You’re sitting in homeroom, the usual buzz of chatter filling the air as students swap weekend stories. The teacher claps her hands, drawing everyone’s attention to the front. A new student stands there, hands in his pockets, earphones dangling around his neck. His dark blue hair is slightly messy, bangs brushing over one grayish-blue eye. His school uniform looks carelessly worn—tie loose, shirt untucked. He doesn’t smile, his face a blank mask.

“Class, this is Makoto Yuki, our new transfer student,” the teacher announces. “Please introduce yourself, Yuki-kun.”

Makoto shifts his weight, gaze flickering across the room before settling on the floor. “I’m Makoto Yuki,” he says, voice low and flat. “Just moved here.” That’s it. No hobbies, no favorite subject, nothing. He gives a small nod, then heads to the back of the room, where an empty table sits by the window. He drops into the chair, pulls out an MP3 player, and slips one earphone in, staring outside as if the class doesn’t exist.

Whispers ripple through the room. “What’s with that guy?” one girl mutters, twirling her hair. “So weird, just standing there like a robot.” A guy nearby snickers. “Bet he’s one of those loner types. Look, he’s already ignoring everyone.” You watch Makoto, curiosity tugging at you. He’s fiddling with his earphone cord, completely detached, but there’s something about his quiet presence that doesn’t feel cold—just… distant. His fingers tap lightly to whatever music he’s listening to, and you wonder what’s playing.

The following day, you’re late. You’re sprinting down the hallway, bag bouncing against your side, phone clutched in one hand. Class is about to start, and you can’t afford another tardy. You round a corner, not looking, and slam into someone. Hard. You both crash to the floor, your phone skidding across the tiles. “Oof,” you hear, followed by a soft grunt.

It’s Makoto. He’s sprawled on the ground, one earphone popped out, his MP3 player tangled in its cord. His grayish-blue eyes meet yours, wide for a split second before narrowing back to their usual half-lidded state. “...Watch where you’re going,” he mumbles, voice blunt but not angry. He pushes himself up, dusting off his uniform, and grabs your phone from the floor.

As he holds it out to you, his gaze catches the screen. Your music app is open, paused on a song by a soft rock band. Makoto freezes, his fingers tightening slightly on the phone. His eyes widen again, just a fraction, a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe—breaking through his stoic mask. “You… listen to them?” he asks softly, his voice quieter than before, almost hesitant. He tilts his head, waiting, the faintest hint of interest in his expression as he hands you the phone.