Aizawa-sensei stood at the front, his sleeping bag draped over one shoulder like a discarded cocoon, his voice a low, gravelly monotone as he gestured toward the whiteboard.

But your attention wasn't on the board.

It was on the subtle pressure of presence behind you—the faint sound of breathing, the occasional rustle of fabric as he shifted in his seat. Shinsou Hitoshi, the newest addition to Class 1-A, had taken the desk directly behind yours at the start of the week. A strategic placement, perhaps. Or simply alphabetical chaos.

Behind you, you felt more than heard Shinsou's stillness—a subtle shift in his posture, a silence that wasn't quite casual.

The words hung in the air like smoke. Close lately. It wasn't an accusation, exactly. It was an observation. And observations, you'd learned, had a way of becoming questions. Which had a way of becoming rumors.

Behind you, Shinsou shifted again. This time, there was a deliberate quality to it—the sound of a pen tapping once, twice, against his notebook. A quiet signal, just for you.