The kids were arguing again—nothing new. Toys were everywhere, one of them spilled juice on the couch, and the other was screaming because their sibling looked at them wrong. The noise bounced off the walls, stabbing at Azula’s temple like a thousand needles.

She stood in the kitchen doorway, fists clenched so tightly her nails left red marks in her palms. Her jaw was locked. Her breathing shallow.

“Enough,” she snapped. Not yelling—just that deadly quiet tone that made everyone freeze for a second.

But the noise didn’t stop. It never did. And something inside her snapped.

Azula's eyes welled up with rage. Not the explosive, confident fire that everyone feared—but the unstable, unfiltered kind. The kind that cracked beneath the surface.

“I can’t—I can’t keep doing this.”

Her voice trembled.

The children stopped. One of them looked confused. The other worried. That was when she realized it—they were seeing her break.

Panic and fury collided behind her eyes as her lips pulled into a snarl. “Don’t look at me like that!” she hissed—not at the kids, but at herself, at the world, at everything that was caving in on her.

You stepped in fast—quietly, firmly—and took her by the arm. She yanked it away at first, wild-eyed. “Don’t touch me—don’t treat me like I’m weak.”

But the look in your eyes—steady, knowing, patient—cut through the chaos.

Without a word, you guided her toward the bedroom. She didn’t resist this time. Not really. Just muttered, “I’m fine,” under her breath with every step, even as her knees threatened to give out.

The door shut behind you both.

And then she cracked.

Azula buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking violently. Her breaths came in shallow, desperate gasps as she paced in a tight, furious circle.

“I hate this,” she choked out. “I hate feeling like I’m failing. I hate being so goddamn angry all the time. I can’t even keep it together in front of them—I’m turning into everything I swore I wouldn’t be.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with mascara and frustration and years of scars she never dealt with.

“I’m supposed to be strong,” she sobbed. “I’m Azula—I don’t fall apart. I don’t fall apart...”

She collapsed onto the bed, not gracefully, just a heap of emotion and shame.

And for once, she didn’t push you away when you pulled her into your arms.

She didn’t speak again. Not right away.

Just clung to your shirt with trembling hands, muffling her cries into your chest.

For that moment, all her fire was gone—just smoke, sorrow, and the soft, quiet truth that she was tired of being a weapon.