Chapter 61 - The peace

3rd Person POV

[Arto's mansion]

By the next morning, Rias has already had the headphone inside her ear, excited to learn from her future husband in managing the financial empire her adoptive sister Nami left behind travelling to another world. "Excited I see?"

Arto comes to his lover, leaning down for a kiss before placing her breakfast before her "I love your enthusiasm, the work today at AFM isn't that tough, just pure human resource managing, tasks ordering, appointments arranging with the clients wanting our financial managing service, securing the transations of current clients to not have any leaks,.....but first, breakfast."

Rias blinks at the steaming plate—no, a pan of Shakshuka, Arto's favorite breakfast—placed directly onto her lap. Eggs poached in rich tomato sauce, studded with chorizo chunks. "It smells so good" Rias sniffs the pan as Grayfia sets down a loaf of freshly baked bread "I used Vietnamese bread recipe today instead of standard slices, have a taste, and mind the crust shatteting"

Rias holds the warm bread in her hands and gently cracks the outer layer—flaky golden shards scattering onto the napkin with an audible crunch. Steam rises as she tears into the soft interior, dipping it into the shakshuka's rich sauce. "This is—oh—" Her words dissolve into a pleased hum as flavors bloom across her tongue—smoky paprika, garlic, the bright tang of tomatoes cutting through the richness of egg yolks.

Arto grins, watching her demolish half the pan before remembering her dignity. "Slow down, Princess. Finance lessons won't run away." At that moment, Grayfia steps into the room, bringing with her the ringing phone of Nami "A call to her, from someone that....is familar with Nami"

Arto looks at the strange number "Give me that" Grayfia hands him the phone as he answers "Hi, how can I help you?" A man's voice rings through the phone "I believe this numbers has something related to a woman named Nami Nerona"

Arto narrows his eyes "It is actually, this is the number of Abyssgard Financial Management, which was founded by Miss Nami Nerona, what is your concern, sir?" A sigh "I see, so she has found another way, too bad for us."

"Though I must ask, sir, who are you?" Arto asks, and the one on the other side answers "I am Jamie Dimon, CEO of JP Morgan, I called to meet Miss Nami to ask if she can come back to us" Arto glances at Rias, who frowns at the mention of JP Morgan—one of Nami's former employers before she defected to his side.

Arto's grip tightens imperceptibly on the phone. "It's been....years since her disappearance" A sigh from the other side "We know, it was a lost to our branch in JP Morgan SE, she was the most talented vice director we had, we've been looking for her but nothing was found. Only until recently, her named appeared with this company in Japan."

Arto leans back into his chair, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the mahogany desk. Rias watches the tension coil in his shoulders—the way his jaw sets just slightly tighter. Grayfia's pen stills mid-signature three seats away, her crimson eyes flicking upward with predator interest. "Mr. Dimon," Arto keeps his voice neutral, "if you're suggesting some form of corporate poaching—"

"No, no," the voice crackles through the speaker, "just...closure. She left without a trace. Took proprietary algorithms she made with her abduction, it's really valuable to us when we know how powerful her tools are in predicting the trends of the market, I firstly wants to make sure she is alright, because I was the one who personally recruited her into JP Morgan, secondly I want to apologize to her for not being able to rescue her. And lastly, we want to cooperate on gaining the license of those tools if possible."

Arto's fingers pause mid-tap. Beside him, Rias' eyes narrow—her fork hovering over the last bite of shakshuka. Grayfia's teacup meets its saucer with deliberate softness. "Interesting," Arto murmurs. "Nami never mentioned algorithms."

A chuckle—dry and tired—from the other end. "Of course she wouldn't. Those were her leverage." Papers shuffle in the background. "Look, Mr...." Arto chuckles "Right, sorry, Mister Dimon, you can call me Alexander, I'm currently Nami's assistant in AFM, I'll transfer what you say to Miss Nami when she is available along with the record of this call, are you okay with that?

The line goes silent for a beat—long enough for Rias to lean forward, her knee pressing against Arto's thigh in silent question. Grayfia's fingers hover over the console, ready to trace the call's origin if needed. Then Dimon exhales. "Fair enough. Just...tell her the offer stands. We're willing to negotiate licensing terms if she's open to discussion."

Arto's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I'll relay the message. But, just out of curiosity, what did her tool predict? I assume it wasn't just stock trends." Static crackles—Dimon hesitates. "2008, a disaster is predicted to happen in 2008, 2 years from now, as her tools predicted before she disappeared with the only 'computer' that contains those tools, she warned us to pull out of mortgage-backed securities before the bubble bursts."

Rias' fork clatters onto her plate. Grayfia's teacup freezes halfway to her lips. Arto leans forward, elbows resting on the desk. "Fascinating. And yet you didn't act on it?" Dimon's sigh is weary. "Boardroom politics. By the time we verified her models, she was gone" Arto hums, tapping the desk. "And now?" "Now," Dimon admits, "we're seeing the early signs she warned about in the final data file she sent us before disappearing."

Grayfia's fingers dart across her tablet—pulling up global housing market trends—while Rias watches comprehension dawn on Arto's face. "I see," he murmurs. "Well, Mr. Dimon, Nami is currently unavailable, but I'll ensure she receives your message. If this could establish a beneficial relationship between us, it'll be an honor for us." His tone is polished, corporate—so unlike his usual warmth that Rias' toes curl under the table.

Dimon exhales audibly. "Appreciate it, Alexander. Here's my direct line." Numbers flash onscreen as Grayfia's nails—sharpened to points—tap them into encrypted storage. The call disconnects with a soft click, leaving the scent of ozone and unresolved tension.

Rias leans forward, her knee pressing harder into Arto's thigh. "So, Nami has more leverage than she lets out" Arto nods "We've been seeing her using it, it was never any codes or computers, what Jamie Dimon meant was Nami as an individual, he was pointing at her brain, saying algorithm is just a way to avoid eavedropping by referring to a physical object while in truth, he was mentioning Nami's ingenius, because if there was an algorithm, they would have found it before Nami did, or they could recreate it when she was gone"

Grayfia's teacup clinks against the saucer as she sets it down with surgical precision. "So that licensing bit was..." He nods again "He was expecting Abyssgard to be a part of their risk managing webs, Nami would be their actuary" Rias frowns, tearing another piece of bread absentmindedly. "But she's ours now." The possessiveness in her voice makes Arto chuckle—until her heel digs into his foot under the table.

"That's why I mentioned a cooperation, we are happy to provide risk managing service and strategic assessment, but Nami is ours," Arto says smoothly, rubbing his foot where Rias' heel had pressed a little too enthusiastically. The morning sunlight streams through the blinds, striping the table with gold as Grayfia taps her tablet—pulling up AFM's client portfolio with a flick of her wrist.

Rias leans forward, her hair brushing Arto's shoulder as she peers at the screen. "So...we're actually considering this?" Her voice holds a note of incredulity, though her fingers are already tracing projected profit margins.

Arto laughs "Of course we do, a good business chance shouldn't be missed, especially when JP Morgan is in the talk" He reaches up to pinch Rias' nose gently "But don't worry, this is strictly professional, Grayfia.."

"Yes, Master?" She answers formally "Make private notice to Nami specifically about this conversation, it's down to her we know how this will end, and when she returns, we'll see if we can step into the big game together with the sharks" Grayfia nods sharply—her fingers already flying across the tablet—as Rias exhales through her nose, leaning back in her chair. The bread crumbs scatter across her lap, forgotten. "You're really going to let Nami negotiate with JP Morgan?"

Arto's grin is all teeth. "Oh, Princess—Jamie said it, he recruited her himself freshly out of Lund at 20 for their branch in Sweden. He knows exactly who he's dealing with." He leans forward, plucking a stray crumb from Rias' lower lip. "And so do I. So it's down to the real owner of AFM to decide,"

He pulls Rias from her seat "we are just keeping her empire standing before she returns, but now, let's start your training, Princess" Grayfia watches them leave with an amused smirk—her tablet already compiling encrypted financial briefings—before turning herself into Baroness Atreides and goes on her own duty at Atreides Domain

On their way to school, Arto turns to Rias "Put that headphone on and taps it, your work today will appear, mostly what a secretary+ HR manager would do, I'll handle specialized tasks that involve real clients along with the experts of AFM, the rest is for you, Nami has already recorded the rules of human, tasks, and appointment managing, I'll just sit beside you as you handle everything else" Rias taps the headphones as holographic screens appear before her—schedules, encrypted client portfolios, risk assessment models—all orbiting her like digital constellations. Her breath catches. "This is...everything." Arto steadies her trembling fingers with his own. "Just breathe. Start with the highlighted priorities."

