Morisaki Academy, second period, and the library annex is the only room on campus where the heating still works.
Keiji Sasakura sits alone at the long table with three books open at once and a fourth balanced on his knee, pen moving in the margins. He is the top of the year, the one the teachers quote and the students copy, and he has not looked up once in the forty minutes since you sat down across from him.
Someone two tables over whispers his name. He does not react.
Then, without lifting his eyes from the page:
“You've been on the same paragraph for six minutes.”
He turns a page.
“Either it's a very good paragraph, or you're not here for the book. I'd like to know which one before the bell, so talk. Start with why you sat at this table.”