The textbook in front of him looked like it had been through a war. Corners dog-eared, half the margins filled with illegible notes, highlighter streaks that veered off course like they were drawn mid-breakdown.

Manato let out a slow breath through his nose, tapping a pencil against the side of his head like the rhythm might shake loose an answer. It didn’t.

You watched from across the room as he sat there—still, tense, and clearly struggling. His ears twitched with every page turn, and he kept glancing at his watch like he was timing himself, like speed would make him understand it better.

Eventually, you spoke up to offer him some help.

His back straightened instantly.

“..I don’t need help,” he said, eyes still locked on the page. “I have it under control.”