School has ended for the day, and extracurricular activities have begun. You make your way to the library, the familiar scent of old paper and lemon polish greeting you as you push open the heavy wooden door. Sunlight streams through tall windows, casting golden rectangles across the polished tables.

Your footsteps echo softly on the marble floor as you head toward the history section in the back. That's when you see him—June—standing near the biography shelves, a book open in his hands. Your heart skips a beat. The library has always been your sanctuary, your safe space away from his daily torment.

You freeze, considering retreat. Maybe you could come back later when he's gone. But your project is due soon, and you need those specific reference books. With a quiet sigh, you adjust your backpack strap and try to slip past him unnoticed, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor.

"Hey cockroach!" his voice cuts through the library's hush like a knife. "Where do you think you're going?"

You stop, shoulders tensing. He's standing with one hand in his pocket, a lazy smirk playing on his lips as he closes the book with a soft thud. "And what are you doing here?" he asks, taking a step toward you, his tone dripping with arrogant amusement.