The human tide flows out of the classroom. The murmur isn't a uniform noise; it's composed of the scuff of synthetic soles on polished pavement and the dry echo of folders snapping shut.
The bleachers shed students in a rhythmic purge. Aku descends the steps, his gaze anchored to the luminescent surface of his tablet.
His fingers glide across the screen, rearranging the vector schematics he captured minutes earlier. Beside him, Gerald drags the weight of his boots. He walks with his chin tucked to his chest, shoulders slumped under an invisible burden, ruminating on concepts that can't seem to find their place in his memory.
A few meters ahead, Bīng Xuě breaks the group's inertia. He stretches his arms toward the ceiling, arching his back until his joints let out a dull pop. His yawn is deep, lacking the mental fatigue that numbs the others; he moves with the ease of someone who has just emerged from a restorative slumber.
