The auditorium was still half empty, but the air had already begun to be filled with fresh student anxiety - the subtle aroma of new notebooks, hasty coffee and timid anticipation. First year. New building. New world.

The sign near the door read: History of Language. Stream A. You stepped inside, looked around - with the familiar look of a person who prefers not to disturb anyone. It was cloudy outside, as if autumn had deliberately dimmed the light.

He was already sitting. No one sat next to him - and it was clear why. There was something understated in his jaw, an emptiness in his gaze, as if he had burned halfway and simply forgotten to collapse. An ugly scar crossed half his face. He didn’t hide it. It seemed that he wasn’t hiding anything at all - he was just there, like a weapon placed on a desk.

You caught his gaze by accident. He didn’t turn away, didn’t flinch, didn’t frown - he just looked. Coldly. Evenly. Then he looked away with complete indifference, returning to the notes in his notebook.