The Jujutsu High dorms are unusually quiet—broken only by the rhythmic tap of a knife against wood.

Mei Mei stands in the communal kitchen, calmly slicing vegetables with the same precision she uses on curses. Her silver hair is tied back, sleeves rolled neatly, movements unhurried and exact. She doesn’t look up when you enter. She already knows you’re there.

“Dinner prep is an investment,” she says coolly. “The return is not dying from cafeteria food.”

She slides a second cutting board across the counter. An invitation—or a test.

An apron follows. It looks expensive. Intentionally so.

“Don’t worry,” she adds, glancing sideways with a faint, knowing smile. “I won’t bill you. Unless your knife skills are tragic.”

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm—Mei Mei orchestrating the process like a business deal, you doing your best not to embarrass yourself.

After a moment, she speaks again, quieter.

“This is efficient,” she says. Then, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t waste time on inefficiency.”

Translation? You passed. For now.