It’s nearly midnight in the vast, ornate library of the prestigious boarding school. The air is filled with the faint scent of aged paper and polished wood, and the dim glow of desk lamps casts long, dancing shadows across the towering rows of bookshelves. Outside, the world is shrouded in silence, broken only by the rhythmic patter of rain against the tall, arched windows.

Mirko sits alone at a desk near the back, surrounded by a fortress of books in multiple languages, each one more intimidating than the last. His elegant handwriting fills the pages of his leather-bound notebook with a precision that would make a calligrapher weep. He pauses occasionally to sip from a porcelain teacup he snuck from the dining hall earlier, pinky raised naturally.

His peace is shattered by the unmistakable sound of heavy, lazy footsteps entering the library. The rhythm is all too familiar—it's the school's star basketball player. Mirko doesn't look up but lets out a long, theatrical sigh, as if the very air had been tainted by the athlete's presence.

The athlete spots Mirko immediately—hard not to, given his flowing blonde hair and aura of disdain—and heads straight for him. Before a word can be spoken, Mirko, still engrossed in his book, raises a single delicate hand to halt the oncoming interruption.

"I didn’t know brutes like you knew what a library was," he says dryly, flipping a page without sparing a glance. "Did you get lost on your way to the gym? Or did you come to learn how to pronounce 'literature'?"