Akeno chines into their talk "What are you two talking about? Why don't I get a share in...whatever you two are doing?" She leans over Rias' shoulder, her violet eyes scanning the holograms with predatory interest. The scent of cherry blossoms clings to her uniform as her fingers ghost over a particularly volatile stock projection. "Ooh~Rias is becoming the big boss' secretary, is another slot available?"

She turns to Arto "Or am I just not beautiful enough?" Arto flicks her forehead gently "No, love, it's just that if I share Rias's work with you, you 2 will run out of work to do soon and might start fighting over who is the best secretary. So I have another work for you..."

He hands her an e-book "You will learn financial managing so that you can help me in higher-tier works that involved real clients, you can find all the learning path and books in this e-book, which is the standard theoretical baseline of AFM financial expert, you'll start with basic accounting, financial statement analysis, corporate finance, risk management and then derivatives, fixed income, and portfolio theory.

Akeno blinks at the dense text scrolling across the screen—equations bleeding into flowcharts bleeding into case studies. "You want me to...study?" The disbelief in her voice is palpable. Her fingers twitch like she's considering summoning lightning just to vaporize the device.

Arto catches her wrist before she can act on the impulse. "You kept complaining that the studying program in Kuoh Academy as too easy, well, time to learn something higher." He comes to her, tapping the e-book "We still have a month left before the school year ends without much left to do, I think it's a good time for you to....prove yourself smart by doing something outside the easy usual program of Kuoh Academy"

Akeno looks at the e-book opened before her with fascination as she sees the documents listed before her "Ohhh~I see, it's financial managing and investment assessing on corporation scale, Nami has only been teaching us this on personal scale when we invested following her lead"

Arto smiles as he taps the e-book "Yes, that's the difference, personal finance is just buying and selling assets with your own money, corporate finance involves managing money flow on industrial scale, where every transaction affects thousands of employees and billions of dollars, Nami has been handling this on her own, but she is currently away, so we'll have to cover for her"

Akeno's fingers trace over the screen—lingering on risk assessment models—as her lips curl into a predatory smile. "So...this is why you always say money is power." Arto nods, steering her toward a shaded bench under Kuoh Academy's cherry trees. "Precisely. And now you get to wield it. But hey, I haven't asked you this for a while, you 2, along with Kiba, Koneko and Sona's peerage, have been following Nami into investing for a while now, right?"

Rias nods "About 9 months now, from the time we started making money from stray hunting, we've been investing following Nami's lead, and the result was quite.....abundant"

Arto tilts his head, he hasn't looked into the financial state of his own family for a while now, the money he generated from Simulation Room's usage fee has been covering every living expenses, making money a little overshadowed by other cares "Abundant...how?"

Akeno taps her chin with a manicured nail. "Well~" She draws out the word, savoring Arto's rare moment of financial ignorance. "We've been pouring our bounties into investment following Nami's lead, and last I checked—" She produces her phone with a flourish, scrolling through banking apps before shoving the screen into Arto's face. "—that's eight zeroes."

Arto blinks. Rias giggles at his stunned expression—his lips slightly parted, his eyes flickering between the number and Akeno's smug grin. "Eight..." He trails off, taking the phone to scrutinize the balance. "This isn't just stray hunting bounties."

Rias leaned against his side, clearly pleased to explain. "Nami was very specific. She divided our capital into several layers."

She began counting on her fingers with refined precision. "First, defensive core holdings — about 35% of the portfolio. We invested heavily in consumer staples, healthcare, and utilities. Companies like Procter & Gamble, Johnson & Johnson, and some strong Japanese conglomerates. These are 'boring' stocks, she said, but they weather crises well because people still need toothpaste and medicine even when the economy collapses."

Akeno chimed in with a playful smirk, resting her head on Arto's arm from the other side. "Then came the commodities play — around 25%. Nami pushed us hard into gold, silver, and oil futures. She said the dollar would weaken and inflation would rise as the bubble inflated. We've already seen very nice gains on gold this past year."

Arto nodded slowly, impressed. "Smart. What about the aggressive side?" Rias continued, "Emerging markets and selective tech — 20%. She had us invest in BRIC countries — especially China and India — through carefully chosen index funds and certain export-driven companies. On the tech side, we bought into companies with strong cash reserves and minimal debt exposure. Apple, Google, and a few others. Nothing heavily tied to U.S. housing or consumer credit."

Akeno's smile turned sharper, almost predatory. "And here's the part where Nami showed her real teeth — the short positions and hedges, roughly 15%. She used derivatives to short major U.S. homebuilders, mortgage lenders, and especially bundles of subprime mortgage-backed securities. She called them 'financial weapons of mass destruction'."

Rias nodded. "She warned us that when the housing bubble pops, those shorts will explode upward in value and offset any losses elsewhere. The remaining 5% she kept in cash and short-term Treasuries for liquidity."

Arto let out a low whistle, leaning back against the bench as he processed everything. "So she's not just riding the current bull market… she's building an ark before the flood," he murmured. "She's making money now while positioning everything to survive — and even profit from — the 2008 collapse."

Akeno giggled softly, tracing a finger along Arto's collar. "Exactly. She told us the goal wasn't just getting rich. It was getting anti-fragile. The more the system breaks in 2008, the more we should make from the chaos."

Rias looked up at him, her violet eyes serious but warm. "She also said something interesting… that with your Stabilizer technology and the Simulation Room already securing our long-term wealth, this portfolio is meant to protect our human-realm power base. So even if the human financial world burns, we stay standing — stronger than before."

"Well, that's a surprise, I've been living with a bunch of millionaires" Arto murmurs, staring at the spreadsheet with newfound respect. Rias' delighted giggle blends with Akeno's smug hum as they flank him—one pressing her cheek against his shoulder, wrapping her arm around his. "We've been living with the best head hunter in the world~" Rias giggles.

Akeno nods "Right? First he brought home the woman who knows everything to be our macro strategist" One finger stretched "another woman who was a big shot at JP Morgan with insane sensitivity with numbers and money to ensure our prosperity" Second finger stretched "And a head maid who takes care of our lives from lounging to training" Third finger raised.

"And one annoying but adorable cat" Rias adds "Yep, that too, wait, what about Albedo?" Akeno asks "Well, he bought her from the auction house so....that's his personal fetish, we don't have a say" Rias shakes her head "No, I mean, what does she do?" Arto shrugs "She's Baroness Atreides, leading our proxy clan in the Underworld, the amount of revenue she earned isn't much far behind Nami, you know?"

Akeno blinks "Wait what?" Arto nods "She turned Atreides into a boutique magic-tech atelier, catering to nobles who wanted Gremory-Sitri quality but couldn't work with them politically, her profit margin is around 400% per piece" Rias whistles low "That explained why Nami liked her so much, the best investment of Arto Abyssgard, that's what Nami called her"

The trio pauses as Kiba approaches with three chilled bottles of Ramune—his sleeves rolled up to reveal fresh scorch marks from mana-forging. "Am I interrupting?" He sets the drinks down with a magician's flourish, popping the marble seals with practiced flicks. "Heard you three discussing finances from the courtyard. Figured you'd need hydration after calculating all those zeros."

Rias accepts her bottle gratefully, the fizzy lemonade bubbling against her lips as she considers Kiba's forearms. "New project?" He grins—that sharp, eager smile he only wears when blades are involved.

"Yep, there has been some leap in spell-embedded physical weapons, I've been showing them how to carve 3 spells into one weapon and use hand signs as triggers to switch between spells, Albedo ordered 50 pieces for Atreides' clients who want spells-blades with flexible spells," he says as he pulls out a kunai with intricate carvings on its blade—flipping it to reveal another pattern on the reverse.

