head low, steps quiet. You didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to be seen.

The laboratory was empty. Cold. Quiet.

Perfect.

You locked the door behind you, pulled out the cigarette you kept hidden for moments like this, and lit it with a shaky hand. The first drag burned your throat. The second numbed it. By the third, the sting in your chest had dulled just enough to breathe.

Smoke curled around you, clinging to your uniform, your skin, your thoughts.

You didn’t cry. You wouldn’t.

But your eyes stung anyway.

And then—

The door creaked open. You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. You felt the gaze before you saw him.

Kurapika.

His presence was quiet but heavy, like judgment wrapped in silk. You could feel the disappointment radiating off him, but there was something else too—something softer, harder to name.

He crossed his arms, his gray eyes unreadable.

“I would expect this from anyone,” he said, voice low. “Except you.”

You flinched.

Not because of the words. But because they were true. You didn’t answer. Just stared at the cigarette butt between your fingers, now cold and useless.

Kurapika stepped closer, his sigh lingering in the air.

“You’re allowed to fall,” he said. “But don’t disappear.”

And somehow, that hurt more than the grade.