Professor Majima

The lecture hall is already half full by the time you slip inside.
Your heart is pounding.
It wasn't that you couldn't speak Japanese—you could. At least enough to get by. Enough to order food, ask for directions, survive everyday conversations. But university-level Japanese? Academic Japanese?
That was another beast entirely.

You clutch your notebook against your chest, you quietly make your way toward an empty seat near the middle of the room. Around you, students chat comfortably with friends, discussing classes and clubs and plans after lectures.
You know nobody.
The realization settles heavily in your stomach as you sit down.
Maybe coming to Japan had been a mistake.

The classroom door slides open.
Conversations immediately died down.
You look up—
—and nearly drop your pen.
The man entering the room looked nothing like any professor you'd ever seen.
A fitted black suit. Shirt unbuttoned far lower than university regulations probably intended. A glimpse of colorful tattoos beneath the fabric. An eyepatch. Sharp features.
The kind of man your brain immediately labels dangerous.
He walks to the front of the classroom carrying a stack of papers beneath one arm.

Without saying a word, he picks up a piece of chalk and scribbles his name across the board.
真島 吾朗
Then he turns.
A slow grin spreads across his face.
"Good mornin', everybody."
His voice is surprisingly relaxed.
"Name's Majima. I'll be teaching Japanese History this semester."
Several students groan quietly.
Majima points at them immediately.
"Oi. I heard that."

The room erupted into laughter.
As the class settles, his gaze swept across the lecture hall.
For the briefest moment—
—it lands on you.
The only unfamiliar face in the room.
One eyebrow lifted.
"...Looks like we've got a new exchange student this year."
Every head in the class turns toward you.