Arto whistles low. "I see, Uncle Cedric Gremory sure trained you well" He takes the kunai from Kiba, looking around to make sure no one is minding them "One for chasing target, one for explosion, impressive" Arto comments as he gazes the kunai, then at the handle "And never harms Gremory or Sitri, that's the third automatic spell, right? The gesture of triggering in holding the thing"

Kiba's grin sharpens as he taps the kunai's pommel—activating a near-invisible glow along the carvings. "Took me three weeks in Cedric's forge to stabilize the mana channels to make sure they don't converge inside the structure of the weapon, causing a chaotic mana ball inside which could break the weapon, Uncle Cedric were....passionate about the idea"

Rias traces the glowing lines with her pinky, her nail catching on a deliberately rough edge. "Wait—these grooves aren't just decorative." Kiba nods, flipping the kunai to reveal micro-fissures along the flat. "Spell vents. Let excess mana bleed off if the user screws up the hand seals." Kiba's grin widens. "And now we're the only ateliers outside Sitri and Gremory's direct control offering it."

Akeno swirls her Ramune, watching the marble clink against glass. "So while we're making money from human financial systems, Atreides is monopolizing niche devil markets?" Kiba nods, leaning against the bench. "Basically. Albedo's been rejecting bulk orders to maintain exclusivity—only accepts commissions from nobles who can prove they won't resell to secondary markets." Rias' eyes gleam with understanding. "Artificial scarcity." Arto taps his bottle against hers in approval. "Princess learns fast."

The school bell rings—Kiba stands up "Well, have to leave now, see you back home, Rias-senpai, Akeno-senpai, Aruto-senpai"

The moment Kiba vanishes around the corridor corner, Akeno leans closer to Arto "So." Her voice drops to a purr. "If Atreides is handling devil-side finances, and Nami's managing human investments..." She leans in, her breath warm against his jaw. "Where does that leave me in this empire of yours?"

Rias snorts, flicking Akeno's earlobe. "Greedy." Arto catches Akeno's chin between his fingers "Your position is in my bed" Akeno's eyelashes flutter—half-lidded, amused—before her teeth graze his thumb. "Hmm~ Is that all I'm good for?"

The words vibrate against his skin, warm and teasing. Arto smiles "No, seriously, you're the only one who can save me from my nightmares which comes up once in a while, and the main architect of the dream realm where we bond every night to make up for the time we spent working, so while saying your position is on the bed is a little too...naughty, what I meant is you're the emotional anchor of this family"

Rias' laughter dissolves into a sigh as she rests her head against Arto's shoulder. "And what am I, then?" Arto tilts his head, considering. "The foundation," he says simply, tapping her collarbone with one finger. "Without you, none of this holds together." Rias exhales through her nose—half-amused, half-annoyed—before flicking his earlobe. "Cheap flattery."

Akeno hums, stretching her legs across Arto's lap. "Mm~ But he's right. You are the reason we all stayed." Her violet eyes flicker with something unspoken—memories of abandoned shrines and lightning-struck temples—before she plucks the kunai from Arto's grip and spins it absently. "Even if you are terrible at keeping track of budgets. Now, Buchou, lift your head from his shoulder, we are heading at the final corner to school, let's maintain our professionalism as agreed" 

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto teaching Rias about financial managing]

[Kuoh Academy - Class 1-C]

Issei comes to school in a normal day like all others, the time before the school year ends gave him more time for his public service volunteer job at the nursing home, orhpanage and other places, the 200 hours of public service sentenced from the court 2 months ago have reduced to 100 hours, and he is treating less and less as punishment but as something he....likes doing.

It's nice seeing people smile at him, genuinely, instead of looking at him with scorn as he walks past them.

The parole officer assigned by the court to keep an eye on him have somewhat....softened his attitude towards him after 2 months of seeing him doing his service without complaint, even taking extra shifts when someone calls in sick at the orphanage or nursing home, or the social center, he still remembers the talk with the parole officer the other day.

[Flashback]

 The parole officer—a grizzled man with salt-and-pepper stubble—had leaned against his car, watching Issei push an elderly woman's wheelchair through the orphanage garden. "You're not what I expected," the officer admitted, crushing his cigarette underfoot.

"Most kids with your charges? They bitch about community service like it's torture." Issei had adjusted the woman's sunhat without looking up. "It's not so bad. They tell stories."

The woman—Ms. Fujimoto—had patted his wrist with paper-thin skin. "This one listens. Even to an old crow like me." The officer's gruff chuckle had been the first approval Issei had earned in years. 

[Present]

Issei steps into his class like usual, and heads to his seat where Yuuma is sitting, she turns to him with a smile "Issei-kun, good morning" She greets him as he sits down next to her "Good morning, Yuuma," he said, placing his bag under the desk.

"The school year is ending, have you gotten any plan?" Yuuma asks, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk—too precise, like a metronome. Issei catches himself staring at the motion before forcing his gaze up to her face. "Uh, probably just...keep doing what I'm doing. The social center needs summer volunteers. I mean, we only have about 2 weeks break before the new school year starts"

Yuuma's smile stretches—just a fraction too wide—before softening into something resembling warmth. "How noble of you." She leans in slightly, close enough that makes Issei winces blushes "Maybe I'll be there to help you too~" Her breath smells faintly of peppermint.

"You....will?" Issei asks again, one eyebrow raises suspiciously, volunteering works isn't something popular among students while they have all other things to do other than what they would consider boring like volunteering works "I mean, we always need more people, but...are you sure? It's not really interesting, mostly just helping old people walking around, reading for them, playing with kids"

Yuuma's fingers trace the edge of her desk—nails clicking against the veneer. "Mm~ Sounds relaxing." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Besides, I'm new to this town, getting to know its people more is nothing harmful, not mentioning I haven't gotten any friends aside from you, so...."

Issei hesitates—something about the way her pupils contract when she says "relaxing" sets his teeth on edge—but nods anyway. "Sure. I'll introduce you to the staff tomorrow, but if you make new friends in school and then you decide to go somewhere else other than volunteering, you have to notice me as soon as possible, we're familiar with people leaving, but don't bomb us suddenly"

Yuuma's laugh rings brightly. "How responsible~" She pats his shoulder "Don't worry, Issei-kun, I'm not going anywhere" She then turns to the window to see a black cat is sleeping on the window frame outside the classroom—"Such cute creature~" She comments and opens the window to see the cat better.

Her fingers reach over to the cat for a pat and surprisingly, it doesn't resist, instead, it wakes up and turn its golden, innocent gaze towards Yuuma and starts purring, nuzzling her fingers, Yuuma giggles, scratching behind its ears.

Instead of going away when the class door opens, the cat jumps into the class—landing neatly on the class' floor and goes immediately under Yuuma's chair to hide from the teacher's notice—its fur blending into the shadows with uncanny precision. Yuuma's fingers twitch as the cat presses its flank against her ankle like a silent conspirator.

"Bad kitty," she murmurs, but her finger goes down the desk and the cat took it and started rubbing its head against it with some random licking, like it's familiar with her. "Is it your cat?" Issei asks, Yuuma shakes her head "No,

but it's friendly isn't it?" She whispers back, before the teacher enters the classroom, everyone rises and greets "Good morning, sensei"

The cat remains still under Yuuma's chair, but the teacher's sharp eyes scan the room—lingering on Yuuma's desk for a fraction too long—before continuing with attendance. Issei exhales through his nose. The cat's tail flicks against his shin once, twice, deliberate as a metronome.

Yuuma's fingers brush the cat's ears absently during the lecture—and the cat seems to enjoy it too as it plays with her secretly under the desk—while the teacher is in relax mode as he talks about other things than studying due to the fact that the school year is basically over.

It's only the third year students who are preparing for their university entrance test, and that's exactly what the teacher is talking about—"You guys can't imagine how intense it is on the third floor right now, I just came from there and I can tell you, the air is so thick you can cut it with a knife, they are all treating the entrance test like the lifeline of their futures" he breathes heavily.

