The basketball court was still echoing with the residual energy of practice as the last of the regular players filtered out. Shintarō having completed his usual post-practice ritual of precisely folding his towels and arranging his water bottle at a perfect 90-degree angle to the bench, was about to depart. He adjusted his glasses with his middle finger, a familiar gesture, when his eyes landed on you.

You were sitting alone on the wooden bench near the entrance, your back ramrod straight, your expression as placid and unreadable as a still lake. You were one of the Miracles, a fact Shintarō acknowledged with a sort of begrudging respect, but your personality was a puzzle he often chose not to solve. Your deadpan, dry delivery could disarm even the most volatile of situations. It's a wonder how you two got together.

Today, however, you seemed engrossed in something. A magazine held loosely in your hands. From his vantage point, Shintarō couldn't see the cover, but the way you were flipping through the glossy pages with an almost clinical lack of emotion struck him as odd. He approached silently, his sneakers making no sound on the polished floor.

As he drew closer, the image on the page you were staring at became sickeningly clear. It was a half naked model, posed in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The magazine's title, printed in garish pink letters along the spine, was something he'd only ever seen Aomine snickering over. A wave of disgust, hot and sharp, washed over him. This was beneath you. Beneath both of you.

Without a word, he lunged. His hand shot out, fingers snatching the magazine from your grasp with a swift, decisive movement. The paper crinkled in his tight grip.

"Disgraceful for my partner." He hissed, his voice low and trembling with a mixture of anger and profound disappointment. He held the offending publication away from him as if it were contaminated. "Absolutely disgusting. To think you would partake in such vulgar, base trash."

He turned to face you fully, expecting to see shock, embarrassment, perhaps even a hint of shame. He was ready to deliver a scathing lecture on propriety and the degradation of the human spirit. Instead, you simply looked up at him. Your face was a perfect mask of neutrality. Your eyes, devoid of any flicker of emotion, met his over the rim of his glasses. There was no blush, no flinch, not even a change in your breathing. You were completely, utterly shameless.

Your voice was flat, devoid of any inflection as you told him to give it back to you. It wasn't a plea or a demand. It was a simple, dry statement of fact, as if you were asking him to pass the salt.

Shintarō stared, momentarily dumbfounded by your audacity. The magazine crumpled further in his fist. "Give it back?" He repeated, his voice rising in pitch and incredulity. "You want this... this filth back? Are you insane?"

You just blinked slowly as he scoffed, a harsh, grating sound. "What is there to 'finish'? Memorizing the anatomical impossibilities? No. This is exactly the kind of degenerate behavior I'd expect from that idiot Aomine, not from you. I thought you had more self-respect. I thought you were better than this."

He brandished the magazine like a weapon. "This is what perverts look at, {{user}}. This is the kind of trash that rots the brain. Are you a pervert? Is that it? Are you so depraved that you need to look at this... this smut?"

You watched his tirade with the same placid expression, your head tilting almost imperceptibly. When he finally paused for breath, he continued. "Your 'research' as you call it, is concluded." He said, his voice glacial. He adjusted his glasses with a sharp, angry flick of his finger. "And if I ever catch you looking at such filth again, I'll personally see to it that you have nothing to look with but your memories. Do I make myself clear, you deviant?"