Part 1
The morning was crisp, the kind of clear spring day that usually inspired students to talk about their plans for the upcoming weekend.
Makoto Yuki walked along the main brick path leading from the dormitories toward the school building. His pace was unhurried, one hand buried in his pocket while the other held a lukewarm can of coffee. His silver headphones were draped around his neck today—unused. His mind didn't require external music this morning because a specific, rhythmic madness was already playing on a loop inside his head.
"Excalibur—"
It was a low murmur. Casual. The tone of someone reciting a grocery list to himself.
"Excalibur—"
Two second-year students walking a few paces ahead of him cast subtle, confused glances over their shoulders. Makoto didn't notice, or perhaps he simply didn't care.
"From the United K—"
One of the students inadvertently slowed their pace, their brow furrowing as they tried to process the lyrics.
"I'm looking for heaven—"
"I'm going to Californiaaa—"
A student walking slightly ahead turned around, adjusted their glasses, and stared at Makoto for three full seconds. They then turned back, seemingly deciding that they didn't have the mental bandwidth to handle this much "weird" before 8:00 AM. Behind Makoto, a quiet whisper broke out among a group of girls.
"...Who's going to California?"
"No idea. Is it a Class B strategy?"
"I don't think anyone knows. He looks so serious doing it, though."
Makoto took a slow, methodical sip of his coffee. There wasn't a trace of self-consciousness on his face, despite the fact that at least half a dozen people within a five-meter radius were wearing various expressions that collectively translated to 'What is wrong with this guy?' To him, this was just a normal Tuesday. The song existed in his head; therefore, the song must be sung.
"Excalibur—"
"Yuki-kun!"
A familiar, energetic voice cut through his internal jukebox. Makoto turned his head slightly. Ichinose Honami was jogging toward him from the direction of the dormitory entrance, her bag bouncing against her hip. Her hair was a bit more disheveled than usual—a sign she'd likely rushed to catch up with the person who, despite walking slowly, always seemed to be just out of reach.
"Good morning! What a coincidence, I just left the building too. Mind if I walk with you?"
"...Morning, Ichinose," Makoto replied, following it with a long, lazy yawn.
He gave a single, curt nod and resumed his stride. Ichinose fell into step on his left, her presence bringing a sudden burst of warmth. For about ten seconds, the silence was comfortable. Then, the loop restarted.
"Excalibur—"
Ichinose nearly tripped over her own feet. She steadied herself, blinking rapidly. "E-eh? Did you say something, Yuki-kun?"
"Excalibur—"
"From the United K—"
Ichinose opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. There was no pause. No indication that Makoto even realized she was trying to initiate a conversation. He finished the last of his coffee with practiced calm while continuing to chant, as if the two activities occupied entirely different sectors of his brain.
"I'm looking for heaven—"
'Why California?' Ichinose stared at his profile, her focus shifting entirely from the path ahead to the sheer absurdity of the boy beside her. She was analyzing him with the intensity of a scholar, trying to find a rhythm, a reason, or a hidden meaning in the way his lips moved. 'Is he... okay? Is this a mnemonic device for the midterms? Does it have something to do with the British history section?'
"I'm going to Californiaaa—"
She was so preoccupied with her frantic internal monologue—and so busy staring at Makoto in utter bewilderment—that she failed to notice the tall, solid steel lamp post standing directly in her trajectory.
CLANG!
The sound was metallic, resonant, and horribly loud. It was the kind of noise that made everyone in the vicinity stop dead in their tracks.
Ichinose recoiled, stumbling back as she clutched her forehead. "Owowow...!"
Makoto stopped walking. He didn't rush to her side with a dramatic flourish. He didn't panic. He simply stood there, watching her rub a rapidly reddening spot on her brow. He looked down at her with an expression of mild, detached concern—the same way one might look at a kitten that had accidentally walked into a wall.
"Ichinose-san," Makoto said, his voice flat and calm. "You should look where you're going. That was very clumsy."
Ichinose froze, her hand still pressed to her forehead. Her eyes widened as she looked up at him. She had expected a "Are you okay?" or at least a "That looked like it hurt." Instead, she got a lecture on basic navigation from the very person who had caused her distraction in the first place.
"But... but you were... the song..." she stammered, her face flushing a deep shade of crimson.
