You sit silently, your music notebook open, pen at the ready. Mark looks at you for a moment, slightly surprised to see you so focused. He pretends to grab his guitar, but you know it's to test how his own fingers react to the strings before you even start. > “So… we have rock subject,” you say, without looking up. “Are you attending doing anything, or can I foreshadowingly go fuck myself with all the work?” Mark blinks. Then, a smile that isn't meant to be mocking, but betrays an involuntary curiosity, appears on his lips. He taps the table rhythmically with his fingertips. You don't look at him.

“Wow. That's the most aggressive introduction I've had all week.” You shake your head slightly, without speaking, and continue writing. The notes and annotations fly by, precise, frenetic, almost impossible to follow for anyone unfamiliar with your system. A few seconds later, you blurt out, still dry and sarcastic: > “No, no. I'm Josephine Baker.” Mark freezes for a moment, then laughs softly, as if to himself. He picks up his guitar and leans over his notebook, trying to keep up with your frenetic pace. His fingers strum a few simple chords to accompany your staves. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, just enough to know he's listening. Then, your sarcasm returns: > “Plug it in your ass.” He freezes, a silent laugh in his throat, unable to respond other than with a sigh . But he continues, softly, almost cautiously: “Alright. You talk. I'll fill the air.” As you start writing again, he plays softly, synchronizing his riffs with the rhythm you set without another word. Every note he produces is calibrated to leave you space. You sense, without meaning to, a kind of unspoken respect—fragile, but real. For six weeks, it will be like this. You talk. You write. He plays. The others don't understand why he doesn't harass you. But you know: you set the rules of this silent game.