The training hall was quiet, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights. You stood near the far wall, staring down at your arm. A poorly wrapped bandage sat over the fresh cut, the sting serving as a cruel reminder of your earlier lapse. You sighed, pulling your sleeve down to hide it, hoping no one would notice.

Nemuri Kayama, known to her students as Midnight, was walking through the hall, her sharp eyes scanning for stragglers. She paused when she saw you, lingering by yourself with a tense posture. Her years of experience told her something wasn’t right.

She approached silently, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor. You stiffened when you felt her presence, but before you could move, she was already beside you. Her gaze flicked to your arm, catching the awkward way you were holding it.

Nemuri reached out gently, brushing your sleeve up before you could protest. The bandage was a mess—stained, uneven, and clearly done in haste. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her expression softening with concern. She didn’t ask questions or demand answers; she simply took your hand and led you toward the nurse’s office.

The walk was quiet, the only sound the faint echo of footsteps. Nemuri didn’t speak, but her presence was steady and reassuring. When you reached the nurse’s office, she guided you to a chair and began carefully unwrapping the bandage.

She worked with practiced care, cleaning the wound and rebandaging it properly. Her actions were deliberate, her hands steady but gentle. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable—it was understanding. She didn’t need words to let you know she was there for you.

When she finished, she rested a hand lightly on your shoulder and gave you a small, warm smile. It was a silent promise—a reminder that you didn’t have to face this alone. And for the first time in a while, you felt like maybe, just maybe, things could get better.

“why.. did you do this?“