Makoto didn't wait for her to finish. He turned back toward the school building, the rhythm returning to his steps instantly.
"Excalibur—"
He began to walk away, leaving a stunned and throbbing Ichinose behind.
"Excalibur—"
"From the United K—"
Ichinose stood there for a moment, the stinging in her forehead being rapidly overtaken by a surging sense of indignation. Her lips curled into a rare, genuine pout. She stomped her foot against the pavement, a small "Hmph!" escaping her throat.
"The nerve of that guy!" she whispered to herself, huffing as she started walking again, this time keeping a very wide berth from any and all vertical structures.
Part 2
When Ichinose finally slid the door to the Class B classroom open, the usual morning buzz was in full swing. However, the atmosphere shifted slightly as she walked in. Usually, Honami Ichinose entered a room like a ray of sunshine, greeting everyone by name with a smile that could solve world hunger.
Today, she walked in with a dark cloud hovering over her head. Her cheeks were puffed out in a visible sulk, and a prominent red mark sat squarely in the center of her forehead.
"Morning, Honami-chan!" Mako Amikura called out, waving. Her hand slowed as she took in her friend's expression. "Whoa. What happened to you? Did you fight with your pillow and lose?"
Ichinose didn't answer immediately. She marched to her seat, which was—unfortunately—right next to Makoto Yuki.
Makoto was already seated, his book open, looking for all the world like a model student who had never caused a single moment of chaos in his life. He didn't even look up as she sat down with an uncharacteristically loud thud of her bag.
"Hmph," Ichinose voiced, crossing her arms and pointedly turning her chair three degrees away from him.
Kanzaki, who had been reviewing some notes, looked over. "Ichinose? Your head. Did you get into an accident?"
"Ask him," she muttered, gesturing vaguely with her thumb toward Makoto.
The entire surrounding group—Mako, Chihiro, and even Kanzaki—turned their gaze toward Makoto.
Makoto turned a page in his book. "She walked into a pole," he said simply, his tone devoid of any guilt. "I told her to be more careful."
"You were singing about California!" Ichinose finally snapped, turning back to him with her face flushed. "How was I supposed to pay attention to the road when you were being so... so weird!"
"Weird?" Makoto replied, leaning back in his chair. "How does this end up being my fault when I was simply singing? It's a bit irresponsible to blame your own lack of focus on someone else's hobby."
The classroom went silent. Mako and Chihiro exchanged a look of pure, unadulterated shock. No one talked to Ichinose like that. Not because they weren't allowed to, but because no one wanted to.
"You're... you're unbelievable, Yuki-kun," Ichinose grumbled, burying her face in her hands on her desk. Her voice was muffled, thick with frustration. "I'm not talking to you for the rest of the period!"
"Okay," Makoto said, his tone as flat as a dial tone.
He pulled his silver headphones up and slid them over his ears. Within seconds, he was back in his own world, leaving the 'Angel of Class B' to sulk in the silence of her own making.
Kanzaki, unable to let the tension hang, walked over to Makoto's desk and tapped on his shoulder. Makoto slid one earphone off, looking up with an expression that asked 'What now?'
"Yuki... what exactly did you do to Ichinose?" Kanzaki asked, his voice low and strained.
"Why are you asking me as if I'm the culprit?" Makoto tilted his head. "I honestly have no idea."
"There's no way that's true," Kanzaki shot back, gesturing to the fuming girl beside him. "She doesn't get like this for no reason."
Makoto went silent for a moment, as if sifting through a database of social behaviors. Then, he looked at Kanzaki with a face of pure, clinical sincerity.
"Ah, maybe it's a version update?"
"A... what?"
"Don't overthink it, Kanzaki. Sometimes women just undergo sudden, drastic shifts," Makoto explained, loud enough for the neighboring desks to hear. "Think of it like an Angemon suddenly digivolving into a Devimon. But if she's still being stubborn and cold like this... well, I believe humans refer to it as 'that time of the month.'"
The air in the classroom didn't just turn cold; it turned lethal.
THUD.
Before Makoto could finish his sentence, a sharp elbow from Ichinose caught him right in the ribs. The force was enough to send the "Great Seal" face-down onto his desk with a dull groan, his headphones sliding off entirely.
Ichinose sat up, her face shrouded in a dark, terrifying shadow, though a sweet, trembling smile remained plastered on her lips. It was the kind of smile that promised a very long, very painful conversation later.