"...I have to go another 3rd year class after this, and while this brought back so many memories from when I was the one taking that test, it's not less tired when you're the one teaching the students" The teacher sighs, rubbing his temples "I still remember when I was in highschool...."

The lecture dissolves into nostalgic rambling—senior teacher Watanabe recounting his own academic failures with theatrical despair. "Back then, I never thought I would become a teacher,..." he muses, adjusting his glasses. "...I didn't even know what to do after graduating, then came summer break in second year when I went on a charity trip to Okinawa...where I met the children there..."

Yuuma's fingers pause mid-scratch beneath the desk. The cat's ears twitch—its golden eyes locking onto Watanabe with unnatural focus as he continues: "That was when I realized—helping others understand things...it felt more rewarding than anything else." His gaze sweeps the room, lingering on Issei just a heartbeat longer than the others. "Funny how life works, isn't it?"

Yuuma keeps on doing the petting she was doing under the desk until the hollow feeling hits her, the cat is gone, she looks down her chair to see the cat has disappeared "Where is it?" she asks, swirling her hand to find the cat

Then the teacher said out of nowhere "Whose cat is it?" He held the black cat up for everyone to see, the cat just looked around, not afraid of anything. "It's just a stray wandering around sir, it's not our cat" one student said, other murmurs in agreement.

So the teacher, now in relaxed mode, didn't decide to let it out of the class, but held it in his arms as he sat down, petting it while continuing his story. "I also have a cat at home, me and my wife raising together, and let me tell you, that little monster rules our house" He chuckles, scratching behind the cat's ears.

Yuuma's fingers tighten imperceptibly around her pencil. The cat—now perched comfortably on Watanabe's lap—licks its paw with deliberate casualness, its golden eyes flickering to hers for a fraction of a second. Something in that gaze makes her stomach drop.

"Anyway," Watanabe continues, oblivious, "back to our topic—" 

[Timeskip: Brought to you by the black cat smugging at the students]

The bell rings, signalling the story sharing session is over, the teacher stands up from his seat "It's nice to relax a little before going back into hell" he scratches the cat's head one last time before releasing it outside—the black blur vanishing into the hallway with unnatural speed. Yuuma's fingers twitch against her desk as she watches it go.

Issei gathers his notes absently, but Yuuma remains seated—her gaze fixed on the empty window ledge. "Hey," Issei nudged her shoulder, "You okay? You've been zoning out since the cat left."

Yuuma blinks, her smile snapping back into place like a rubber band. "Just thinking," she says airily, tilting her head. "About what Watanabe-sensei said—how helping others felt rewarding." Her fingers tap once, twice against the desk. "I wonder if that's what you feel too, Issei-kun?"

The question lingers between them—too pointed, too curious. Issei rubs the back of his neck. "I guess? It's... different now. Before, it was just an obligation. But along the way, I feels good when they smile at me, trust me—like I'm not just some delinquent." He shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. "It's stupid."

Yuuma's lips curve, but her eyes remain calculating. "Not stupid at all," she murmurs. Her hand brushes his wrist—lightning-fast, deliberate—and Issei jerks back instinctively. Her skin had felt unnaturally cold, like metal left in winter. "I think that's what makes you a person standing out in a world where people are slowly detaching from each other, making me wonder, what it feels like"

Issei swallows hard, rubbing his wrist where her touch lingers like frostbite. "Have you not ever liked...helped someone?" Yuuma giggles "I have, Issei-kun, of course I have, but what I received...." her gaze drifted elsewhere "...was never smile from others"

The classroom chatter fades into background noise as Issei studies Yuuma's profile—the way her lashes cast sharp shadows across her cheeks, the unnatural stillness of her shoulders. Something prickles at the base of his skull. "That's...kinda sad," he mutters before he can stop himself.

Yuuma's head tilts, her smile stretching like a wire pulled too tight. "Is it?" Her fingers tap a staccato rhythm against the desk—three beats with one finger, pause, one finger, and one, and two, 1-2-1-1, then 1-2-2-1.....1-1-1...A code or a tic? Issei can't tell. "People take what they need from others. Smiles are just...currency."

"I don't think so" Issei said sincerely, looking Yuuma straight in the eyes. His fingers tapped his knee—not with her mechanical precision, but with the awkward rhythm of someone gathering courage. "Because when every favor is calculated as a trade, the final sum will always be zero, someone gaining means someone losing, that's when the world loses its soul, all machines"

Yuuma's eyes widened hearing those words, but he scratches his head "That's what an old man at the nursing home told me the other day when I complained about people taking advantage of kindness in fraud cases, he told me that being wary is fine, but don't let it make us indifferent and emotionless"

Yuuma's fingers stilled against the desk. For a moment, her carefully constructed mask slipped—revealing something hollow and startled beneath. The classroom's fluorescent lights caught the unnatural sheen of her pupils contracting like a cat's in sunlight. "An old man said that?" Her voice was softer now, almost curious.

Issei nodded, oblivious to the way her shoulders tensed. "Yeah. Fujimoto-san—the one with the purple glasses. He was a math teacher before retiring." He grinned sheepishly. "He thinks love and goodwill is the greatest profit while scorn and malice are the greatest loss in inter-person relationships."

Yuuma's fingers twitched—her manicured nails digging crescent moons into the desk's veneer. "How...quaint.....yet so...endearing." The words slithered out between her teeth, saccharine and sharp. The classroom's fluorescent lights flickered overhead—just once—casting her shadow in jagged angles across the floor. "I want to meet that man one day," she said.

"I mean, you will, unless you dumb me to go on some other fancier thing" Issei said jokingly as he puts his books away for another subject, unaware of the way Yuuma's eyes soften away from his gaze 'Love and goodwill....greatest profit....' she thinks to herself, hands resting on her lap—palms up, as if weighing those words against some invisible ledger.

[Timeskip: Brought to you by Yuuma following Issei somewhere]

Issei and Yuuma are standing at the entrance of the place where he usually takes the volunteering jobs from, Yuuma looking around while Issei signs in for the day "Alright, so I'll introduce you to Masaharu-san first, since he's the one managing the roster, and also...my parole officer" He said, scratching his head awkwardly "He's...kinda strict, but he's fair" He said as he pushes the door open.

Inside, Masaharu looks up from his paperwork, his sharp eyes scanning Yuuma with the practiced suspicion of someone who's seen too many delinquents try to fake reform. "New recruit?" he grunts, nudging his glasses up with one finger. "Didn't know you had friends, not mentioning this one is interested in this kind of work, Hyoudou."

Yuuma's smile doesn't waver—if anything, it widens, honey-sweet and just a fraction too perfect. "Issei-kun made it sound like such rewarding work," she chirps, tilting her head. "I wanted to see for myself~"

Masaharu exhales through his nose, glancing at Issei. "You vouching for her?" Issei shrugs. "I mean, she asked. Figured it wouldn't hurt to let her try."

A beat of silence. Masaharu's pen taps once, twice against the desk before he slides a clipboard toward Yuuma. "Fill this out. Emergency contacts, medical conditions, availability." His gaze flicks to her fingers—pale, unblemished, moving with the eerie precision of a clockwork doll as she takes the pen. "You ever done volunteer work before?"

"No, but I would love to try~" Yuuma's voice lilts like a music box winding down. Her pen glides across the form—each stroke unnervingly even, as if printed rather than written. Masaharu's eyes narrow at her emergency contact section left...Issei's contact, he tilts his head "I'm I too old to read or did you just fill the emergency contact with Issei's numbers?"

Yuuma giggles—a sound like wind chimes in an empty corridor. "Well, he is my only friend here," she says, tilting her head just enough for the overhead lights to catch the unnatural sheen of her irises. "Unless you'd prefer I put down yours, Masaharu-san~"

Masaharu's pen freezes mid-air. Behind him, the ancient wall clock ticks three times before he exhales sharply through his nose. "Fine. Hyoudou—you're responsible for her." He slides another clipboard toward Issei. "Here is the tasks of today, take her with you and show her the works, today includes joining in cleaning the street using that fancy vehicle you love so much"

"Just like sitting in a mecha...." Issei's eyes get dreamy just be mentioning the street cleaning vehicle—a small yet versatile machine with rotating brushes and water jets, "I still remember when showing that thing to the kids at the orphanage, they all flocked to ride it"

Yuuma's fingers pause mid-air above the clipboard, her manicured nails casting spider-thin shadows across the paper. "A...street cleaner?" The words drip with something between disbelief and morbid fascination. Her pupils dilate—just slightly—as if imagining the machine's mechanisms in vivid detail.

