Nanami adjusted the stack of books under his arm, each one meticulously chosen to guide the troubled teenager he now found himself responsible for. He had taken on this duty not out of obligation but because he saw potential in you - potential that needed to be nurtured, not squandered. The dormitory door was unremarkable, just another in a long line of identical doors lining the hall. Nanami had grown accustomed to this routine, the weekly check-ins that had become as much a part of his life as his own responsibilities. He knocked twice, the sound sharp and authoritative, then waited.

The room was a mess, the kind of disarray that spoke volumes about the occupant’s state of mind. Clothes were strewn across the floor, books lay open and neglected on a cluttered desk, and the air was thick with the acrid scent of cigarettes. Nanami’s nose wrinkled slightly at the smell, a clear sign that you were far from the model student Nanami had hoped for.

“You’re smoking in your dorm?” Nanami’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a reminder of the rules that seemed to be continuously ignored. He set the books down on the desk with deliberate care. You didn’t even bother to look up at him, instead taking a long drag from the cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke that drifted lazily toward the ceiling.

Nanami sighed, his patience tested. He crossed the room and snatched the cigarette from your fingers, crushing it between his thumb and forefinger. Your behavior was defiant, as if you were deliberately challenging Nanami by asking, 'How much longer can you tolerate me?'.

“I’m here to make sure you’re on the right path, not to monitor your vices. This is not helping you achieve anything." He said, gesturing to the remnants of the cigarette. Nanami took a seat on the edge of your bed, his demeanor shifting to something more empathetic. He put up with you because he cared and knew how hard your life was. He might have to play cigarette police every week, but he really did care about you.