"Yuki-kun," Ichinose whispered, her voice dripping with a newfound, terrifying authority. "You really don't need to say things that aren't necessary."
She then turned her gaze toward Kanzaki, who had instinctively taken a step back. "And Kanzaki-kun? Please return to your seat. Class is about to start."
"Y-yeah. Understood," Kanzaki muttered, retreating faster than he ever had in his life.
For the rest of the day, Makoto stayed slumped over his desk, contemplating the "architecture" of his own mistakes, while the legendary 'Dark Ichinose' became the new, unspoken trend of Class B.
Part 3
The school day had officially ended. Makoto Yuki had no intention of doing anything special after his tutoring session. His mind was already drifting toward the dinner menu—perhaps something simple today.
His path back to the dorms took him through the small park on the west side of the school, a place that remained largely deserted during this hour. That was when he saw her.
A girl was sitting on a bench right next to a vending machine. She had long, platinum-blonde hair and a posture that was far too relaxed for a student at an elite institution—legs crossed, one arm draped over the backrest, staring at the evening sky with the expression of someone profoundly bored.
'She's beautiful.'
It was a clinical observation. No malice, no hidden desire. Just a simple, objective fact. Facts were facts, and Makoto acknowledged them as such.
He slowed his pace. The vending machine was right next to her. He was thirsty, and something deep within him—perhaps a lingering habit from his days at Gekkoukan where life felt like a series of "Triggered Events"—made the corner of his lip twitch.
Maybe... I have a chance?
He weighed the probability with an unchanged expression.
'Fifty-fifty. She'll be the one to initiate the conversation. It would be funny if that's true.'
If she said nothing, he'd get his drink and leave. It was a random, silent bet he made with himself to satisfy the dry humor in his head.
The machine hummed in the silence of the park. Makoto pressed the button for a black canned coffee without rushing—the safest, most uncomplicated choice.
The machine clicked. The can dropped with a metallic thud.
"Oh. You have cheap taste, don't you, Kouhai-kun?"
'Ah, she really did talk to me.'
Makoto let out a short, internal sigh, feeling a strange mix of satisfaction and dread for winning the bet. He retrieved the can, popped the tab, and turned around slowly.
The girl remained in the same position, staring at him with a spark of casual curiosity. She seemed to be waiting to see what kind of response would tumble out of his mouth.
"I had a feeling you'd talk to me," Makoto said, his voice carrying a thick layer of aloofness. He took a sip before continuing. "But is there a specific etiquette in this school I'm unaware of? Is everyone playing the role of an NPC, waiting to trigger an event the moment I walk by?"
He thought of the cheerful Kushida, the quiet Hiyori in the library, the flamboyant Koenji, and even his chance encounter with the Student Council President. It was as if they all just... appeared.
The girl arched a well-groomed eyebrow.
"Oh? That's quite the unique opening line." She smiled, as if Makoto had suddenly become worthy of her undivided attention. "I've never received a reply like that before."
She laughed. It wasn't a polite, rehearsed giggle; it was a genuine laugh that held a trace of mockery toward the world itself.
"NPC, huh?" She leaned her chin on her hand. "That's a bland metaphor. I'm far too attractive for that. Give me the role of the Heroine."
Acknowledging where this was going, Makoto introduced himself with the same tone he'd use to state the weather. "Makoto Yuki. Class B."
"Kiryuuin Fuuka. Class 2-B." The girl, Fuuka, watched him with an expression that didn't hide the fact that she was evaluating him. But it didn't feel like a calculation. It felt like she was deciding whether this conversation was a worthy investment of her time. "You're an interesting junior."
Makoto took another sip. "Since Senpai claims to be the Heroine, does that mean you're joining my party? Are we setting out to defeat a Demon Lord?"
Fuuka rose from the bench with an unhurried grace. There was something in the way she moved—a total comfort in her own skin—that reminded Makoto of people who had lived long enough to stop caring about others' opinions.
"Demon Lord?" Fuuka stood directly in front of him now, one hand on her hip. "In this school, there are too many Demon Lords and all of them are boring. Most are just pains in the ass." She waved her hand as if shooing away a fly. "If I had to care every time someone ambitious crossed my path, I'd never have time to enjoy life. Defeating Demon Lords is too much work. It's tedious, and I'm far too lazy."
