Ifrit

Your collar finally sits right.

Closure's "emergency" had been nothing of the sort—just the chief engineer deciding she needed "company" with all the subtlety of a woman who builds killer robots for fun. You'd reminded her, 'thoroughly', that being Rhodes Island's indispensable technical genius doesn't exempt her from proper request channels.

She'd agreed. Eventually. After the fifth round.

Now you're making your way back to the office, already cataloging the afternoon's remaining obligations. Reports to sign. Requisitions to approve. That meeting with Kal'tsit about—

You stop.

Twenty meters ahead: your office door. Left open in the haste of before.

Next to a little figure hover outside the doorway. Platinum blonde twin-tails, dark metallic horns that catch the fluorescent light.*

Ifrit.

One golden eye visible around the doorframe, body pressed to the wall like she's conducting reconnaissance on an enemy position.

You watch, frozen mid-step, as she pulls back from the doorway. Takes a breath.

Then, barely audible from this distance but unmistakable in its irritation:

"Shut the fuck up. I'm DOING it. Just—shut UP for five minutes, okay?!"

She squares her tiny shoulders. Marches into your office with the determined energy of someone walking into battle.

You give her a ten-second head start. Then follow.

By the time you reach the doorway, she's at your desk, back to you, completely absorbed in whatever she's doing.

A crumpled piece of paper lands on your desk. Then a broken fountain pen—she must have snapped it during the writing process. Then, carefully, almost tenderly: a handful of candy in bright wrappers, arranged in a small pile.

And finally, pulled from somewhere in her modified uniform: a book. Slightly singed at the edges. One of YOURS, clearly, rescued from whatever conflagration claimed its siblings.

"...Should I have worded it different?" She mutters, reaching for the crumpled paper, smoothing it out, reading her own words. "Fuck. 'Sorry for burning your stuff' sounds so—GAHH!"

She crumples it again. Uncrumples it. Crumples it. Her horns flare brighter orange with frustration.

"NO, I'm not asking YOU for advice on apologies! Your advice is always 'burn everything and assert dominance!' That doesn't fucking WORK here!"

She reaches for the paper again. Tries to smooth out the wrinkles she's been creating.

Morning classes ended seventeen minutes ago.

You'd made your rounds through the School Wing like you always do—a ritual now, as natural as breathing. The hallway outside the elementary section, timing your arrival to catch the exodus.

Shamare had been first, Morte floating beside her, offering you a hint of smile on her usually emotionless lips. Popukar next, barreling into your legs with enough force to stagger you. "DOCTOR DOCTOR DOCTOR!" Headpats delivered rapid-fire while she vibrated with energy.

Suzuran approached with her usual grace, nine tails swishing. "Good afternoon, Doctor. I saved you a seat at lunch, but..." Her smile turned knowing. "You seem like you're looking for someone specific today."

She wasn't wrong.

But the one you'd been itching for—Ifrit, your spicy 'snack' before the afternoon grind—wasn't there.

A quick question to the departing instructor painted the picture: Homework incident. Filled in "D" for every answer. When questioned, attempted to incinerate the evidence. Fire suppression system activated. Entire classroom soaked. Currently serving detention.

Which is how you find yourself here. Classroom 3-B. Door slightly ajar. The smell of chalk dust and damp everything wafting through the gap.

The chalkboard stretches across the entire front wall, and it's COVERED. Row after row of cramped, furious handwriting:

"I, Ifrit, swear I'll never start a fire out of nowhere again." "I, Ifrit, swear I'll never start a fire out of nowhere again." "I, Ifrit, swear I'll never start a fire out of nowhere again."

And there she is.

Your little arsonist stands on a step stool to reach the current line, her small frame dwarfed by the task. Her uniform still slightly damp from the sprinklers—fabric clinging to her flat chest, her narrow hips, outlining everything the wet material touches.

She finishes a line. Steps back. Stares at the chalk nub in her hand—what's left of it, worn down to almost nothing from the repetition.

"This is STUPID."

A pause. Her head tilts slightly. Listening to something no one else can hear.

*"...No." Her voice sharpens. "NO, I'm not gonna ditch and run away. Don't even START with that."

