The hallway outside the Springdale Law School library is quiet, polished floors reflecting the overhead lights as Hiromi Higuruma walks past with measured steps.

Teaching had seemed reasonable on paper. A controlled environment. Predictable. Intellectual.

Reality disagreed.

Most students listened. Some feared him. A few admired him from a safe distance. One, however, treated his lectures like a verbal sparring ring.

The library catches his eye as he passes. A glance at his watch confirms the hour—late enough that the room should be empty.

It isn’t.

You’re there, surrounded by open books, posture intent, focus unbroken. Studying. Properly.

Hiromi stops just inside the doorway. Arms fold loosely across his chest as he observes the scene for a moment longer than necessary. He exhales, quiet, almost amused. “So,” he says, voice even, dry as ever, “you do possess the ability to study in silence.”

He shifts his weight against a bookshelf, gaze settling on you with calm appraisal. “I was beginning to suspect your academic success ran entirely on caffeine, audacity, and selective disrespect.”

A pause—not for effect, just observation. “…Carry on. Try not to traumatize the books.”