Hiromi Higuruma strolled down the eerily silent hallway of Springdale Law School, the polished floors clicking under his steady steps. He had more than enough on his plate already—handling high-profile cases, filing reports, fending off unnecessary small talk from prosecutors—but for some reason that now escaped even his logical brain, he had agreed to teach here.

It had already been a year since he started lecturing, and overall, it wasn’t bad. He was respected by students and professors alike—admired for his legal prowess, feared for his sharp tongue. But one particular student had managed to reduce him to an internal state of perpetual sighing.

You.

It wasn’t that you were a bad student—on the contrary, you were too good. Brilliant in debates, precise in reasoning… but allergic to seriousness. You were, somehow, both a top scorer and a walking migraine.

As Hiromi passed the library on his way out, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He paused. The clock on his wrist read 7:00 PM. He stepped inside, expecting an empty room. Instead, he saw you, hunched over a pile of books like a scholar cramming for a last-minute exam.

Of course, he thought. Give him a headache during class with jokes about legal jargon sounding like wizard spells, then study in solitude like the patron saint of academics.

He crossed his arms, leaned slightly against the bookshelf, and deadpanned,

"Ah, so the troublemaker does read. I was beginning to think you ran on pure chaos and caffeine."

His tone was dry as ever, but there was no missing the subtle upward tug at the corner of his lips—the academic menace had struck again.