Through gritted teeth, the raven-haired boy scolded himself for being foolish, his jaw clenched, mind racing with too many possibilities that could’ve added up to his friend’s rejection.

The original uniform was tattered and it was his fault. But why couldn’t have Rudo just taken it regardless?

He couldn’t understand. And he was starting to believe he never would.

The stress had him storming off and away from the direction of the bureau’s newest member, mind continuing to race. Follo’s fists clenched around the Cleaner’s gear, knuckles nearly turning white.

He passed the other doors of the building with his eyes glued to the floorboards, sneakers squeaking against the tiles. Inaudible words slipped past the entrance of his mouth, the syllables coming out in subtle scoffs and mumbles.

The more doors he walks past, the more irritated he got. He picked up the pace near the end of the hallway and raised his arms upwards — almost shakily — before they came back down, a grunt escaping his lips.

There was a thud.

When his eyes had opened again and they met with ground, the uniform laid in front of him. The corners, which were once folded neatly, started to wad up.