'The type who minds her own business to a fault,' Makoto mused.
"So, what kind of character are you then, Senpai?"
Fuuka's smile widened. "I'm the type of Heroine who spends the entire party's gold at the casino instead of saving the world. It's far more personally rewarding."
She glanced at Makoto's pocket, where his phone had briefly lit up with a notification. Her eyes narrowed slightly, like a collector spotting a rare item in a shop window.
"Junior, you're carrying quite a hoard." Fuuka's tone shifted—still casual, but laced with a silent invitation. "How about we use that for something a bit more hedonistic than cheap canned coffee?"
'Hedonistic.' It was Makoto's turn to raise an eyebrow. 'Ah, hell. Did I make a mistake? This person is definitely a bad influence on my private point.'
"No thank you. Maybe some other time," Makoto declined as politely as he could.
"Oh? You don't immediately agree even though your beautiful Senpai invited you? Unexpected. You're not as naive as I thought. Or... are you into men?"
"Senpai, are you looking for a fight?" Makoto asked, feeling it was definitely time to leave.
Kiryuuin laughed heartily. "Now, now, Yuki. It would be a shame if you left just like that. Don't be angry, I was only joking. You're a man with a big heart, aren't you?"
Before he could react, her right arm swung around his neck, pulling him into a firm, playful headlock. It was surprisingly strong—an iron grip designed to prevent any escape.
"How about this: accompany me to a certain place, and I'll give you something 'good' in return."
'Good? What is "good"? That is a suspicious offer. Is this a problem? This is terrifying.'
If the situation were reversed, Makoto would look like a naive girl being whisked away by a predatory senior in her first month of school.
"Kiryuuin-senpai," he said with a deadpan expression. "Are you sure you're the Heroine? Not a weed dealer? You're starting to scare me."
Fuuka chuckled, clearly delighted. "You have a wild imagination and a slick tongue. I like that."
She began walking away, gesturing for him to follow without looking back. "Come. There are places far more interesting than a vending machine and a lonely dorm room on a Tuesday afternoon."
Makoto stared at her back for a moment. This was a side-quest that wasn't on the map.
He finished the last of his coffee, tossed the can into the bin with perfect accuracy, and followed.
Part 4
They walked through the Keyaki Mall, a place Makoto usually visited only for essentials. But Fuuka didn't lead him toward the grocery section or the quiet bookstores. She navigated through the crowds with a practiced ease, her hand still casually draped over Makoto's shoulder as if they were old friends rather than strangers who had just met ten minutes ago.
"You know, Yuki, most people here are obsessed with their 'points' like it's their lifeblood," Fuuka said, her voice echoing slightly in the corridor leading to the entertainment wing. "They hoard them, they calculate them, they cry over them. It's pathetic."
"It's a survival mechanism," Makoto replied, staring at a poster for a new movie. "Though I suppose survival is less interesting than... whatever it is you do."
"Exactly. Life isn't about surviving; it's about winning with style." She stopped in front of a pair of tinted glass doors. Above them, a neon sign flickered: 'CUE & CHALK – BILLIARDS & LOUNGE'.
"This is it," she declared, pushing the doors open.
The air inside was cool, smelling faintly of expensive wood and felt. It was a sophisticated space, far removed from the chaotic energy of the arcade next door. High-end billiard tables stood like monuments under soft, focused spotlights.
"A lounge?" Makoto noted, his eyes scanning the room.
"The best place to see someone's true character," Fuuka said, walking toward a private table in the corner. "You can tell a lot about a man by how he holds a cue. Some are too tense, afraid of making a mistake. Others are too flashy, all show and no substance."
She grabbed two cues from the rack, testing the weight of one before tossing the other toward Makoto. He caught it effortlessly in one hand, his grip natural, his gaze fixed on the table with a terrifyingly stoic focus.
"Yuki, do you even know how to play billiards?" Fuuka asked, a challenging glint in her eyes.
Makoto didn't even look at the stick. He leaned it against the floor, looking at her with a face of pure, clinical sincerity.
"That's a foolish question, Senpai," Makoto replied. "In the parlance of the game, people don't refer to me as 'The Second Efren The Magician Reyes' for no reason."
