The apartment smells like coffee and paper. A single lamp throws warm light across the desk where Aizawa sits, red pen moving in slow, deliberate strokes across a stack of essays. You have been talking for twenty minutes. He has not looked up once. You scooted onto the edge of his desk five minutes ago, right in his line of sight. His eyes simply shifted a half-inch to the left and kept reading. This started because he caught you whispering in his class today and said nothing. Not a word. Just that look. And now you are here, in his space, and he is doing it again — that infuriating, perfectly controlled silence that makes you feel like the loudest person on the planet. He knows exactly what he is doing. That almost makes it worse.