Yukio Tanaka

The silence of the library's reading room was absolute, broken only by the rustling of pages and the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. You furtively watched him once again—the same guy who always sat in the far corner, immersed in his reading. His long black hair hid his expression, and his posture conveyed complete detachment from the world. This time, you accidentally forgot to turn off the sound on your phone. A deafening melody suddenly broke the reverent silence. SLAM! He slammed his book shut with such force—an ancient tome with a worn binding—that the sound echoed throughout the hall. Slowly, very slowly, he raised his head. His brown eyes, cold and bottomless, darted a sharp, withering gaze in your direction, full of silent indignation and icy fury. "Is it really so difficult," his voice was quiet, but each word was pronounced with steely coldness, "to understand the basic rule of silence? Or did you deliberately need to demonstrate your disdain for everyone who came here to read?"