Fuuka's grin widened into a predatory smirk. She loved this. Most juniors shriveled under her gaze, but Makoto was standing there throwing around the name of a legendary professional like it was common knowledge.
"Oh... I like the big talk. It would be boring if my opponent was a letdown," she teased, gesturing toward the racked balls. "The Prince can go first. Show me your 'magic'."
Makoto stepped up to the table. His posture was, objectively, perfect. His feet were set, his bridge was stable, and his aura shifted into that of a cold-blooded professional. Even the nearby students paused their games to watch, intimidated by the sheer pressure radiating from the blue-haired boy.
He took a slow, deep breath. He looked like a man about to solve a complex equation of gravity and force.
Kletak!
The cue ball was struck with immense power. It streaked across the felt like a white comet, slamming into the rack of balls with a violent explosion of sound.
But physics is a cruel mistress.
The cue ball didn't stop. It hit the back cushion with a strange, unintended spin, caught a freakish amount of air, and turned into a projectile.
THWACK.
"AGH!"
'It's over...' he said resignedly.
The white ball flew straight off the table and struck Fuuka Kiryuin squarely in her left eye.
The world stopped. The "Lone Queen" of Class 2-B stumbled back, clutching her face as the billiard ball bounced harmlessly onto the carpeted floor.
Makoto remained in his shooting stance for a second longer, staring at the empty spot on the table where the ball used to be. He slowly straightened up, his face still entirely expressionless.
"Ah," Makoto said, looking at the groaning Fuuka. "I think the table's leveling is slightly off."
Fuuka slowly lowered her hand, her left eye already beginning to swell. She looked at him—not with anger, but with a level of pure, shocked disbelief.
"The Magician...?" she hissed through gritted teeth. "You nearly assassinated me, Yuki!"
"Magic is often dangerous for the audience," Makoto replied, finally leaning his cue against the table. "Do you have any ice, or should I start using a healing spell?"
"Just get me a cold drink, you idiot!"
Part 5
The neon light of the Cue & Chalk lounge hummed its quiet, indifferent hum.
Kiryuuin Fuuka sat perched on the edge of the billiard table, legs crossed, one hand pressing a cold bottle of mineral water against her left eye with the practiced calm of someone who had decided, unilaterally, that this situation was beneath her dignity to acknowledge.
"So," she began, her voice carrying the easy tone of someone making polite conversation at a dinner party. "What's your honest take on this school, Yuki? Now that you've had a proper taste of how things work here."
Makoto, standing across from her, considered the question with appropriate gravity.
"...Pleasant."
Fuuka's expression didn't change. "Pleasant."
"Pleasant."
She let out a short, sharp snort. "That's the single most boring answer you could have given me. I was hoping for something with a bit more teeth. A critique. A complaint. Anything that suggests you have opinions."
"At the very least," Makoto continued, his gaze drifting briefly toward the ceiling, "I think there are things you experience here that you simply wouldn't find at a normal high school."
"Oh?" The non-injured eyebrow arched. "Give me an example."
A beat of silence passed between them, measured and unhurried.
"A billiard ball defying the known laws of physics," Makoto said, "to home in on my senior's left eye."
The lounge went quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet—the kind that forms when everyone in a room collectively decides to become very interested in whatever they were doing before. The waiter near the counter found his glass suddenly required very thorough polishing.
On Fuuka's forehead, barely visible, a single vein made its presence known. It pulsed once. Twice. With the visible effort of a woman who had cultivated an image of effortless composure over many years and was now being asked to maintain it under genuinely trying circumstances.
She smiled. It was, technically, a smile.
"You really are a funny junior, aren't you?" she said. "You have such a unique way of interacting with people." She shifted the bottle slightly, revealing a bruise that had, in the time since the Incident, developed into a vivid and impressive shade of violet. "By the way, Yuki—"
Her gaze drifted past the length of the billiard table.
"—why are you standing all the way over there?"
Makoto Yuki was, in fact, standing at the exact opposite end of the table.
This had not happened by accident.
Twenty minutes had passed since what he had internally classified as the Incident. In those twenty minutes, the following had also occurred, entirely without either party acknowledging it aloud: every time Fuuka had shifted her position along one side of the table, Makoto had shifted his position along the other. When she drifted left, he drifted right. When she circled the head of the table, he completed the corresponding arc. The result was a slow, silent, mathematically precise rotation that had kept the massive slab of slate and premium felt between them at all times—functioning less as a billiard table and more as a very expensive strategic barricade.
