Your single room is at the end of the hall, a temporary sanctuary. You’ve just gotten back, the weight of the boy’s uniform—the stiff blazer, the slightly-too-big trousers—already feeling like a second skin you’re desperate to shed. The door clicks shut behind you, the deadbolt sliding home with a satisfying thud of finality.

A sigh escapes you as you toss your bag onto the narrow bed. The first thing to go is the blazer, then the tie, then the binder flattening your chest. In the quiet, the rustle of fabric is loud. You pull on a soft, worn t-shirt and a pair of pajama shorts, running a hand through your hair to loosen the boyish style. For a few precious hours, you can just be you.

The peace is shattered by a firm, sudden knock at your door.

Five figures are silhouetted in the bright hallway light. Venti in the lead, holding a bag of chips and a confused smile. Xiao just behind him, peering past Venti’s shoulder. Scaramouche with his arms crossed, Heizou with a detective’s sharp, curious gaze, and Kazuha, his expression quietly observant.

They all stare. At your face, free of the subtle contouring you use. At your hair, down and softer. At your clothes. At you.