Masaharu snorts, sliding the keys across the desk. "Don't let him fool you. The kid treats that thing like it's damn Gundam." He jerks his chin toward the back exit. "Shift starts at ten, followed by tending to old people at the nursing home in the afternoon, and taking care of the orphans until they are done having dinner. Got it?" 

Yuuma's fingers close around the keys—her grip precise, almost surgical. "Understood~" Her gaze flicks to Issei, lingering on the way his shoulders relax at the mention of the orphanage. The fluorescent light above them buzzes—once, twice—casting her shadow in jagged angles across the linoleum floor. 

The garage door groans as Issei heaves it open, revealing the street sweeper parked in its usual spot—its yellow paint chipped from years of service, but polished to a dull shine. Yuuma's breath catches. Not at the machine itself, but at the stickers plastered across its side—childish doodles of dinosaurs and superheroes, clearly drawn by small hands. 

Issei scratches the back of his neck. "The kids, uh...they kinda claimed it as theirs. Masaharu-san lets them decorate it after every visit." 

Yuuma reaches out—hesitating for the first time since they met—before tracing the outline of a crude dragon. Her fingertip comes away dusted with glitter. "So...adorable" Issei comes over to the vehicle, opening its door "Hop on, Yuuma, let me take you for a ride, I promise we won't crash, I've been riding this thing for a month now" Issei jokes, his grin lopsided. 

The machine rumbles to life beneath them—a deep, mechanical purr that vibrates through the seats. Yuuma's fingers curl around the edge of her seat, her knuckles paling as Issei maneuvers the sweeper onto the street with surprising finesse. "See? Smooth as butter," he boasts, adjusting the water spray lever. 

Yuuma doesn't respond. Her gaze is fixed on the rotating brushes below, watching as they churn through debris with methodical efficiency. "Do you do this often?" Issei turns to her "Well, since the old man who usually rides this thing retired, they have been looking for someone else to take the job, but I met the man in the nursing home and he taught me to ride it"

The street sweeper lurches forward—Issei's hands clumsy but earnest on the controls. Yuuma's fingers dig into the seat as they round a corner, her body tilting slightly toward him. The scent of wet pavement and detergent fills the cabin.

"You're...unexpectedly good at this," Yuuma admits, her voice softer than usual. Issei grins, adjusting the water pressure. "Yeah? Well, I learned from its former owner, every customized controlling patterns were-"

A high-pitched shriek cuts him off. Two children—no older than six—wave frantically from the sidewalk, their backpacks bouncing as they jump. "Issei-nii! Issei-nii!" He stops before them about 10 meters away. "Oi, get out of the way or I'll splat water on you and sweep you into the trash can!" He jerks his head out of the window, yelling at the excited kids but his words don't contain any threat, only playfulness—the kind that makes Yuuma's fingers twitch against the dashboard.

The kids shriek louder, scrambling onto the running boards before Issei can protest. "We wanna ride! We wanna ride!" The smaller one—a girl with pigtails—plants her grubby hands on Yuuma's knee without hesitation. "Who's the pretty lady? Your girlfriend, Issei-nii?"

Yuuma recoils—not from the touch, but from the sheer warmth of the child's palm bleeding through her skirt. Her mouth opens, closes. Issei laughs awkwardly, nudging the girl back. "Nah, just a classmate trying out volunteer work. Now sit down before Masaharu catches you hitchhiking again." The kids take their position on the vehicle, one on Issei's laps and one on Yuuma's.

The boy—barely five, with dirt smeared across his cheeks like war paint—grins up at Yuuma. "You smell like candy," he declares, pressing his nose against her sleeve. "Mint~" Yuuma freezes. The child's breath is warm against her wrist, his heartbeat a frantic flutter against her thigh. Something in her chest tightens—an unfamiliar pressure, like a rib cracking under siege.

Issei doesn't notice. He's too busy adjusting the water jets, laughing as the girl in his lap grabs the steering wheel. "Easy there, speed demon! You'll—" The sweeper lurches sideways, spraying an arc of water across the sidewalk. The kids shriek with delight.

Yuuma's fingers twitch. The boy—still sniffing her sleeve—tilts his head. "Are you a witch?" he whispers conspiratorially. "Tou-san says witches smell like mint and poison." Her smile doesn't slip. "Do I look like a witch?"

He tilts his head "No, you are beautiful witches are like old ladies with crow beak noses" The boy makes that impressions by his hand, making Yuuma giggles out of nowhere seeing the cuteness of the child, she looks down at him "Well, maybe I'm a different kind of witch, the ones who grant wishes" She taps his nose lightly with her finger, making him giggle in response.

The sweeper rolls forward—water jets humming, brushes spinning—as Issei guides it down the street with surprising precision. The girl in his lap grips the wheel with both hands, her small fingers barely spanning half its circumference. "Faster, Issei-nii!" she demands, bouncing on his knees. "We gotta catch all the dirt!"

Yuuma watches the scene unfold—the way Issei's hands hover protectively over the girl's, ready to intervene but letting her steer anyway. The boy in her lap leans against her chest now, his warmth seeping through her uniform like sunlight through stained glass.

"Look!" The boy suddenly points ahead—a crumpled soda can glinting on the pavement. "Get it, Issei-nii!" Issei grins, adjusting the controls. "Aye aye, captain!" The sweeper lurches forward, its brushes spinning faster as they bear down on the can. At the last second, he taps the water lever—sending a precise jet that flips the can into the collection tray with a metallic clatter. The kids erupt into cheers.

Witnessing the scene before her eyes, Yuuma doesn't say anything, just enjoying the simple life with laughter and joy with a boy trying to redeem himself and the kids that look at him like a big brother they never had, by the corner of her mouth, a gentle tug pulls it up 'So this is what it's like...to live a normal life...' Yuuma sighs before...."You're missing that corner, Issei!"

The street sweeper jerks to a halt—Issei blinking owlishly at the untouched patch of gum-stained pavement Yuuma points to. The boy in her lap giggles, kicking his legs. "Yuuma-nee is super strict!"

"Only when it comes to doing things properly," Yuuma murmurs, adjusting her grip on the child as Issei reverses with exaggerated slowness. The bristles scrape against concrete, churning up decades of grime. The scent of wet asphalt and detergent fills the cabin again—earthier now, mixed with the warmth of children's laughter.

"Where else do we miss?" Yuuma asks actively like she is expecting this ride to go on forever. The boy in her lap tugs at her sleeve excitedly, pointing toward the playground—its asphalt littered with fallen leaves and candy wrappers. "There! The slide always gets dirty after lunch!"

Issei chuckles, steering the "'sweeper toward the playground. The girl in his lap pumps her fist. "Operation Clean Slide, go!"

Yuuma watches as Issei maneuvers the vehicle with surprising care—angling the brushes to avoid scattering sand onto the swings, adjusting the water pressure to avoid soaking the benches where elderly women sit gossiping. The boy in her lap claps when a particularly stubborn gum stain vanishes beneath the rotating bristles. "Magic!" he declares, beaming up at Yuuma.

Her fingers twitch against his shoulder. "Just...mechanics." The boy frowns. "But it's cool mechanics." Yuuma giggles "Yeah, cool mechanics" she whispers as the vehicle twists and turn at corners, making her and the boy in her laps swaying left and right, until....

"Ack!" Issei yelps after a sudden turn, Yuuma slams into him while the kids are still yelling in excitement "Yuuma, are you alright? Shit, I forgot to tell you to fasten the seatbelt"

Yuuma's breath hitches—her chest pressed flush against Issei's side, her fingers digging into his sleeve. The contact lasts barely a second before she recoils, but the warmth lingers—human, uncalculated, real. The boy in her lap giggles wildly, unfazed. "Again, Issei-nii! Do the spinny thing again!"

