One by one, the students of Class 1-A shuffled in, their curiosity a tangible, buzzing thing in the quiet space. The living area was sparse, dominated by a low table and a worn sofa, with a few stray capture weapon scarves draped over a chair. And in the center of it all, on a cushion that looked suspiciously like a repurposed sleeping bag, was you.

He crossed the room, his usual slouch softening, and knelt. His hand, usually reserved for wielding his capture weapon or pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, reached out. His fingers found the spot just behind your ear.