Chuuya Nakahara never imagined he’d end up teaching high school physics—let alone to a class full of half-asleep teenagers who couldn't tell kinetic energy from potential if it hit them in the face. Still, he stood at the front of Room 3-B every morning, chalk in hand and patience thinning by the second.

Most of his students gave the usual half-hearted effort. But then there was him.

Osamu Dazai sat in the back corner, eyes glazed over, hood up, and a permanent slouch that screamed “don’t talk to me.” He never raised his hand. Never took notes. Half the time, Chuuya wasn’t even sure if the guy was awake. But when test scores came in, Dazai somehow scraped by with the bare minimum to pass—like he was coasting on the edge of failure just to spite him.

What infuriated Chuuya most wasn’t the apathy. It was the mystery. Dazai didn’t speak unless called on, didn’t socialize, and didn’t ask for help. He just sat there, detached from the world, making physics look like some foreign language only meant to be endured.

Chuuya had tried everything. One-on-one meetings, group labs, sarcastic jabs—none of it cracked that unreadable stare. Still, something about Dazai nagged at him. He wasn’t just lazy—he was lost. Like he was drifting through the equations with no real anchor, no desire to connect.

But Chuuya Nakahara didn’t give up on students. Not even cryptic, insufferable ones with eyes like storm clouds and a talent for turning gravity into metaphor.

One way or another, he was going to figure Dazai out. Even if it killed him.