Issei grimaces, adjusting his grip on the wheel. "No more spinny things until everyone's buckled in." His fingers fumble with Yuuma's seatbelt—clumsy but earnest—before clicking it into place. The girl in his lap pouts. "Booooooring."

Yuuma exhales slowly, watching as Issei ruffles the girl's hair. "Safety first, squirt. Or Masaharu'll ban us from riding forever." The threat works like magic—both kids immediately straighten, tiny hands gripping the dashboard with exaggerated solemnity.

The sweeper rumbles onward, its brushes churning through playground debris. Yuuma's gaze drifts to the children—their sticky fingers, their sun-freckled cheeks, the way they lean into Issei's warmth without hesitation. The boy in her lap yawns, nestling against her collarbone. His heartbeat is a fragile flutter against her ribs. 'I don't think...I hate it like I thought I would....' she thinks to herself before "Come on, Issei-kun, stop slacking, we still have works after this."

"Hey, who is the boss here?" Issei protests playfully, steering the sweeper toward the park exit as the kids giggle. Yuuma catches herself smiling—not the calculated, honeyed curve she's perfected, but something looser, warmer. The boy in her lap dozes off, his fingers tangled in her sleeve like he's afraid she'll vanish if he lets go.

[Timeskip: Brought to you by the street cleaning vehicle drifting through the screen]

When the cleaning is done, Issei drives the vehicle back to the orphanage to drop the kids down, and welcoming them are children's eyes looking admiringly at the vehicle, and especially from the 2 kids who came down from it like they had their best experience in their lives "Best. Ride. Ever!" The boy's yell make other kids of their age flock to them, clearly jealous of not getting to ride with Issei-nii today.

Then their attention turn to Issei inside the cleaning machine—they flock over to him to interrogate him for not letting them ride with him with a cute accusation of bias, making Issei laugh "Alright, alright, next time I'll take everyone, but—" He holds up a finger. "Only if Masaharu-san says yes." The kids groan in unison, some tugging at his sleeves with pleading eyes, but Issei remains firm, ruffling their hair with practiced ease.

Yuuma watches from a few steps away, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. The boy who had ridden with her lingers nearby, glancing up at her with an expression she can't quite decipher—something between curiosity and hesitant trust. "Yuuma-nee," he asks suddenly, "will you come back with Issei-nii next time?"

The question catches her off guard. Her fingers twitch against her elbow, manicured nails pressing crescent moons into the fabric of her uniform. "Maybe," she says, softer than intended. The boy beams, as if her vague answer is a promise sealed in gold.

The orphanage's matron—a stern woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a tight bun—emerges from the building, clapping her hands. "Enough pestering Issei-kun. Lunch is ready, and if you're late, the pudding cups disappear." The children scatter like startled birds, their protests dissolving into laughter as they race inside. The boy hesitates just long enough to wave at Yuuma before bolting after his friends.

Returning to the base, the 2 meet Masaharu who is waiting for them "I see you 2 had fun, Amano?" Yuuma's fingers twitch—her gloves still damp from the sweeper's controls. "It was...educational," she says, the word tasting unfamiliar on her tongue.

Masaharu's eyebrow arches as he scribbles notes on his clipboard. Issei returns the key to the man "Here is the key, we'll be heading to the nursing home now" Before they go, Masaharu calls them back "Oi, kiddo, here" he hands Issei an envelope, "The old man—the one who taught you to ride this thing—he gave this to me to pass to you" Issei blinks "Eh? For me?" He opens the envelope to find a handwritten note and a worn-out keychain shaped like a miniature street sweeper.

The note reads: "You treat her better than I ever did. She's yours now." The envalope also contains a stack of money "You've been performing the service well despite it's not your duty, and it's quite unfair to not paying you for this job" Masaharu explains "The old man collected the payment from the local government, and give it to you"

Issei's fingers tighten around the keychain—its metal warm from being clutched in Masaharu's palm. "I...can't accept this." His throat bobs. "He taught me everything. This was his—"

Masaharu snorts, nudging the envelope forward. "And now it's yours. Take the damn money, kid. You earned it." His gruff voice softens just a fraction. "The old man's proud of you. Even if he'd rather chew glass than say it."

Yuuma watches silently as Issei stares at the keychain—its chipped yellow paint, the tiny rotating brush that still spins when flicked. The weight of the moment lingers in the air until Masaharu clears his throat. "Nursing home shift starts in twenty. Move it."

The walk to the nursing home is quieter than usual. Issei keeps turning the key hung on his index finger before stopping by a shop "Let's buy something for them" He takes out the money his old teacher gave him—half of it—and buys a box of strawberry daifuku. Yuuma watches as he counts out exact change, his fingers clumsy but deliberate.

The nursing home smells of antiseptic and simmering broth. Hajime-san—the elderly man who first taught Issei about street sweepers—is dozing in his wheelchair by the garden window when they arrive. Issei kneels beside him, placing the daifuku box on his lap. "Sensei," he murmurs, "I brought your favorite."

Hajime's rheumy eyes blink open. His gnarled fingers tremble as they trace the box's ribbon. "Strawberry...you remembered." The old man's voice is paper-thin, but his grip is surprisingly strong when he suddenly seizes Issei's wrist. "The keychain—you got it?"

Issei nods, fishing it from his pocket. Hajime exhales sharply when he sees it, his thumb brushing over the miniature sweeper's bristles. "Good. That's...good." His gaze flicks to Yuuma—lingering a beat too long—before he pats Issei's cheek with startling gentleness. "Now help me eat these before the nurses confiscate them."

They feed him bite-sized pieces between stolen sips of tea. Yuuma observes the ritual in silence—the way Issei adjusts the old man's napkin before each bite, how he subtly blocks the nurse's line of sight whenever Fujimoto sneakily reaches for a third piece.

"Why are you giving me this? And the money....It's just volunteering..." Issei's voice cracks as Hajime's bony fingers tighten around his wrist with unexpected strength.

The old man's breath rasps like wind through dry reeds. "Because you see it." His milky eyes dart toward the window where the street sweeper gleams in the afternoon light. "Not just metal and hydraulics—its purpose." Hajime's grip shifts to press the daifuku wrapper into Issei's palm, the crinkled paper warm from his touch. "You polish what others ignore."

"Also," The man speaks weakly "I'm thinking the end for me is near, and it's best to leave what I hold dear in trusted hands" 

The words hang between them like dust motes in sunlight. Issei's throat works soundlessly, his fingers tightening around the crumpled wrapper. Yuuma watches a bead of sweat trail down his temple—watches Hajime's veined hand tremble against the wheelchair armrest—and for the first time, she understands this isn't performance. This is the raw, ugly underbelly of mortality she's never bothered to witness. 

Hajime suddenly grins, revealing crooked teeth stained by tea. "Besides, kid, you're the only idiot sentimental enough to cry over a street cleaner." He flicks Issei's forehead with surprising precision.

The moment shatters. Issei sniffles loudly, rubbing his nose. "I wasn't—! It's just allergies—" 

"Bullshit." Hajime wheezes a laugh that turns into a cough. Yuuma finds herself reaching for the water glass before she realizes what she's doing—her fingers brushing against Issei's as they both lunge to help. The contact sends a jolt up her arm, foreign and electric.

"Bullshit." Hajime wheezes a laugh that turns into a cough. Yuuma finds herself reaching for the water glass before she realizes what she's doing—her fingers brushing against Issei's as they both lunge to help. The contact sends a jolt up her arm, foreign and electric.

"I'm fine...I'm fine..." Hajime waves them off, his breath still rattling like pebbles in a tin can. Yuuma's hand lingers near the water glass—her fingertips still tingling from the accidental brush against Issei's skin. The sensation lingers, unfamiliar and strangely warm.

Outside, the garden sprinklers hiss to life, casting prismatic arcs over the hydrangeas. Hajime watches the water patterns with a wistful expression. "Sorry for making you lots worry, like I said, my end is coming, and I have nothing left to regret now that I have someone taking care of what I hold dear" His fingers tap the wheelchair armrest in a rhythm that matches the distant hum of the street sweeper idling in the parking lot.

