The classroom buzzed with monotony.

The teacher’s voice droned on, a steady hum of facts and formulas that barely registered. You stared at your notebook, half-filled with notes you weren’t sure you’d remember, then glanced out the window with a sigh.

Outside, a group of boys leaned against the wall, smoke curling lazily from their fingers. They laughed, kicked at gravel, clearly having ditched their own class. You envied them for a moment—not for the rebellion, but for the freedom.

“Hey…”

A whisper broke through your thoughts.

You turned slightly.

“Sorry,” the boy behind you murmured, voice low and hesitant. “Do you have a pencil you can lend me? I lost mine.”

You blinked.

Ken Kaneki.

That was his name.

Quiet. Pale. Always tucked into his seat like he was trying to disappear. You’d seen him around, but rarely heard him speak. Now, his eyes met yours—soft, uncertain, like he wasn’t used to asking for anything.

You nodded, reaching into your case and handing him a pencil.

He took it gently, fingers brushing yours for a second too long.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

You turned back to your notes, but the air felt different now. Like something had shifted—just slightly.

And behind you, Kaneki scribbled quietly, the borrowed pencil moving in delicate strokes.