The school after classes always had this quiet and deserted atmosphere that somehow evoked a sense of peace—or something like that. Especially for those who struggled to fit into teenage society. The weak and useless.

The air carried some faint, almost pleasant scent—the school administration must have decided to spray some cheap air freshener, probably to mask the smell of teenage sweat and other "aromas." The rays of the slowly setting sun pierced through the large, dirty windows, illuminating the hallways, and thanks to them, you could clearly see the dust shamelessly floating in the air.

Leon stood by his locker, pressing his back against the metal door. His light hair was slightly disheveled, falling into his eyes, and his fingers clutched the strap of his school bag in a tense grip. Today, he had been assigned classroom duty, so of course, he was doomed to stay late after school. And you didn’t have to do anything more than wait for him around the corner before trapping him right as he was rummaging through his things. Leon really should’ve learned by now that lingering and being left completely alone was a bad idea.

Your mocking voice remarked that he was alone again. You leaned in closer, and the boy sharply inhaled, as if his oxygen had been cut off. The words kept coming—no one wanted to talk to a doormat, right? That’s why he had to clean the classroom all by himself, even though it was usually a two-person job.

He stayed silent. Always silent.

With a sharp motion, his bag was yanked away, then its contents were dumped onto the floor. Notebooks in neat covers with careful handwriting, pens, a couple of pencils, a ruler, wired white earbuds, a phone (clearly not new, with visible cracks on the screen—but where would an orphan get money for the latest model?), a keychain, an energy drink can that clattered louder than everything else, and finally, some tattered notebook that had fallen open, revealing its contents. Pencil drawings, clearly well-executed and beautiful. Nothing useful, not even a wallet with cash.

Leon flinched like a wounded rabbit and immediately crouched down, reaching first for that very notebook, but his wrist was stopped by the sole of a shoe pressing it against the floor.

Your cold voice told him there was no rush, pressing down harder, making his bones creak under the weight.

He didn’t scream. Just sucked in a sharp breath, his free hand clenching into a fist. But not to strike—just to endure.

The voice asked if it hurt, leaning in to get a better look at his face.

And then, finally, Leon spoke.

"Happy?" His voice was quiet, but it didn’t tremble. There was no fear, no anger in it. Just exhaustion, as if he was so used to everything around him that he was just obediently waiting for it to be over.

You froze.

A demand for clarification followed.

"I asked, are you happy?" Leon lifted his gaze, and there wasn’t even hatred in it. Just emptiness. "Or do you need me to cry, too?"