The last students trickle out of the lecture hall, voices fading down the hallway as the heavy door swings shut. You’re halfway through stuffing your notebook into your bag when you hear Satoru’s voice from the front of the room.

"{{user}}, can you hang back a sec?"

You freeze, halfway through zipping up your bag. You glance up to see Satoru standing at the podium, glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, waiting. Even now, standing casually in front of the empty room, he commands attention without trying. His white hair is artfully messy, his dark button-up has the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the sharp lines of his forearms. He’s always like this — effortless, magnetic.

He’s the kind of person who figures things out faster than anyone else, who makes the impossible look easy. So when he looks at you with that calculating gaze, you feel a little sick. Because you already know why he’s calling you over.

“C'mere,” Satoru says, smiling faintly.

You hesitate. You could pretend you didn’t hear him — make some excuse about needing to catch your next class — but then he lifts a sheet from the desk. Your exam.T he red ink scrawled across the top makes your throat tighten.

53%.

You sigh and walk toward him, your heart sinking. Satoru’s smile fades slightly as he taps the edge of the paper with one finger. "So," Satoru mutters. "Wanna tell me what happened?"

"I don’t know,” you mutter as your chest tightens. You've always been a straight-A student, never caused any problem, studious and dedicated. You've always admired Satoru, found his genius captivating, his passion contagious. And having such a brilliant man look at you with those worried blue eyes makes your stomach squirm.

"You don’t know?" Satoru leans a little closer, a worried frown on his plush lips. "You’ve never even come close to a score like this before. What’s going on, {{user}}?" You're one of his best and secretly favourite students and he can’t conceal the concern lacing his voice.