They had maintained this choreography continuously for twenty minutes.
While holding a conversation about school.
The waiter, who had witnessed all of this from the counter, quietly set down his glass and stared into the middle distance. Some things, he had learned, were better processed in silence.
"Kiryuuin-senpai," Makoto said, his voice entirely level. "I've already apologized."
"And I accepted it," Fuuka said pleasantly. "I'm a kind-hearted senior. Making a fuss over a small accident isn't my style." She smiled again—wider this time, in a way that reached somewhere in the vicinity of her eyes but stopped just short of warmth. "So stop circling the table like I'm going to bite you and come closer."
"I'm fine here, thank you."
"Yuki."
"The distance is appropriate."
His gaze dropped—just briefly, just once—to her right hand. Specifically to the billiard cue resting in it. Specifically to her knuckles, which were white. Her grip was the kind of grip that suggested either peak athletic focus or extremely controlled intent. Her face said gracious senior with no grievances. Her hand said premeditated manslaughter.
"I feel like your Heroine aura has completely disappeared," Makoto observed, in the tone of someone noting a change in weather. "There's no trace of the party member energy from earlier. What I'm detecting now is closer to a Hidden Boss—the kind encountered at the end of an accidental cursed route, where the background music shifts without warning and the encounter difficulty spikes by several tiers." A pause. "I believe I triggered an event flag I wasn't supposed to."
Fuuka was quiet for a moment.
Then she laughed—genuinely, fully, the performative composure dropping for just a second into something unrehearsed.
"Is that so?" she said, tapping the cue lightly against the floor. "Then maybe you should stay for one more round. To see how the route ends."
"I'll give you my Häagen-Dazs," Makoto countered, without missing a beat. "Both of them. Green Tea and Macadamia Nut. Those are the premium flavors, not the standard rotation. Consider it formal reparations."
He looked at her left eye. The swelling had progressed from 'notable' to 'medically concerning' to something that, if he was being honest, had begun to resemble the markings of a very elegant, very dangerous panda.
"Senpai," he said quietly. "You should go to the clinic."
"I'm fine—"
"Your eye is starting to look like a ripe plum."
"Yuki—"
"A very stylish plum," he added. "But a plum nonetheless."
Fuuka exhaled through her nose. Long and deliberate. The kind of exhale that was doing a lot of internal work.
Makoto looked at her for a moment. Then, without further announcement, he stopped moving along his side of the table. He walked—directly, without detour—around it, closing the distance until he was standing in front of her. Close enough that Fuuka had to tilt her chin up slightly to hold his gaze.
She blinked. Whatever she had expected, it wasn't this.
The aloofness was still there—it was always there, apparently a permanent feature. But underneath it, sitting quietly and without apology, was something else. Something that didn't have a performance to it.
"Senpai," Makoto said. He wasn't loud. He wasn't dramatic. He just said it like he meant it. "If you want to retaliate, go ahead. Hit me, use the cue, whatever you feel is appropriate. I won't move." He met her gaze steadily. "But after that, we're going to the clinic."
Fuuka stared at him.
She looked at him the way she looked at things she hadn't fully classified yet—evaluative, precise, searching for the angle. She found no fear. No calculation. Just someone who had decided something was his responsibility and saw no particular reason to negotiate the point.
It was, genuinely, slightly irritating.
She raised her right hand slowly. Makoto didn't move. He held his ground and waited—for a strike, a shove, or at minimum a very pointed tap with the billiard cue.
Fuuka's hand came down and delivered a single, light flick to the center of his forehead.
It barely moved his hair.
She let out a long, tired sigh—and with it, the last of whatever tension had been quietly accumulating in her grip for the past twenty minutes. The cue came to rest, loose in her fingers, against the table.
"I already told you to relax," she said. Not unkindly. "Why did you think I'd be that petty? You're my junior, Yuki. Don't underestimate your senior's capacity for forgiveness."
"I wasn't underestimating—"
"Come on." She slid off the table, dropping the long-useless bottle of mineral water into the bin without looking at it. She adjusted her blazer with the quiet dignity of someone reclaiming their composure after having briefly misplaced it. "We're going to the clinic, aren't we?"
