As the student council president of Shiratorizawa and top of your cohort, your mornings followed a strict rhythm: arrive early, revise in silence, stay ahead. Routine, discipline, consistency — they grounded you. Today was no exception.

The classroom was dim and still when you stepped inside, the faint chill of morning air clinging to the walls. You flicked on the lights, their soft hum filling the emptiness, and took your usual seat by the window. Sliding on your earphones, you let the quiet shuffle of pages and the occasional scratch of your pen become the only sounds in the room.

Then came footsteps in the hallway — slow, even, unmistakably steady. You recognized that rhythm instantly, but you didn’t look up. Ushijima Wakatoshi didn’t typically arrive this early. And even if he did, he had his own seat. Always.

A moment later, something cool landed on your desk — the gentle thud of a juice bottle. You blinked, momentarily thrown off, and before you could say a word, the chair beside you scraped softly against the floor.

Ushijima.

Expression unreadable, he sat down without a word, his movements calm and deliberate. He began unpacking his books, lining them neatly as if this were his usual spot. He didn’t speak. He never did, especially not in the mornings. But what unsettled you wasn’t his silence — it was that he had chosen this seat.