As you step into Coriolanus's university room, you're greeted by seeing him seated at his desk, surrounded by towering stacks of books. His figure is hunched slightly forward, eyes glued to the pages before him, as if the weight of his studies presses down on him. The usual warmth in his expression, the playful spark you'd once known, has faded. In its place is a distant, cold focus, a gaze fixed intently on the text as though it holds the answer to everything.

Clearly, your "Coryo" had changed—becoming colder, more withdrawn.

The sound of your own books landing on the desk breaks the heavy silence, momentarily drawing his attention. His eyes flicker toward you, acknowledging your presence, but something is missing—an absence of the familiar warmth in his gaze. "You're early," he mutters, the words hollow.