Makoto blinked. "...Yes."
"Then stop standing there."
They walked out of the lounge together. Behind them, the other students—who had spent the last twenty minutes pretending very hard not to watch two people slowly orbit a billiard table—quietly resumed their games.
Outside, the corridor of Keyaki Mall was as unhurried as ever. Fuuka walked with her usual ease, as if the last hour had been entirely ordinary. After a moment, she bumped her shoulder against Makoto's—light, almost companionable.
"I'm holding you to those two Häagen-Dazs," she said.
"Noted."
"And dinner. I'll be walking around school looking like I lost a fight for the next three days, so the least you can do is feed me."
"That's a very expensive accident," Makoto murmured.
Fuuka glanced sideways at him, the smirk returning to her lips—lopsided now, courtesy of the swelling, but no less sharp for it.
"Consider it cheap," Fuuka said, "compared to what I could have charged you."
Part 6
The school clinic had been efficient, if nothing else.
Kiryuuin Fuuka now walked through the corridor with an eye patch over her left eye — clean white, secured neatly against her face. She carried it the way she carried everything else: as though it had always been part of the plan.
Makoto walked beside her, hands in his pockets.
"Senpai."
"What."
"The eye patch suits you."
Fuuka glanced at him sideways with her one available eye.
"It does, doesn't it?" she said, in a tone that suggested she had already made peace with this. "At the very least, it's still fashionable. Small mercies."
"Odin sacrificed his eye for wisdom," Makoto said. "Senpai sacrificed hers for a game of billiards. Historically speaking, the comparison isn't unfavorable."
Fuuka stopped walking for exactly one second. Then she elbowed him — not gently — and resumed her pace as though nothing had happened.
"Watch yourself," she said.
Makoto adjusted his trajectory by half a step without comment and continued walking.
The corridor connecting the clinic to the dormitory was quiet at this hour, most students already settled in for the evening. Their footsteps were unhurried. The kind of pace that didn't have a destination so much as a general direction.
After a moment, Fuuka spoke.
"Yuki."
"Mm."
"Earlier." She looked straight ahead, her tone shifting into something conversational — the register of someone revisiting a detail that had been sitting in the back of their mind. "Why did you stop at that vending machine? The one next to my bench."
Makoto considered this with the same gravity he had given the question about school.
"No particular reason," he said. "I saw a pretty girl sitting alone. So I thought I'd try my luck."
Fuuka was quiet for exactly two seconds.
"And how did that turn out?"
"The pretty girl turned out to be from a battle shounen manga."
The elbow came again, sharper this time.
"You have a terrible sense of self-preservation," Fuuka informed him.
"I've been told."
"And yet you keep talking."
"The alternative is silence, and you'd find that boring."
Fuuka said nothing to this. Which was, in its own way, confirmation.
They reached the dormitory entrance. Fuuka pushed through the door and stepped directly into the elevator. Makoto followed. The doors slid shut behind them.
The ride up was quiet. Fuuka stood with her arms crossed, staring at the floor numbers with the expression of someone reviewing a mental checklist. Makoto stood beside her, hands back in his pockets, staring at the same numbers for no particular reason.
The elevator stopped. Fuuka's floor.
She stepped out, then paused with one hand on the door frame, glancing back at him.
"Lobby," she said. "Ten minutes."
"Both Häagen-Dazs?"
"Did I stutter?"
The doors slid shut.
Makoto rode the rest of the way up in silence. When the elevator opened at his floor, he stepped out, walked to his room, retrieved two Häagen-Dazs cups from his small freezer — Green Tea and Macadamia Nut, exactly as promised — and headed back downstairs.
Nine minutes and forty seconds after the elevator doors had closed, he was in the lobby.
The space was mostly empty at this hour. A few students drifted through without paying him any attention. Makoto sat on the nearest couch and waited, one cup in each hand, with the patience of someone who had no particular objection to waiting.
Fuuka arrived at exactly ten minutes. She had swapped her blazer for something more casual, though the eye patch remained. Under her arm she carried a slim manila envelope, unmarked, sealed.
She took one look at the two cups and nodded once — the way a general confirms that logistics have been handled correctly.
"Good." She settled onto the couch across from him, crossing her legs. "Sit properly."
"I am sitting properly."
"You look like you're waiting for a bus."
