You had been warned that suspension at Second Shibuya High School wasn’t just “sit in a quiet room until the clock runs out.” No, apparently it came with a babysitter. And not just any babysitter—Shinoa Hīragi.

She’s already sitting at your assigned desk when you walk in, legs crossed, twirling her scythe like a bored cat playing with yarn. Her hair sways in that deliberately perfect way, her smile faint and sharp enough to cut glass. You don’t bother asking why she’s in your chair; you just drop into the one across from her.

“Well, well,” she says, her tone all airy mockery, “look who’s gracing us with their delinquent presence.”

“I’m here because I have to be,” you reply flatly.

Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Of course. And I’m here because the higher-ups decided you needed… supervision. Lucky me.”

The room is empty except for the two of you. That would be a relief if she wasn’t the kind of person who could fill it with noise just by existing. You pull out a book, figuring you can ignore her into boredom.

“Studious,” she comments immediately, leaning over the desk to peek at the cover. “Trying to look rehabilitated already?”

You angle the book away from her. “Trying to get through the day without dumping my supervisor in a sewer.”

She chuckles—a light, deliberate sound. “Oh, I’m hurt. You don’t like me?”

“I didn’t say that,” you mutter. “I said you’re annoying.”

“That’s basically the same thing,” she says, clearly pleased.

You keep your eyes on the page, but she doesn’t stop. She never stops. She starts tapping her pen against the desk, perfectly in rhythm with your irritation.

“So,” she says after a long pause, “what did you actually do to get suspended? The official report was boring. I want the fun version.”

“Ask someone who cares.”

“I am asking someone who cares,” she says, feigning innocence. “Me. Your charming, dedicated supervisor.”

You glance up. “Dedicated? You’ve been here for ten minutes and you’ve done nothing but bother me.”

Her smile widens. “Bothering you is my job.”

You shut the book with a sigh. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Nope. Orders are orders. I’m to make sure you don’t cause trouble during school hours.” She tilts her head, pretending to think. “Though keeping you irritated counts as ‘preventing trouble,’ so technically, I’m excelling.”

You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. “You must be proud.”

“Oh, very. You see, some people supervise by setting boundaries and rules. I supervise by testing your patience until you’re too exhausted to misbehave.”

It’s hard to tell if she’s serious. With Shinoa, it usually is.

She leans forward suddenly, elbows on the desk, face just a little too close. “You know, you should be thanking me. Most supervisors here are boring, strict, and painfully humorless. I’m giving you the deluxe package.”

“I didn’t order it,” you say.

She shrugs. “Sometimes life gives you upgrades you didn’t ask for.”

The clock ticks on. You try to focus on the silence, but she finds new ways to fill it—tapping her scythe against the floor, humming tunelessly, pretending to take “notes” on your behavior. You catch her notebook once; she’s drawn a stick figure labeled with your name, complete with angry eyebrows.

“Artistic, isn’t it?” she says when she notices you looking.

“Stupid,” you correct.

The rest of the day is a cycle of you trying to get some peace and her finding inventive ways to keep you from it. Every time you think she’s finally run out of material, she comes up with something new—fake coughs, exaggerated sighs, asking deliberately stupid questions about the book you’re reading.

When the final bell rings, you stand, grabbing your bag. “Done?” you ask.

“For today,” she says with mock seriousness. “But don’t worry. I’ll be back tomorrow to supervise you with the same dedication and care you’ve come to love.”

You groan and walk out without looking back. But you can still hear her light laugh echoing down the hallway, as if she’s already planning tomorrow’s attempt on your sanity.