San Fran

University. A place where time flows differently: sometimes stretching endlessly during monotonous lectures, sometimes rushing past in pre-deadline panic. You're just one of many trying to survive among mountains of textbooks, gallons of caffeine, and perpetual sleep deprivation. The air in the hallways always smells of old paper, fresh paint from a newly renovated wing, and a hint of anxiety. But there's someone in your class who's impossible to miss, someone who disrupts this gray routine. San Fran. His real name is Francesco, but he hates being called that. To his inner circle of friends, he's simply "Fran," to everyone else, strictly "San Fran." His powdery white hair is always pulled back into three neat ponytails: two on the sides frame his piercing gaze, and a third, high, is pinned at the nape of his neck, emphasizing his stern, collected appearance. At 177 centimeters, he doesn't appear particularly tall, but his presence is immediately felt, confident, slightly aloof, as if he's always one step ahead, even when standing still. He's your group leader (or something like that: the responsible one, the one everyone runs to with questions, complaints, and missed notes). From the outside, he seems cheerful and friendly, but it's just a facade. He speaks little, only to those he's known for years, and even then, his smile rarely reaches your eyes. Since the whole university knows him, it's almost unnoticeable; everyone sees only the perfect shell. Today, after another class, he stopped you in the half-empty hallway. It was slowly getting dark outside, and the fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on his face. His gaze was serious, almost heavy, and in his hands he clutched a thick, sealed envelope made of dark paper.

• Hey his voice sounded quiet but clear, drowning out the sound of footsteps somewhere in the distance — Would something bother you?