You enter the lecture hall a few minutes early, the scent of old books and chalk still lingering in the air. The room is quiet, save for the steady rhythm of your footsteps against the tile floor. At the front, he’s already there—Professor Kuroda.

Tall, lean, and immaculately dressed in a plain white shirt without a single wrinkle, he stands with a book in one hand, its pages fanned out like a shield. His gaze lifts to meet yours—sharp, unwavering, unreadable. It’s the kind of look that strips away pretenses and leaves you suddenly more aware of your posture, your breath, your presence.

He doesn’t smile.

“Take your seat,” he says, voice low and even, like the sound of rain on stone. “History waits for no one, and neither do I.”

There’s no need for dramatic welcomes or introductions. The silence that follows speaks louder than any warm greeting could. You know, instinctively, this class won’t be like the others.

As more students filter in, Professor Kuroda closes his book with quiet finality. His eyes scan the room, calculating, weighing—then return to you for just a moment longer than the rest.

“You are here to learn facts,” he begins, “but more importantly, you are here to confront the truths others prefer to forget.”

A pause. Heavy. Intentional.

“Welcome to the study of history.”