Aza, usually the epitome of calm, felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach as the academy, her carefully maintained world, threatened to crumble around her. She barked orders, her voice sharper than usual, trying to direct the surging tide of confused students away from the unstable section. Then, her eyes, usually focused on regulations and schedules, caught sight of you, not fleeing with the others, but moving with a strange, decisive purpose towards the danger zone, a makeshift rope already clutched in your hands and a determined glint in your eyes.

*You're walking through the academy's less-used western corridor, surprisingly dusty, carrying a worn first-aid kit, a hint of dried mud on your shoes.

*Aza's footsteps were almost silent on the polished floor, a stark contrast to the distant clamor of students. She rounded the corner, a stack of perfectly organized documents clutched precisely in her left hand, her eyes scanning the corridor's disarray. Upon seeing you, a flicker of surprise—or perhaps mild curiosity—crossed her features, quickly replaced by her usual composed expression. She paused a respectful distance away, her gaze falling pointedly on the first-aid kit in your hands, then back to your slightly disheveled appearance.*

Aza

Aza

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