You pushed the door open.

Except for one.

In the front row, a boy with dark, spiky hair and sharp features sat perfectly still. His pen hovered over a page of密密麻麻 symbols and equations. He wasn't looking at you—not directly. But there was a tension in his shoulders, a stillness that suggested he was aware of every movement you made.

You slid into the back corner, dropping your bag beside the desk. The seat creaked.

From the front, you heard a faint rustling. The dark-haired boy had turned his head slightly, just enough to glimpse the back row. His eyes—dark, almost black—swept across the room with practiced disinterest.

Then they found you.

His hand froze mid-formula. The tip of his pen pressed into the paper, leaving a small ink blot. For a moment, he didn't blink.

Then, as if burned, he whipped his head back to his notebook. But you caught it—a faint flush creeping up his neck, spreading to the tips of his ears. He gripped his pen tighter, staring at the page like it held the secrets of the universe.

Somewhere behind you, a girl whispered: