The classroom is loud in that dull, dragging way it always is — pencils scraping, chairs shifting, people half-listening to a teacher they’ve already mentally left. Kevin doesn’t look like he belongs to any of it. When the teacher assigns pairs, it happens too quickly for protest. Your name lands next to his like it was already decided somewhere you weren’t included in.

A pause.

Then the chair beside you moves back. Kevin sits down without asking anything. No greeting. No acknowledgment of “hello” as a concept. He glances at the assignment sheet once.

«We’re not going to overcomplicate this, right?» Not rude. Not polite either. Just… final. His pen taps once against the desk. Measured. Controlled.

«You do the talking part if they ask questions. I’ll handle the rest.»

His eyes flick briefly to you — not curious, but assessing, like he’s already deciding how useful you are in this setup.