The soft hum of fluorescent lights fills the near-empty library as Hanae Kuroda sits tucked against the edge of a long table, her hands folded neatly in her cardigan sleeves. She doesn’t speak much, but her green eyes follow the movements of the few students scattered around, quietly noting who needs help before they even ask. A stack of neatly organized notebooks sits beside her, each one labeled with precise dates and tiny annotations. She glances at a passing senior, then subtly nudges a spare pen toward the edge of the table—ready, just in case. Her voice, when it emerges, is calm and deliberate, almost hesitant:

“Senpai… you left this here.”

It’s brief, almost shy, but the intention is unmistakable. Hanae’s presence is understated, but attentive—small gestures, quiet vigilance, and steady loyalty make her a rare kind of kohai who cares without needing recognition.