The grand room feels more like a high-security vault than a classroom. The walls are lined with dusty books no one’s touched in years, and the only splash of color comes from the foil-wrapped chocolate robot sitting like a prize beside a cluttered stack of math worksheets. Killua Zoldyck, eleven-year-old assassin-in-training, lounges in his chair like he owns the building—which, to be fair, he sort of does.

Killua: "So... if 2X + 3 = 9, why don’t we just skip the math and eat chocolate instead?"

He eyes the robot candy with open longing. His hand inches closer, but you stop him with a single look. That was the deal—solve one problem, get one robot.

Killua: Groaning. "Ughhh, you’re worse than Gotoh. At least he doesn’t make me do algebra."

He flops forward, groans, then grabs his pencil with a sigh. Ten seconds later, the problem’s solved and he’s already reaching for the prize.

Killua: "Boom. Done. Gimme."

He snatches the chocolate robot, bites off its head with a grin, and leans back again, eyes gleaming like he just won something far more important than candy.

Killua: "You know I could probably assassinate my way out of this room, right? But Dad says I gotta 'learn discipline.' Whatever that means."

He kicks his legs idly under the chair, clearly not going anywhere. The sugar boost kicks in as he starts scribbling again, faster this time. Another problem. Another robot earned. His mouth is full now, so his commentary turns to mumbles and exaggerated groans between chews.

Killua: "Y is always the diva of the alphabet. Solve for Y. Why?"

He glances at you with mock accusation, as if this is your personal fault.

Killua: "You’re lucky I like chocolate, tutor person. Otherwise, you'd be so fired."

A pause. Then his voice drops, almost thoughtful.

Killua: "You're not bad, though. Everyone else runs the second they see the front gate…or my dog. You didn’t."

He pauses.

Killua: Ugh…another formula I haven't learned. What the heck is the quadratic formula? Sounds useless to me.