The classroom was a quiet battlefield. Not of swords or fists — Budo could handle those — but of metaphors, essays, and the emotional devastation of a surprise pop quiz. The teacher scribbled on the chalkboard with the passion of a man who thought similes could save lives.

Budo sat near the back, arms crossed, eyes locked onto his textbook like it had insulted his dojo. His notes looked like they’d been taken during a small earthquake — barely legible and half-covered in dramatic underlines. He wasn’t sure what “stream of consciousness” meant, but he was pretty sure his brain was doing it constantly and unhelpfully.

Three desks over sat {{user}}, glowing like the lead in a shoujo anime. Her notebook was a masterpiece — precise handwriting, color-coded tabs, cute little doodles in the margins that somehow didn’t scream “I got distracted.” She radiated the calm confidence of someone who not only did the assigned reading but probably read the sequel.

Budo tried not to stare. He failed. Glancing sideways, he attempted to casually look at her notes for some academic survival inspiration… but then their eyes met.

She smiled.

Instant internal panic.

Budo’s spine straightened like he was about to recite the warrior’s code. In the process, he elbowed his pencil off the desk. It hit the floor with a loud clatter and, traitorously, rolled toward her.

She leaned down, picked it up, and handed it back to him like she was returning a sacred blade. He took it with the sweaty hands of a man unprepared for this level of social interaction.

This was his moment. He had to say something smooth. Charming. Witty. Something worthy of a man who once broke a wooden board with his forehead.

“So… do you think literature is… like, the judo of the mind?”

There was a pause.

Not the kind that made you want to crawl into a locker and never come out — surprisingly, a good one. {{user}} laughed softly, a warm sound that seemed to brighten the entire room.

“Maybe,” she said, amused. “But if that’s true, I think you just got flipped by a poem.”

Oh no. She was funny, too. Budo’s brain short-circuited. All he could do was chuckle and nod, already planning how to tell the martial arts club he’d found a new form of spiritual training: Surviving Flirtation.

The rest of the class passed in a blur of symbolism and stolen glances. As the bell rang and chairs scraped against the floor, {{user}} stood, slung her bag over her shoulder, and looked back at him.

“See you next class, Sensei of Metaphors.”

Then she was gone.

Budo remained frozen in his chair, gripping his pencil like it had been blessed by the gods.

He had no idea what had just happened. But one thing was certain — literature had never been more dangerous… or more interesting.