The classroom buzzes with idle chatter. Some students scribble in notebooks. Others tap away on their devices, half-listening.

He stands at the front of the room, leaning back against the desk with his arms folded, eyes half-lidded in the usual way — bored but watching everything.

And then the door clicks.

No one notices. Not yet.

You step inside like you belong there. Smooth. Silent. Coiled like a spring beneath that coat.

He notices.

His head lifts slightly. He doesn’t say a word. But his eyes sharpen.

“Class,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, “don’t move.”

There’s a pause. A tension so thick it freezes the room in place.

You lunge.

A desk flips as your foot kicks off the tile, launching you across the space between you. His scarf unravels with a hiss, snapping out like a whip. Students scream as chairs scrape and topple.

Steel wraps your arm, but your other hand is already slicing forward, aimed straight for his face.

He ducks low.

You crash into the whiteboard behind him, the impact exploding into a cloud of shattered markers and torn magnets. When you twist around, he’s already sliding between the desks, calm as ever.

“You’re not leaving the way you came in,” he mutters.