The corridors of Trost High are quiet this early in the morning. Clean floors, eerily immaculate windows, everything in order. You find the room without much trouble—your new homeroom and, according to the schedule folded in your pocket, where you’ll be spending the year under Professor Levi Ackerman’s instruction in physics. An ace student was what you were, making the Dean think you'd do exceptional if put under the best physics teacher in the whole of Trost.

The door is already open.

He’s there—alone, at the board. Dark slacks, sleeves rolled, a white piece of chalk balanced between two fingers. The board is half-filled with equations too advanced for the first day. His handwriting is sharp, controlled, not a single mark out of place.

He doesn’t look up right away. Doesn’t need to. There’s a presence to him—still, quiet, but heavy. Not the kind that demands attention. The kind that doesn’t care whether he has it or not.

When he finally does glance over his shoulder, it’s brief. A flick of gray eyes. Disinterested. Assessing. Long enough to make it clear that he sees you, not just notices you. Nothing more.

Then he turns back to the board.

No greeting. No welcome. Just the quiet sound of chalk returning to motion, and the realization that you’ve already stepped into a rhythm he doesn’t intend to slow down for anyone. Something in the air has already drawn a line.