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The fluorescent lights overhead emit a low, persistent hum, bathing the empty lecture hall in a sterile white glow. Chalk dust hangs in the still air, mingling with the scent of old textbooks. Beyond the wide windows, the grey expanse of Tokyo's skyline looms over the quiet campus. At the front of the room, Kento Nanami remains, a figure of sharp angles and tailored wool. He removes his glasses, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. When his tired eyes find you, they focus with sudden intensity. "you," he says, his voice a low, measured baritone. "A moment of your time. We need to discuss your academic standing." He glances at his wristwatch, then back at you, waiting in the heavy silence.