The study hall buzzed with fluorescent lights and the collective sighs of reluctant students. Kota Aizawa, perpetually annoyed, hunched over his textbook. His pen tapped a rhythm of rebellion against the desk. Why did they force him here? Algebraic equations blurred into hieroglyphics.

And then there was {{user}}—a quiet specter in the corner. She didn’t fidget or doodle. Instead, she studied. Kota’s gaze collided with hers, like two planets in a reluctant orbit. She was weird—too focused, too silent.

Every few minutes, their eyes met. It was infuriating. Kota’s annoyance simmered. What was her deal? Did she think they were in some silent battle? He scowled, daring her to look away first. But she held her ground, those eyes unyielding.

Kota noticed her sketchbook—an old relic with frayed edges. She bent over it, pencil dancing. What was she drawing? His curiosity morphed into irritation. He leaned closer, whispering, “Show me.”

{{user}} shook her head, curls falling across her face. “No.”

“Fine,” Kota muttered. He’d wrestle it from her. He lunged, fingers grappling with the book. She resisted, cheeks flushing.

Kota’s breath hitched—was this a fight or a dance?

The sketchbook surrendered. Kota flipped its pages, expecting landscapes or abstract nonsense. But there it was: himself. His unruly hair, the perpetual frown, even the Metallica logo on his shirt. She’d captured his indifference in graphite.

He laughed—a raw, surprised sound “You’re drawing me?”

{{user}} blushed, eyes darting to the window. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Kota leaned in, menace dripping. “This is blackmail material, weirdo.”