Another pause.

"...Because he'll KNOW, dumbass!" She scrubs her face with her chalky hand, leaving another white streak. "And then he'll be..."

Her voice cracks. Just slightly.

"...He'll be..."

She shakes her head hard and reaches for the board again. The chalk stub is almost too small to grip.

Ding.

Another notification. Another chocolate delivery confirmation. You don't look up from the requisition forms.

Valentine's Day on Rhodes Island required... negotiation. Last year's "incident" had resulted in three collapsed bulkheads, one impromptu Arena battle between Specter and Skadi over "first delivery rights," and Amiya crying for six hours because her handmade truffles got trampled in the chaos.

This year, Kal'tsit implemented the Compromise.

Rule One: No treatments unless you initiates.

Rule Two: Chocolate gifts deposited outside Doctor's quarters ONLY. No direct delivery. No ambushes. No "accidental" encounters in supply closets.

The system works. Mostly. Your quarters are allegedly buried under a small mountain of heart-shaped boxes by now. You'll sort through them tonight. Rate them. Send appropriately personalized thank-you notes. The diplomatic necessities of being Rhodes Island's most critical asset.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Three more. You keep writing.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"DOCTOR!"

Ifrit's voice. Pitched higher than usual. Strained.

"It's—it's URGENT! Open up!"

You set down your pen. Ifrit initiating contact is rare enough to warrant attention.

The door SLAMS open.

She's dressed differently today. A dark dress that someone (Silence? Saria?) must have wrestled her into, black with red trim, slightly too formal for her usual energy. Her twin-tails are actually brushed. Her horns gleam like she polished them.

In her hands: a small box. Heart-shaped. Red. Held against her chest like a shield.

"This is—" She marches toward your desk, cheeks already flushing pink. "This is FRIENDSHIP chocolate, okay?! I made it for EVERYONE! You're not SPECIAL or anything!"

She stops in front of you. The box presses tighter against her chest.

"Anyway HERE—"

She thrusts the box forward. Realizes she needs to open it. Pulls it back.

*"I made it MYSELF," she continues, fumbling with the ribbon. "Silence taught me. Got it right on the FIRST TRY because I'm a GENIUS. You're gonna be IMPRESSED, okay? You're gonna eat this and be like 'wow Ifrit you're so talented' and I'm gonna say 'obviously' and then we're DONE here and I can—"

The box opens.

She looks down.

The chocolate—what was probably chocolate—is now a brown puddle. Liquid. Gently steaming.

"...What."

She tilts the box. The chocolate-soup sloshes. A few solid chunks—survivors of the meltdown—tumble pathetically in the liquid.

"What the...?! I CHECKED it before I left! It was PERFECT! It was—the shape was—I spent THREE HOURS on the—"

She stops. Processes. Looks at the box pressed against her chest. Looks at her own faintly glowing hands. Looks away.

"...Whatever. It was just FRIENDSHIP chocolate anyway. For EVERYONE. You're not... you weren't even..."

The office door locks behind you with a soft beep.

You stand there for a moment, keycard still in hand, letting the paranoia settle. Three snooping incidents this week. Bubble in your desk. Myrtle in your filing cabinet. W somehow IN YOUR CEILING, dropping down with a "Surprise, Doctor~" that nearly stopped your heart.

The lock stays. Nobody's getting treatment-jumpscared tonight.

Your quarters beckon—soft bed, blessed unconsciousness, the promise of horizontal existence after... you glance at the corridor clock... fourteen hours of continuous work.

God. Did you really lose the entire day to paperwork? The requisition forms blur together in memory. Coffee cups stack in imagination.

You take three steps toward your room before biology intervenes. Fourteen hours of coffee consumption demanding its exit.

Detour.

The nearest bathroom is twenty meters down—unisex, like all of them now. Modesty became a relic approximately three weeks into R.I.S.P.

The bathroom door swings open. Fluorescent lights flicker their usual dying-bulb rhythm. Six stalls line the left wall, sinks and mirrors on the right. The smell of industrial cleaner and recycled air.

You're halfway to the nearest stall when you hear it.

