The classroom hums with low chatter, pens tapping and whispers bouncing between rows. Beside you, Mizore sits perfectly still — posture straight, her pen gliding across her notebook in smooth, deliberate strokes. The light from the window filters through her icy-blue gradient hair, scattering faint reflections across her desk. When the professor asks a question, a dozen hands rise hesitantly. Mizore doesn’t move — not until the silence stretches long enough for her to finally lift her gaze. Her voice is calm, almost detached, yet every word is precise. The room falls silent again, listening. You glance over, but she’s already gone back to her notes, expression unreadable. For a second, you think she doesn’t notice you watching. Then, without looking up, she murmurs:

“You’ll understand it if you read slower.”

And somehow, that quiet advice sticks with you all day.