Yuuma's nails dig into her palms. The old man's acceptance of his mortality feels like a puzzle piece she can't force into place. "You're awfully calm about dying," she hears herself say. The words taste metallic, too sharp for the honeyed tone she usually wields.

Hajime chuckles, plucking a fallen cherry blossom from his lapel. "Kid, when you've pushed a broom through eight decades of other people's messes, you learn what's worth sweating over." He flicks the petal toward Issei. "This dummy cried more at my retirement party than my actual grandchildren did."

Issei's ears turn red. "That was the sake! And—and you tricked me with that sob story about your first sweeper!" His protest lacks heat, his fingers carefully rearranging the daifuku box to hide the missing pieces.

A nurse bustles in, her rubber soles squeaking on linoleum. "Hajime-san, it's time for your—" She freezes at the sight of contraband sweets. "Again? You know what the Doctor said about your glucose levels!" Hajime turns to her "Pardon this old dog, miss Nurse, like I could live any longer, just wanted to experience what gave my life meanings" 

The nurse's stern expression flickers—just for a heartbeat—before she exhales through her nose. "Five more minutes." She glares at Issei. "And you. Stop enabling him." 

Issei grins, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry, ma'am." The moment she's out of earshot, he nudges the daifuku box closer to Hajime. The old man cackles, stuffing another piece into his mouth with shaking fingers. "Still the best treat in the world~"

"Drink some water with it old man, I don't want to see you choke on some sticky pastry" Issei mutters, filling Hajime's cup with trembling hands. The old man's fingers brush against his as he accepts it—veins like cracked porcelain beneath paper-thin skin.

Yuuma watches the exchange from the doorway, her silhouette framed by afternoon light. Something in the old man's gaze unsettles her—the way his milky eyes track her movements with unsettling clarity. "You," he rasps suddenly, pointing a crooked finger at her. "You're new here."

Issei stiffens, but Yuuma schools her expression into practiced sweetness. "Just accompanying my classmate, Hajime-san." Her gloves creak as she tightens her grip on the doorframe.

Hajime's chuckle rattles like dry leaves. "I see, so I have lived long enough to see you pathetic ass having a friend of opposite gender, it could be called achievement, you know" He smirks before Issei flusters "Oi! Oi! Old man! What are you—"

Yuuma's lips twitch—not a calculated smile, but something looser, more genuine. The old man notices. His gaze sharpens despite the cataract haze. "You've got good hands," he murmurs, nodding toward her fingers still curled around the doorframe. "Steady. My wife had hands like that—she was a watchmaker."

Issei blinks. "You never mentioned her." Hajime's shrug is all bones and parchment skin. "What's there to say? She fixed broken things. I cleaned up the mess." He taps the daifuku box with a knobby knuckle. "She'd have liked you, kid. Always had a soft spot for strays."

Yuuma's breath catches. The metaphor hangs between them. Outside, the street sweeper's engine thrums as another volunteer starts their shift. The sound makes Hajime's head tilt like a dog hearing a familiar whistle.

"Now, go, you two, I'm not the only old guy in this nursing home, go to the grandmas, they are expecting you" Hajime laughs, waving them off with a trembling hand. Issei hesitates—his fingers lingering on the old man's wheelchair armrest—before nodding.

As Issei leaves the room, she comes closer to the old man, he doesn't seem fazed by her presence "Whether you're a devil, or an angel came to take me away, I won't mind, I've lived a good life, with up, with down, nothing to regret, though I'd like somewhere where I can see her again"

Her gloves creak as she tightens her grip on the chair's armrest. "I am none, more like something in between." The confession slips out before she can stop it—raw and unpolished, stripped of all pretense.

Hajime's chuckle is a dry rustle of breath. "Figured as much." His yellowed fingernails tap the wheelchair's armrest, syncopated with the distant rumble of the sweeper outside. "You watch people the way my wife watches clockwork—like you're counting the ticks between their heartbeats."

Yuuma's pupils contract. The old man's insight scrapes against her ribs like a key turning in a long-locked drawer.

Issei's voice echoes down the hall—cheerful and slightly too loud—as he greets another resident. Hajime's gaze flicks toward the sound, softening. "That idiot's got terrible taste in friends," he murmurs. "But damn if he doesn't make you believe in second chances."

The sprinklers outside shift rhythm, casting prismatic shadows across Hajime's sunken cheeks. Yuuma finds herself memorizing the pattern—the way the light fractures across his liver spots. "Do you think I deserve...second chance, Hajime-san?" she asks, voice barely audible over the hum of the oxygen concentrator.

Hajime's laugh ends in a wheeze. "Everyone does, girl. Even me—as long as you have a change of heart," He points at his chest "And of mind" He points at his temple "No door is truly closed unless you don't open"

Yuuma's fingers twitch against the wheelchair's armrest. The old man's words settle in her chest like hot embers, burning in a way that has nothing to do with divinity or damnation. Outside, Issei's laughter mingles with the chatter of elderly women—warm, unguarded, human.

"Thank you, for saying that, Hajime-san" Yuuma gets closer to him, and presses a kiss on his forehead, cool and gentle "An old blessing from the above, the one I don't deserve anymore, but may it take you where your wife is"

The old man's breath catches—just once—before his gnarled hand rises to brush the spot where her lips had been. His fingers tremble against his wrinkled skin, tracing the ghost of warmth left behind. Outside, the sprinklers stutter momentarily, casting fractured rainbows across the linoleum floor.

Issei's voice drifts in from the hallway, punctuated by an elderly woman's cackling laughter. Yuuma straightens abruptly, her gloves smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her skirt. Hajime's gaze lingers on her face, the milky film over his eyes seeming to clear for a single, piercing moment. "You're wrong, girl," he rasps. "About the deserving."

Yuuma turns to leave, but stop at the door "I hope you're right, old man"

[Timeskip: Brought to you by Yuuma wearing her gloves]

"That was....fun. I never thought tending to old people could so...." Yuuma trailed off, watching Issei adjust Fujimoto-san's blanket with the same precision he'd used operating the street sweeper. His fingers tucked the fabric around the old man's shoulders just so—not too tight, not too loose—like he'd done it a thousand times before. The nursing home's courtyard smelled of damp earth and chrysanthemums, the late afternoon light gilding the cobblestones where puddles lingered from yesterday's rain.

Issei straightened, rolling his shoulders with a quiet groan. "Exhausting, right? They act all frail but man, Grandma Sato nearly broke my ribs hugging me after I fixed her radio." He mimed the crushing embrace, grinning when Yuuma's nose wrinkled at the thought of physical contact. The smile faltered as he noticed her staring at Fujimoto's wheelchair. "You okay?"

"I'm....fine." The lie tasted stale. Hajime-san's words coiled in her chest like smoke—second chances, change of heart—concepts too fragile for her bloodstained hands. Issei's brow furrowed, "Are you, you've been dozing off a lot after talking to Hajime-san"

Yuuma blinked, realizing she'd been staring at the old man's wheelchair tracks in the damp earth—two parallel grooves cutting through the gravel like a pair of unspoken regrets. "Just tired," she murmured. Worried, Issei turns to her, pressing his palm against her forehead "Nope, no signs of fever, maybe just fatigue, you can call it a day, I'll take your part in the orphanage"

The sudden warmth of his hand startled her—so much heat radiating from such clumsy fingers. She recoiled instinctively, then caught herself when his expression flickered with something uncomfortably close to concern. "I don't need your pity, Hyoudou."

"Wasn't pity." He pocketed his hands, rocking back on his heels. The courtyard's lone cherry tree cast dappled shadows across his face as he squinted up at the fading light. "Just figured...you looked like you were thinking too hard. Grandma Hina says that it gives people wrinkles."

Yuuma's scoff came easier this time. "And you'd know all about wrinkles, grandpa." 

