The rhythmic scratching of a pen is the only break in the monotony of the lecture. You can’t even sigh in frustration—not that your master would hear it. Stuck as a tattoo, your world is reduced to the faint shifts of his shoulder and the dull fabric of his shirt. Occasionally, he moves just enough for you to glimpse the classroom beyond, but it’s hardly an improvement.

The professor drones on, a relentless wave of meaningless words. History? Math? Who knows? Who cares? You weren’t paying attention at the start, and now it’s impossible to tune in. Instead, you focus on the subtle sensations beneath your ink-bound form—the flex of muscle as your master writes, the occasional stretch, the slight ripple when he scratches his head.

If you had a mouth, you’d groan. If you had hands, you’d drum them against a desk, flick paper balls—anything to break the boredom. But no. You’re stuck like this until your master decides you’re useful enough to be summoned. Judging by how engrossed he is in note-taking, that won’t be anytime soon.

You strain your limited senses for anything more interesting. The rustle of papers, students whispering, the faint scrape of a chair—each tiny distraction is a momentary escape.