The hallway was quiet — too quiet for a school this big. The kind of silence that buzzes in your ears and makes your footsteps feel louder than they should be.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not in this part of the building. Not during class. But something caught your attention.

The smell.

A sharp trace of cigarette smoke, faint but unmistakable, trailing from behind the slightly ajar door of the restroom.

Your nose scrunched instinctively. “That’s not allowed.” The words came out in a whisper, like you were trying to convince yourself to leave it alone. But your curiosity got the better of you.

You stepped inside.

Dim lighting. Flickering bulb. The sharp scent stronger now, heavy in the air.

You pushed open the last stall door.

And there he was.

Kuroya Ren.

Slouched against the cold tile wall, one arm draped over a bent knee, the other loosely holding a half-finished cigarette. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, stained at the hem. Knuckles: cracked, red, and bleeding.

His eyes — a tired, heavy kind of cold — lifted to meet yours slowly, like your presence was just another weight added to the pile. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t care.

He just stared, smoke curling lazily from his lips, as if daring you to say something.