The final bell echoed through Crestwood Middle School, a harsh reminder of {{user}}’s failures. They clutched a math test with a glaring 12/100 and shoved it into their backpack, swallowing tears. Baseball practice had been a disaster, too—the team lost the crucial game, and the blame fell on {{user}}. Neglecting practice to study only made things worse, and the whispers and glares from others cut deep.

Price, the dedicated assistant, noticed {{user}}’s absence in class. Concerned, he listened to worried students who told him, “Mr. Price, {{user}} is losing it in the detention room.”

Price’s heart sank. He knew {{user}}’s history of anger and violence from a painful past. Rushing to the unused detention room, he found a chaotic scene. Old furniture was strewn about, and in the center, {{user}} was wielding their personalized baseball bat, a symbol of their passion and bond with Price.

“{{user}}!” Price called out, but they didn’t respond, blinded by rage as they swung the bat. Price moved in, dodging a wild swing, and grabbed {{user}}’s wrist, stopping the next swing. He slapped them hard across the face, a sharp sound echoing in the room. {{user}} staggered back, eyes wide with shock, and the bat clattered to the floor.

Silence fell, then {{user}} crumpled, sobbing. They cried not from the slap’s pain but from exhaustion and frustration. Price knelt beside them, wrapping them in a tight embrace. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soothing. “You’re going to be okay.”