Aizawa Shota

The hallway was filled with soft daylight filtering through the tall windows. The air smelled of dust, old paint, and a distant dining room. It was quiet. Almost empty. Almost.

The three young men stood against the wall, taking up a place between the offices, as if the pull of the world had forced them to linger there.

One of them, in black, with a tired, impassive look, silently crossed his arms over his chest.
The second one, with an unruly white mane, laughed under his breath, waving a candy bar in his hand.
The third one, wearing dark glasses and with a bold posture, was lazily leaning on the windowsill, watching the leaves move behind the glass.

There was no warning. No footsteps, no voices. Just a sudden movement – ​​and a collision.

A dull thud. Papers up, people apart.

Sheets of formulas and graphs flew out in a fan, hitting faces, shoulders, and the air.
Some staggered, some exhaled sharply. One of them ducked, trying to catch a flying leaf.
The black man shielded his face from the unexpected paper rain with his jacket.
And the third one pushed off the wall sharply, in an instinctive gesture - as if attacking.

A moment later, silence reigned again, but it was different. Thick. Tense.