objects in session: 11.0

can't get enough pain.

A sterile gold seeped through the blinds, painting thin stripes across the unfamiliar guest room. It was too plush, a velvet cage Mochi found suffocating, still faintly scented with the student council's cloying perfume. Mochi stirred, stiff beneath the blanket, her muscles protesting a dull ache that lingered from the storm hours before.

A low voice, familiar and grounding, cut through the quiet. "...Up already?" Guitar Case hadn't moved, still seated cross-legged on the floor, a vigil kept all night. Flan, ever-relaxed, leaned against the window frame, morning light tracing her silhouette. They had coaxed her from the maelstrom, hours ago.

A semblance of her usual smile stretched Mochi's lips, but the edges felt brittle, and the spark in her eyes dimmed, a faint, struggling ember. "I'm... fine." she whispered, sitting up with a careful, almost performative politeness, as if the right words could mend the cracks.

"You're a bad liar," Flan murmured, her voice stripped of its usual bite.

"Go on," Guitar Case prompted, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. "Your dorm's waiting."

Mochi rose, brushing imaginary dust from her clothes. Her bow was shallow, less respectful than a silent plea for a few extra seconds. She slipped away, then. Crepe was waiting.

The dorm room, ordinarily a haven of hushed light and the distant murmur of other students, felt unnervingly still. The faint thrum of the overhead fixtures amplified the silence as Mochi stepped inside. Before a word was exchanged, before she even fully closed the door, Mochi felt the prickle of her roommate’s gaze – a nervous, almost desperate weight that pinned her in place. Crepe’s eyes, usually as soft and unfocused as a cloud, darted downwards, then froze. They landed on the exposed skin of Mochi’s arms, tracing the raw, angry trails that crisscrossed her forearms. These were not the faint, fading etchings of old wounds; these were fresh, still stark against her pale skin, deeper and more jagged than yesterday, like new fissures gouged into rock.

“M-Mochi…” Crepe’s voice was a barely audible whisper, a thread stretched to its breaking point. It vibrated with a fear that Mochi recognized, a fear that mirrored her own suppressed one. “They’re… they’re worse. Your s-scars..”

Mochi’s hand flew to her sleeve, pulling the fabric down with a sharp, involuntary jerk. A surge of defiant heat rose in her chest, battling the cold shame that threatened to engulf her. “It doesn’t matter,” she stated, her voice flat, designed to shut down the conversation, to build an impenetrable wall.

“It does.” Crepe’s voice, though still trembling, held a new, unshakeable resolve. She didn’t back down, didn’t flinch from Mochi’s hard gaze. Her eyes, usually so hesitant, now held a fierce, desperate plea. “You can’t… you can’t just walk around like that, Mochi. What if… someone will…” Crepe swallowed hard, the sound loud in the sudden, charged quiet. Her gaze flickered to the door, then back to Mochi’s face, laden with unspoken consequences. “…someone will see, Mochi. They’ll know.”

Mochi simply stared, caught off guard. Crepe? Meek, hesitant Crepe, whose voice was often lost in the general din of the dorm, was now standing her ground, a fragile but unyielding sentinel. A flicker of something akin to awe, quickly suppressed, crossed Mochi’s face. It was as if the quietest stream had suddenly asserted itself against a rock, its gentle current now an insistent flow. Her roommate, usually cloaked in layers of stammer and apology, was suddenly, unexpectedly, resolute.

Mochi let out a slow, controlled breath, the defiance draining from her, leaving behind only a weary resignation. “Then what..." she asked, the question itself an admission of defeat, “...do you suggest?”

The nurse’s office offered a sterile counterpoint to the dorm’s intimacy. It smelled faintly of medicinal alcohol and a surprisingly comforting hint of mint tea, a battle between antiseptic and palliative. Nurse Syringe, a woman whose expressions were as crisp and unyielding as her starched uniform, barely acknowledged their presence. Her gaze, when it did briefly flick up, was devoid of curiosity, merely a procedural assessment. Crepe, hunched beside Mochi, wrung her hands. Her voice, usually so reedy, cracked as she explained, fumbling for the right words, the quiet desperation lending her a fragile strength. She didn't have to voice the specific request; Syringe, with her practiced eye and weary understanding, seemed to grasp it instantly.