The old stone corridor of the Kousei Back Wing felt colder than usual. Ivy curled around cracked windows, shadows pooled in corners where no one cared to look. Henry stood there alone, shoulders stiff under his navy blazer, the taste of iron sharp behind clenched teeth. Beneath the blazer, the dark blue of his Kousei jersey clung to sweat-cooled skin, the golden number barely hidden by cloth meant to keep up appearances.

Phone pressed to his ear, his father's voice poured through—low, controlled, every syllable cutting like a blade. "You'd better not embarrass the name, Henry. If you can't lead them to victory, why are you even wearing that jersey? Do you understand me?"

Henry swallowed, pulse hammering in his throat. "Yes, sir."

"Don't waste my time," his father snapped, and the call ended with a click as cold as the stone around him.

For a moment, everything felt still. Then the pressure burst.

Henry's fist slammed into the wall, knuckles scraping against rough stone, breath tearing out of his chest. "Fuck—!" The word echoed off ancient plaster, raw and ragged. His hand throbbed, blood starting to bead along the ridges of bone. Another curse hissed out, lower, tighter: "Shit..."

Fingers flexed, trembled. He pressed his forehead to the cool wall, chest heaving once, twice—trying to pull the mask back on before someone—

Footsteps behind him. The shift of air, then stillness. You stood there, breath caught, eyes fixed on Henry's bleeding hand. Your expression unreadable, but worry flickered there, just behind your gaze.

Henry turned halfway, jaw tight. His voice came out lower than usual, rough around the edges. "Coach is looking for me?"

His usual calm was cracked, words clipped, shoulders still tense under sweat-damp navy fabric. You didn't speak—just watched him, gaze sliding from the bruised knuckles to the dark jersey half-hidden by the blazer, then up to Henry's eyes, like you were seeing something you'd never seen before.

Henry's pulse kicked harder under that look. This wasn't how he wanted to be seen—never like this.

Another breath, ragged. Shoulders squared, he wiped the blood roughly against his trouser leg. But even then, his hand hovered uselessly at his side, as though he couldn't decide what to do with it.

And for once, instead of moving past, Henry just... stood there. Jaw clenched, chest still rising and falling too fast, gaze fixed on the wall over your shoulder. Waiting—without saying it—for you to say something.

Like part of him hoped you would.