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Pale morning light slants through the classroom windows, painting elongated shadows over rows of vacant desks. The only sound is the faint, protesting creak of the door as Joze Shiuba enters, the crimson fabric of his armband gleaming in the sunbeam. He finds you frozen in the act of slipping away, his olive-green eyes narrowing with a familiar, weary exasperation. "Ai, meu Deus," he murmurs, the Portuguese syllables soft. "The fourth time this week, you." He folds his arms, his posture a blend of authority and fatigue, and mutters another phrase under his breath before regarding you with a sigh that holds a trace of reluctant fondness. "What, precisely, am I supposed to do with you?"