Tokyo Ghoul: You're a ghoul!? What am I supposed to do now???

The art building at Kamii University smelled like centuries of creativity—oil paint, charcoal dust, and that particular scent of paper that's been handled by thousands of hopeful hands. I'd gotten here twenty minutes early, partly to find the classroom and partly because my morning patrol with Yamamoto had finished even earlier than usual.

Room 314 was already half full. Students clustered in groups, catching up after the weekend, comparing supplies. I grabbed a seat by the window—good light, easy exit access. Old habits I had developed that just became ingrained in my daily life.

"Transfer student!" Yui waved from two rows over. "You made it. Did you get the Steadtler pencils?"

I held up the set. "Yeah, thank you for such a good recommendation."

"Tanaka will love you then. He's always all about proper materials and what not." She leaned closer, conspiratorial. "Fair warning—he makes everyone do a still life first class. Tests your fundamentals."

The door opened with authority, and conversations died. Professor Tanaka looked exactly like an old-school art teacher should—gray hair pulled back, paint-stained smock, eyes that seemed to catalog every line and shadow in the room.

"New faces," he said, gaze landing on me and two others. "Good. Then you'll have fresh perspectives. I am Professor Tanaka. In this class, we draw. We do not trace. We do not copy photographs. We observe, we understand and we translate three dimensions to two."

He moved to the center of the room where a collection of objects waited—a skull, some fabric, a potted plant, various geometric shapes.

"One hour. Show me your foundation. Begin."

The scratch of pencils filled the air immediately. I studied the arrangement, finding the composition's weight, the way light created form. My 2B pencil moved across paper, blocking in basic shapes first.

"You. Transfer student." Professor Tanaka appeared at my shoulder. "Where did you study before?"

"Self-taught, mostly." I kept drawing, adjusting the skull's proportions.

"Hmm." He watched for another moment. "Your line quality is confident. Good. But watch your shadow values—you're afraid to go dark enough."

He moved on to terrorize other students. I pressed harder, letting the shadows deepen. The skull's eye sockets became proper voids, the fabric's folds gained weight.

Time vanished the way it always did when drawing. My world narrowed to paper, pencil, and subject. This was why I'd survived Ward 24—the same focus that let me count knife strikes in milliseconds somehow translated perfectly to capturing light on bone.

"Time."

I set my pencil down, fingers pleasantly sore. Around me, students groaned and rushed to add final touches.

"Pass your work forward." Professor Tanaka collected the drawings, flipping through with quick hands. He pulled out five, including mine.

"These five understood the assignment. See here—" He held up a drawing. "It has proper form, not just an outline. Weight, not just shape. Transfer student, your shadows improved after my comment. That's good, you listened."

The rest of class was lecture—perspective theory, the importance of observation, why photography hadn't replaced drawing despite what "young people think." I took notes, a bit interested with some doodles here and there. Yet I still enjoyed it, since after months of mission briefings, academic lectures felt refreshing.

"Wednesday, we'll draw fabric. Bring white cloth, at least one meter. Dismissed."

Students packed up, chattering about the assignment. Yui appeared at my desk.

"Not bad for a first day. Usually Tanaka destroys transfer students to establish dominance." She grinned. "Lunch? The cafeteria's terrible, but it's traditional suffering."

"Sure."

The cafeteria was exactly as promised—crowded, loud, and serving food of questionable origin. Yui led me to a table where three other art students had claimed space.

"Everyone, this is..." She paused. "I never got your name."

"Sota."

"Sota. He's the transfer who actually brought good pencils."

"Smart," said a guy with paint under his fingernails. "I'm Kenji. Second year. What made you transfer in so late?"

"Work stuff resolved, finally had time for school." The half-truth came easily.

"Adult life, huh?" A girl with cropped hair laughed. "I'm Mai. What kind of work?"

"A government job, it involved statistics mostly. It was incredibly boring."

"Hence the art escape?" Kenji nodded sagely. "I get it. My dad wants me in accounting. This is my rebellion."

They chatted about professors, which supply stores had sales, the best spots on campus for figure drawing practice while I ate my questionable curry and mixed it with the rice.

"Fair warning," Yui said as we cleared our trays. "Tanaka assigns a lot of homework. Like, a lot. Hope your government job is understanding."

"They gave me time off to focus on school."

"Lucky. I'm juggling this with convenience store shifts." Mai stretched. "Speaking of which, I should run. See you on Wednesday!"

The group dispersed. I checked the time—2 PM. Perfect for coffee and working on Tanaka's inevitable assignment.

Anteiku welcomed me with its usual calm. The lunch rush had passed, leaving only a few quiet customers. Yoshimura looked up from polishing cups.

"Ah, Sota-kun. How was your first day?"

"Good. I had a pretty intense professor, but I liked it." I settled into my corner table. "Coffee and the turkey sandwich, please."