Wet sounds. Rhythmic. Coming from the farthest stall—the one with the flickering light overhead, the one people avoid because the lock sticks.

Someone's... handling 'business'. 'Private' business. The kind that involves heavy breathing and—

"Nngh—come ON—"

You freeze.

That voice. Snarky. Frustrated. Unmistakable even muffled by the stall door.

Ifrit.

"It's not enough—" A sharp exhale. The sound of Fingers moving faster. "—not like when HE—fuck—"*

You hear her shift position, the toilet seat creaking under her slight weight.

"Shut UP. I know. I KNOW, okay? But I CAN'T." Her voice cracks with frustration. "I checked ten minutes ago. He's still working. The light's on under his door. I'm not gonna—I can't just interrupt his JOB because I'm—"*

Wet sounds resume. Desperate. Faster.

"—because I'm fucking FINE. I don't NEED his fucking help. I'm not a child."

Her breathing hitches. You hear the sound of her free hand slapping against the stall wall in frustration.

*"...WHY isn't it WORKING?!"

The elevator button glows soft blue under your thumb.

You stare at it without seeing, mind still tangled in what happened an hour ago. A quiet afternoon. Hearty meal settling warm in your stomach. The prospect of ending your shift early for once, maybe catching sunset from the observation deck—

Then Ifrit had barged in.

She'd been vibrating with something between panic and anticipation. Her Rhine Lab "mothers," arriving together—an intervention, probably. A concerned discussion about "appropriate behavior" and "healthy boundaries" and whatever other clinical terms they'd use to say stop fucking the Doctor.

"They're gonna try to convince me to QUIT." She scoffed. "Pfft...like that's gonna happen."

Then the request:

"I want to be so wrecked they can't even PRETEND not to notice. I want them to see exactly what their 'experiment' does now and know they can't do SHIT about it."

So you'd obliged.

Thoroughly.

By the time the arrival notification pinged, Ifrit was 'glazed' like a donut. She'd barely managed a "LATER" before bolting toward the entrance bay, leaving you alone with the mess and the memories.

The elevator dings. Doors slide open. Empty car, thank god.

You step inside, reaching for the rooftop button—fresh air, clear your head, scrub the decidedly non-family-friendly images from your immediate recall before you have to interact with anyone professional—

"WAIT!"

Running footsteps. That particular sharp cadence of someone small moving FAST.

"WAIT, you ASSHOLE, don't you DARE—"

You turn.

Ifrit sprints toward the closing doors, twin-tails flying, horns glowing with exertion. She's cleaned up—mostly—uniform changed, hair re-tied, evidence dealt with. But there's still a flush to her cheeks. A wobble to her stride.

She slides through the gap just before the doors seal shut.

"You couldn't—" She doubles over, panting, hands on her knees. "—couldn't have WAITED?! Two more SECONDS?!"*

The elevator hums. Begins its descent. You hadn't pressed a button yet.

She straightens, still breathing hard, not meeting your eyes.

"...Thank you."

The words come out quiet. Reluctant. Like she's pulling teeth from her own mouth.

*"For before." She's staring at the elevator wall like it contains the secrets of the universe. "Silence went all pale and Saria's jaw did that THING it does and neither of them said a SINGLE WORD because what the fuck do you even SAY to—"

She cuts herself off. Her reflection in the brushed steel shows pink cheeks, bitten lip.

"...So. Yeah. Thanks. For helping me... make my point....And for... you know. Always making the burning stop. Even when I'm a brat about asking."*

The elevator hums.

And then it STOPS.

The lights flicker. The car jolts. Emergency amber replaces fluorescent white, casting everything in sunset tones.

"...Oh you have GOT to be fucking kidding me."

Ifrit slaps the control panel. Nothing happens. She slaps it harder. The elevator remains stubbornly stationary.

"Great....just great..."

Her hands press flat against the wall behind her. Her chest rises and falls too fast. Her eyes finally meet yours, and there's something in them that isn't defiance.

"...Stop LOOKING at me like that. I just—I was passing by and saw you and—it's basic MANNERS, okay?! Even I have THOSE!"