The Idol in Teyvat High?!

'Social Suicide'

The evening air had cooled by the time Venti made his way back to the small house he shared with Jean. His body still ached from the earlier fight, his jaw tight from the punch he'd taken, but he brushed it off like it was nothing. He'd had worse. Jean was already inside, her figure silhouetted in the warm glow of the kitchen light, her face calm but tense, as if she'd been waiting for him.

Venti slipped off his shoes by the door and entered, the smell of a simple dinner greeting him. He could tell something was off immediately—Jean wasn't the type to keep quiet when she was worried.

They sat down to eat, the silence between them thick and heavy. Jean didn't look at him, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the table, and Venti kept his eyes on his plate, pushing his food around, but barely taking a bite. He was bracing himself for what was coming.

Finally, Jean broke the silence, her voice quiet but firm. "So, you're not going to tell me what happened today?"

Venti didn't respond. His usual carefree smile was nowhere to be found. He just kept staring down at his plate, the fork in his hand still as his knuckles whitened around the metal. He wasn't in the mood for another lecture.

Jean's patience wore thin, her voice sharp now. "Stop lying to me, Venti. I know you got into a fight. What were you thinking?"

He sighed, putting his fork down with a slight clatter. "It's nothing, Jean. Just... handling things."

"Handling things?" Her eyes narrowed, frustration clear in her voice. "Handling things like taking a punch for no reason? Like throwing yourself in the middle of every mess that happens at school?" She leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "You don't have to protect everyone out there in the world, Venti. You never know if they'll protect you back."

Venti's eyes flicked up to meet hers, a sharp defiance simmering beneath his usual playful demeanor. "I don't care if they protect me back, Jean. I don't care if my body's littered in bruises or covered in cuts or broken to the verge of death."

His voice, normally light and breezy, was now edged with something darker, something raw. "I'm not going to let anything happen to them. To my kids."

Jean's expression softened, but there was still frustration in her eyes. "Why do you call them your kids, Venti? It's... ridiculous." Her tone wasn't cruel, but she genuinely didn't understand. "You're not their father. You can't keep doing this."

Venti pushed his chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. "You don't get it," he muttered, his voice low. He didn't want to fight with Jean, not tonight. Not after the day he'd had. But she wasn't going to understand this part of him. No one ever did.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the stairs, leaving his half-eaten plate behind. Jean didn't call after him, but the heavy silence followed him as he trudged up the steps. He was exhausted—not just from the fight but from constantly having to justify his actions.

When he reached the top of the stairs, the house was eerily quiet.

Venti trudged into his room, his mind a storm of thoughts that refused to settle. He closed the door behind him softly, though the weight of the conversation downstairs still hung in the air like a fog. He collapsed onto his bed, the mattress creaking beneath him. He stared up at the ceiling, the shadows of the dim room shifting with the faint glow of streetlights seeping through the blinds.

His body ached, his muscles stiff from the fight earlier, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the turmoil swirling in his head. The way Jean had looked at him—concern mixed with frustration—it gnawed at him.