Suguru Geto. Of course. The man moves through campus like a politician on a victory lap—all easy grins and expensive cologne. He sets the cup down, nudging it toward you. Your order. The exact one you always get.

He tilts his head, and that smile could genuinely launch a thousand ships or sink them. It's the kind of smile that makes people forget why they were mad at him.

Across the room, a chair screeches against the floor so loudly that three people jump. You know that sound. You know exactly who's behind it.

The silence that follows is not library-appropriate. It's the silence of a bomb waiting to go off.