"Coming right up."

I pulled out my sketchbook and started thumbnailing ideas for Wednesday's fabric study. The way cloth fell depended on its weight, the support structure, gravity's pull—

"First day of university?"

I looked up. Touka stood with my order, expression curious.

"Yeah. Art history was supposed to be this afternoon, but the professor's sick."

"Must be nice." She set the plate down carefully. "University, I mean. Having time to study what you want."

"You thinking about going?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. Still got a year of high school. Manager says I should consider it."

"What would you study?"

"Biology, maybe. Or literature." She glanced at my sketches. "Not art. Can't draw anything but stick figures."

"Drawing's just seeing. Anyone can learn." I turned to a fresh page, sketched a quick coffee cup—basic shapes, simple shadows. "See? Cylinder, ellipse, handle. Build from simple to complex."

She studied it, that careful expression softening slightly. "You make it look easy."

"Three years of practice. You should see my early stuff—looked like I was drawing with my feet."

A tiny smile flickered across her face. "I should get back to work."

"Hey, if you ever want drawing lessons—" I stopped myself. Too forward. "I mean, I'm here most afternoons anyway."

"I'll think about it." She said as she moved away, back to work.

I ate and sketched, filling pages with fabric studies from memory. The coffee was perfect as always—rich, smooth, with that hint of something I still couldn't identify. Other customers came and went. A businessman reading reports. Two students arguing about philosophy. An old woman with a romance novel.

My phone buzzed. Yamamoto: Evening patrol in an hour. Meet at the usual spot.

On my way soon.

I'd been here two hours, I realized. Time moved differently in Anteiku, like the outside world had agreed to pause the time inside the shop.

"Heading out?" Touka appeared to collect my empty dishes.

"Yeah, a new friend needs my help."

"Sounds very exciting." Her tone was dry, but not unfriendly. "See you tomorrow?"

"If Tanaka doesn't bury me in homework."

"He will." That almost-smile again. "But the coffee will be here when you dig yourself out."

I packed up. Outside, the afternoon had shifted toward evening, students heading home or to part-time jobs. I walked back to my apartment to grab my patrol gear—mask, hat, and most importantly, check my knives.

Ten knives, all accounted for. Three sets of three, one loose. I ran my thumb along one blade, feeling the faint warmth of stored RC cells. Sleeping weapons for a sleeping ward.

The mask felt less stupid now, part of the routine. Hat pulled low, investigator coat settled, I looked properly official and properly forgettable.

Yamamoto waited at our meeting spot, two coffees in hand despite my protests about stomach safety.

"Decaf," he assured me. "Can't patrol without something warm. How was school?"

"Good. Although I got an intense professor."

"Beats intense ghouls." He started walking, falling into our easy pattern. "Anything interesting happened this morning?"

"Mrs. Tanaka asked if I was eating enough. Convenience store kids want to know about investigator exam prep. The cat café owner tried to show me kitten pictures."

"But did you look at them?"

"...They were very cute."

"And another one falls to her tactics." Yamamoto shook his head in mock sadness. "She'll have you adopting one within a month."

We walked the familiar route, checking the familiar nothing. A few shop owners waved. One kid asked if investigators really fought monsters.

"Only the scary ones," Yamamoto told him seriously. "Like people who don't return library books."

The kid ran off giggling. His mother mouthed 'thank you' as we passed.

"You're good with kids," I observed.

"Comes with the territory. Ward 20's got a lot of families. They like seeing friendly faces, not stone-cold ghoul killers." He glanced at me. "Though I guess you've done your share of the stone-cold thing."

"Not really my style."

"No? Youngest Associate Special Class, survived Ward 24, took down an SS-rank?" He held up a hand when I started to protest. "I'm not prying. Just saying, you don't seem like the type who enjoyed it."

"I didn't." Simple truth. "I just moved fast when I had to."

"And now you get to move slow. Draw pictures. Drink coffee." He gestured at the peaceful street. "Not a bad trade."

"Not bad at all."

We finished the route as darkness settled over Ward 20. No incidents. No investigations. No need to move faster than human normal.

"Same time tomorrow?" Yamamoto asked.

"Same time."

Back in my apartment, I spread out the day's work. Professor Tanaka had assigned five fabric studies due Wednesday. I set up a makeshift still life with my bedsheet and got to work.

The pencil moved steadily—light construction lines, then deeper shadows where cloth folded and bunched. Each drawing took about twenty minutes. By the time I finished the fifth, my hand cramped and my eyes burned, but the progression was visible. Each study understood fabric a little better.

I counted my knives one last time—ten, all sleeping—then collapsed into bed. Tomorrow would bring another patrol, another class, another afternoon at Anteiku. Maybe Touka would actually take me up on those drawing lessons. Who knows.