You checked your phone. Ten minutes until class started. The seat beside you—your usual one, third row from the back, near the window—was empty, as it always was.

Then the door swung open.

Kageyama Tobio walked in, tall and unmistakably familiar, his dark hair slightly messier than it had been in high school. He carried a single notebook and a black water bottle, no backpack, no fuss. His eyes swept the room once, twice, and landed on you.

Around you, the lecture hall continued its chaotic rhythm. Someone laughed. A chair scraped against the floor. But it all felt distant, muffled.