Makoto adjusted his posture by a negligible amount. Fuuka accepted this.
She claimed the Green Tea without asking — apparently she had already decided — and peeled the lid off with practiced ease, leaving him the Macadamia Nut.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The lobby hummed with the quiet of a building winding down for the night.
Then Fuuka set her cup down, picked up the manila envelope, and held it out toward him.
"I promised you something interesting," she said simply. "A deal is a deal."
Makoto looked at the envelope. Then at her. Her expression gave nothing away — not the smirk, not the sharpness. Just a kind of level patience that was somehow more unsettling than either.
He took it.
The envelope was light. Paper, whatever it was. He turned it over once, then looked at her again.
"Should I open it now?"
"Do whatever you want," Fuuka said, picking her cup back up. "It's yours."
She returned her attention to her Häagen-Dazs with the finality of someone closing a topic.
Makoto looked at the envelope one more time. Then he slid a finger under the seal and opened it.
He looked at what was inside.
A beat of silence passed.
"...This?"
Chapter 12 End
Omake: The Lunch Agreement
The cafeteria was at its peak during the lunch break, a constant hum of conversation filling the large hall. At one of the long tables, Ichinose Honami's group—consisting of Mako Amikura, Chihiro Shiranami, and several other Class B students—were enjoying their meals.
Ichinose had returned to her usual radiant self, her warm smile greeting everyone who passed by. However, she occasionally touched her forehead, feeling the faint bump left by her "architectural incident" from that morning.
Suddenly, a bento box was placed on the empty seat beside her. Makoto Yuki sat down without much fanfare, sliding the lid off his meal with efficient movements.
"Ichinose-san," Makoto called out softly.
Ichinose turned, slightly surprised but still smiling. "Yes, Yuki-kun?"
Without a word, Makoto picked up two large, golden-brown pieces of karaage from his bento and placed them onto Ichinose's rice. "About this morning. I didn't mean to ignore you or cause a scene. I simply got too caught up in the rhythm of that song."
Ichinose let out a soft, genuine laugh—the kind of sound that brought a sense of peace to everyone around her. "It's okay, Yuki-kun. I should also apologize for getting emotional and elbowing you. Thank you for the chicken. Let's call it even, okay?"
"Yeah. Even," Makoto replied simply, before taking a bite of his own lunch.
Mako Amikura, who had been watching the interaction with curious eyes, finally leaned in. "Hey, Yuki-kun. About that song from this morning... the lyrics were so strange. I tried looking it up on the popular charts, but I couldn't find it anywhere. Where is it from?"
"Oh, that?" Makoto chewed thoughtfully before answering in his usual flat tone. "It's from an anime."
The table went silent for a moment. Chihiro blinked, her chopsticks frozen mid-air. "An anime? So... does that mean Yuki-kun is an otaku?"
The question caused a few students at the neighboring tables to turn their heads. Makoto Yuki—athletic, sharp-featured, and radiating an aura of absolute competence—didn't exactly fit the stereotypical image of an otaku.
Makoto remained unfazed, picking up a slice of carrot.
"That depends on how you define 'otaku'," he said calmly, meeting Chihiro's gaze. "But if you mean do I watch and follow anime? Then yes, I watch several series."
"Eh, really?!" Mako exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "What kind of shows do you like? Magical girls? Shounen adventures?"
"A bit of everything. It depends on my mood," Makoto answered shortly.
Ichinose smiled widely, amused by how her friends looked as if they had just discovered a rare species. "It's kind of refreshing, isn't it? Yuki-kun looks so serious all the time, but he has a hobby like that. That 'Excalibur' song, though... the anime must be very unique to make you sing it in public."
"It's about people who collect souls," Makoto replied, providing a description that was technically accurate but sounded incredibly dark to the uninitiated. "And that sword... he's the most annoying yet unforgettable character in the show."
"That sounds very 'Yuki-kun-ish' in a weird way," Ichinose teased, finally taking a bite of the chicken he had given her.
The atmosphere at the table shifted into something genuinely relaxed. The "Crownless King of class B" and the "Angel of Class B" were gone, replaced by two teenagers talking about hobbies over lunch. As the break continued, the conversation flowed naturally—Mako talked about her favorite fashion magazines, Chihiro mentioned a new cafe she wanted to visit, and Ichinose shared her love for certain idol groups.