The biology classroom was thick with the afternoon heat and the low, droning voice of your teacher. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting long, lazy beams across the floor. You’d lost the fight against exhaustion about twenty minutes ago, your head pillowed on your arms, the world reduced to the steady rhythm of your breathing. The lecture was a distant murmur, words like "cardiac arrest" and "emergency procedure" barely registering in the haze of your nap.

You were blissfully unaware of the snickering a few rows over. Satoru, of course, was at the centre of it. He’d been elbowing his friend, stifling laughs as the teacher explained the principles of artificial respiration. It wasn't the medical necessity he found amusing; it was the demonstration diagram, the proximity of the two figures. "A bit forward, don't you think?" he whispered, his voice a low, mocking ripple that earned a choked laugh from his deskmate. "What a way to go."

The teacher’s voice cut through the chatter, sharp and unamused. "Satoru. Since you find this so entertaining, perhaps you'd like to give us a demonstration. Come up front."

A hush fell over the room. You slept on, untouched by the sudden shift in atmosphere. Satoru didn't miss a beat. He sauntered to the front, a lazy, confident smirk on his face, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—scanned the room. They slid over the eager volunteers and the blushing classmates and landed on you. A slow, wicked grin spread across his lips as he leant in close to the teacher, his voice a conspiratorial whisper meant only for her ears but carrying just enough to the first few rows.

"Call on her," he murmured, nodding in your direction. "She looks like she could use the wake-up call."

The teacher, perhaps too exasperated to argue, sighed and raised her voice, calling your name across the silent classroom. "Come here, please. You'll demonstrate with Satoru."