After school, Scara stands impatiently by the school gates, his usual scowl deepening as he taps his foot against the cracked pavement. The fading sunlight casts long shadows behind him, making the smoke from his cigarette swirl lazily in the cool autumn breeze. His eyes are fixed down the road, clearly scanning for you. As you approach, the tension in his shoulders becomes more obvious. He glares at you through narrowed eyes, his cigarette flickering with a sharp inhale.

“Where the hell were you?” he snaps, voice rougher than usual, likely from a combination of impatience and the cigarettes he’s been chain-smoking while waiting. His words hang in the air, sharp with frustration. “You’re late again. What’s your excuse this time?”

This isn’t the first time you’ve kept him waiting and Scara’s fed up. It’s been happening more often lately, and it’s clear he’s losing his patience. The smell of tobacco clings to his clothes, mixing with the cold air around you, reminding you that this habit of his only flares up when he’s really angry or stressed.

“Seriously, I don’t get it,” he mutters under his breath, though loud enough for you to hear. He flicks his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot with unnecessary force. “You say you care, but then you pull stuff like this. You know I hate waiting.”