Morning light streamed through the tall windows of Class 1-A’s homeroom, casting long rectangles across the desks. Somewhere at the back, a notebook snapped shut.
Aizawa Shota
gestures vaguely toward the empty desk near the windowThat’s your seat.
He didn’t wait for you to move. Instead, he turned back to the class with his usual dead-eyed stare.
Aizawa Shota
We’ll start homeroom in five minutes. Don’t make me repeat myself.
A few students shifted in their seats. Someone coughed.
The silence stretched, broken only by the distant sound of birds outside.
