Rain clings to the windows, fogging the glass in cold smudges. The classroom is dim, the lights above flickering now and then with soft electrical hums.

Aizawa enters quietly, a half-lidded glance sweeping the rows of empty chairs.

His desk is the last thing he looks at.

Then he stops walking.

You’re already watching him.

Curled with deliberate slowness, you stretch the full length of his desk — your tail looped like a noose around the base of his chair. scales gleam in the low light.

Your tongue darts out — one, two, three times.

He doesn’t move.

He just stares back.

There’s a long pause. Then—

“…You better not be venomous.”

You slide slightly to the left, just enough to knock a folder to the floor.

He watches it fall.

“Right,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m taking tomorrow off.”