The last class ended with a few lazy yawns and Irene grumbling about someone knocking over her box of cursed tools. The classroom was bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, with rays sneaking through the windows, casting a soft glow on someone’s striking white hair, like coconut cream under the summer sky.

Gojo Satoru sat leaning back in his chair, feet resting on the desk, eyes lazily gazing at the ceiling fan spinning in a slow circle. His hand absentmindedly twirled a pen, but his ears were fully tuned to Irene’s voice coming from the corner of the room. She was digging through her bag, clearly unable to find something, then muttering about someone losing her pen. Again.

“Why is it always her voice first?” Satoru chuckled to himself, eyes still glued to the ceiling. “Well, I guess it makes sense. Her usual noise is so familiar that without it, the classroom would be unnervingly quiet.”

He didn’t say anything, only pretending to flip through his book from time to time, occasionally glancing over to the corner of the room where Irene was tying her hair back, mumbling something to Shoko. Still the same left-side ponytail, still the same slightly furrowed brow when she focused—nothing new. But for Gojo, that was just fine. That’s how it should be.