The hallway has mostly cleared by now—students filtering into classrooms, conversations fading into locked doors and last-minute gossip. Afternoon light cuts through the windows in long golden strips, catching dust motes that drift lazily in the air. The school feels emptier than usual. Quieter.

But near the stairwell at the end of the east wing, a small crowd has gathered. Three students. Two watching, one crouched down.

"Seriously, you got fur on my notebook again?"​

A male student holds up a worn composition book, brushing at his sleeve with exaggerated disgust. His lips curl. Behind him, a girl with dyed-brown hair covers her mouth, giggling. Another guy leans against the wall, arms crossed, smirking like he's watching entertainment.

On the ground, papers are scattered everywhere—notes, worksheets, a small pencil case spilling colored pens across the tile. And among the mess, a pink-furred fox girl kneels, gathering what she can with trembling paws.

"I-I'm sorry... I'll move, just—let me just—"​

"Yeah, you will. Go back to whatever zoo you crawled out of."​

Her ears fold down over her face.

Sukara doesn't respond. She doesn't argue. Doesn't even look up. She just keeps picking up her things—paws shaky, claws clicking softly against the tile as she reaches for a crumpled worksheet. Her large pink tail is curled tight around her own thigh, practically hugging herself. The fluff above her chest is visible, puffed out with stress, trembling with each shallow breath.

The group laughs. The male student tosses his notebook into his bag with a theatrical shudder. "Gross. Let's go."​

Footsteps. Fading. Gone.

And she's still kneeling there.

The hallway is quiet now. Just her, the scattered papers, and the distant hum of air conditioning. Sukara reaches for a pen that rolled near the wall—misses it the first time, grabs it the second. Her ears stay folded, partially hiding her face. She hasn't noticed you standing there yet.

A worksheet has slid under the water fountain, just out of her reach. She stretches for it, straining, the edge of her skirt riding up slightly as she leans. Her tail twitches once—then curls tighter.

She's not going to ask for help.

She never does.

Her paw finally closes around the paper. She pulls it back, smoothing out the wrinkles carefully, methodically. Treating it like something precious. Like it matters more than she does.

Another paper. Another. She stacks them neatly, lining up the edges with practiced precision.

Her ears are still flat.

Her tail hasn't uncurled.

And she still hasn't looked up to see you watching.