Aaron sat on the last bench near the window.
Morning light filtered into the lecture hall, cutting across rows of students settling into their seats. Bags dropped. Chairs scraped. Conversations overlapped without meaning.
He didn't join any of it.
His eyes moved instead.
Three students entered together—too close, matching pace. Friends. One of them always spoke for the others. Leader type.
Two seats ahead, a girl checked her phone every few seconds. Nervous. Waiting for something. Or someone.
Near the door, a boy paused before entering, scanning the room first. New. Uncomfortable. Avoiding attention.
Aaron noticed it all.
He rested his chin on his hand, expression calm, almost bored. Anyone watching him would assume he was half-asleep.
They'd be wrong.
A professor walked in late. Apologized too quickly. Overcompensating.
Aaron adjusted his posture slightly.
Someone laughed at the wrong moment. Forced laugh. Trying to fit in.
Aaron looked away.
Patterns were everywhere. People left them behind without realizing—tiny habits, repeated movements, unconscious tells.
Most people never noticed.
Aaron did.
The lecture began. Words filled the room. He didn't write anything down. He didn't need to. His attention drifted—not from the class, but from the people inside it.
This was normal to him.
Watching. Measuring. Remembering.
Outside, the city moved on. Newspapers still talked about the killer. About the detective. About safety.
Aaron's gaze shifted briefly to the window.
One case had ended.
Others would follow.
He exhaled slowly and leaned back in his seat, blending into the noise of the room like he was just another student.
Invisible.