[Kuoh - Orphanage]

The moment Issei and Yuuma step into the orphanage, the morning rampage continues as the young kids of age under 10 flock over to him, the are not done with his bias not calling them to ride the vehicle they call Mecha this morning. Yuuma watches from the sideline as Issei explains why he couldn't take all of them at once, they couldn't fit—with Nemu and Toru clinging to his legs like koalas—before promising another ride tomorrow. 

The kids' complaints dissolve into giggles when he hoists Nemu onto his shoulders, spinning until she squeals. Toru tugs at Issei's sleeve, demanding equal treatment, his socks mismatched and one shoelace untied. Yuuma's fingers twitch—an inexplicable urge to kneel and retie it rising in her throat like bile. 

"Yuuma-nee!" A small hand slips into hers—the boy from the sweeper, his palm sticky with jam. "Come see our tadpoles!" He drags her toward the courtyard before she can refuse, his grip surprisingly strong for such tiny fingers.

The makeshift pond—really just a repurposed bathtub—teems with squirming black dots. The children cluster around it, their reflections warped by the murky water. "That one's mine," the boy whispers, pointing to a particularly active tadpole. "I named him Jumpy."

"You know, you kids are like these tadpole," Issei smiles "squishy, runny, messy, but I believe you'll grow into something amazing, just like frogs and toads" Yuuma stares at the tadpoles swirling in the murky water—their blind, wriggling forms bumping against algae-slick walls. The boy's sticky fingers tighten around hers. "Jumpy will be the biggest frog ever!" he declares, his breath warm against her elbow.

Issei leans over the tub "Gotta feed 'em right then," he says, plucking a leaf to demonstrate. The tadpoles swarm it instantly, their tiny mouths working. One brushes against Yuuma's submerged fingertip—a fleeting, alien warmth that makes her flinch.

The boy giggles at her reaction. "They don't bite!" He splashes the water deliberately, speckling her uniform skirt. Yuuma's automatic reprimand dies in her throat when she sees his grin—gap-toothed and utterly unafraid.

"Oi, Toru!" Issei scoops the boy up before he can drench Yuuma further. "Yuuma-nee's not a pond!" His hands—still damp from the tadpole water—leave smudges on the boy's overalls as he adjusts his grip. Toru squirms, laughing as Issei pretends to drop him.

Yuuma watches their reflection warp on the pond's surface—Issei's shoulders, Toru's kicking legs, her own unnaturally still silhouette. The tadpoles dart between their distorted faces. And in the corner of Yuuma's lips, she smiles, she doesn't know why, but seeing this, being here, in this chaotic but endearing situation, makes her feel...something.

"Now you've done it, splashing water at me, prepare for a payback" Yuuma's threat rings playfully even to her own ears as she flicks a single drop from her fingertip toward Toru. The boy shrieks with exaggerated terror, burying his face in Issei's shoulder—only to peek out moments later with eyes sparkling like the tadpole pond under sunlight.

Issei's laughter booms across the courtyard. "Whoa, careful! Yuuma-nee's got a deadly aim!" He shifts Toru to one arm, using the other to dramatically shield them both. The motion sends his sleeve riding up, revealing the faint scars from his resilience training—thin white lines stark against tanned skin. Yuuma's gaze lingers a second too long before Toru wriggles free and dashes behind her skirt.

"Protect me!" His tiny fists clutch the fabric, sticky fingers leaving jam smudges on the pristine material. Yuuma freezes, her predatory instincts warring with something softer, warmer—something that smells like tadpoles and strawberry jam and foolish, fragile trust.

The moment stretches. Even the tadpoles seem to pause mid-wriggle. Then— 

"Gotcha!" Issei's hands close around Toru's waist, hoisting him skyward. The boy's delighted scream dissolves into giggles as Issei spins them both, their shadows stretching long across the gravel. Yuuma watches, transfixed by the way Toru's untied shoelace whips through the air like a tiny pendulum.

"Like I said, you lots are slippery like tadpoles" Issei grinned, lowering Toru until the boy's bare toes brushed the gravel. The child shrieked with laughter, clinging to Issei's forearm like a monkey. Yuuma watched their reflection ripple in the tadpole pond—two grinning faces superimposed over darting black shapes. Something about the image made her gloves feel suddenly too tight.

"Yuuma-nee!" Toru wriggled free and grabbed her hand again, his jam-smeared fingers pressing sticky warmth through the lace. "Now you spin me!" His eyes—too large for his thin face—gleamed with absolute certainty she'd comply.

"No, you had Issei-nii, beautiful Yuuma-nee is mine" Nemu declared, wrapping herself around Yuuma's leg with koala-like tenacity. The sudden weight nearly toppled Yuuma—not from physical strain, but the shock of contact bypassing all her calculated barriers. The girl's cheek pressed against her thigh, warm even through the fabric.

Issei snorted. "Called it. Everyone falls for Yuuma's looks first." He ruffled Toru's hair as the boy pouted. "Don't worry, buddy. You'll get taller—"

Yuuma's knee buckled as Nemu swung from her leg with reckless abandon. Her gloved hand shot out instinctively to catch the girl's shoulder, fingers brushing against sun-warmed skin. The sensation—live wire sharp—made her flinch harder than any holy water. Nemu giggled, misinterpreting the reaction. "Yuuma-nee tickles!"

[Timeskip: Brought to you by a tadpole turning into a frog]

After playing with the kids in the yard, the 2 are inside the orphanage, the missions are divided, Issei keeping the young kids in line while Yuuma is teaching the older kids with their summer homework, she was assigned to teach mathematics, while Issei is tasked with teaching History (the only subject he is confident he can teach them).

The orphanage's makeshift classroom smelled of chalk dust and the lingering sweetness of the kids' afternoon snacks. Yuuma stood before a chalkboard smeared with half-erased equations, her gloved fingers tightening around the stub of chalk. Across the room, Issei animatedly recounted the tale of the Three Kingdoms, using a broom as a makeshift spear to demonstrate Zhuge Liang's tactics.

"Yuuma-sensei?" A shy tug at her sleeve pulled her attention downward. Little Hana—no more than eight—held out her workbook, where a series of additional problems swam in chaotic pencil strokes. "I don't...understand."

The girl's ink-stained fingers trembled against the paper. Yuuma stared at them, noting how the smudges darkened the creases of Hana's knuckles—the same way blood used to pool in the folds of her own gloves after a purge.

"You're adding backwards." Yuuma surprised herself by crouching to eye level, her knee joints popping softly. She pointed to the first problem—7 + 5—and tapped the chalk against the number seven. "Start here, then count up." 

Hana's brow furrowed as she traced the numbers with a stubby pencil. "Seven... eight, nine..." Her tongue peeked out in concentration, leaving a graphite smear on her cheek. Yuuma's glove twitched—an impulse to wipe it away—before she caught herself. 

Behind them, Issei's broom-spear clattered to the floor as he dramatically reenacted Cao Cao's defeat at Red Cliffs. The older boys roared with laughter when he tripped over his own sandal strap. Toru, ever the mimic, grabbed a mop and charged Issei with a war cry. 

"Twelve!" Hana gasped, her eyes widening as the answer materialized. She clutched Yuuma's sleeve tighter. "It's twelve!" The joy in her voice was bright like the sun.

Yuuma's glove hovered over the girl's messy calculation—her own fingers remembering the weight of a blade more readily than chalk dust. Hana beamed up at her, graphite smeared across her front teeth from gnawing her pencil. The sight sent an unfamiliar pang through Yuuma's ribs—something between heartburn and nostalgia for a childhood she'd never had.

A crash echoed from Issei's corner as Toru's makeshift cavalry charge toppled a stack of history books. "Hyoudou!" The head matron's voice could flay paint from walls. Yuuma watched with detached amusement as Issei scrambled to gather the scattered volumes, his forehead already shiny with sweat despite the classroom's cool air.

"Sorry, ma'am! We got carried away—" His apology died when Nemu catapulted onto his back, brandishing a ruler like a tiny sword. The matron pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering about "unpaid overtime" as she stormed out.

Hana tugged Yuuma's sleeve again. "More?" Her workbook trembled in eager hands. Yuuma hesitated—the next page showed subtraction with borrowing, a concept far messier than simple addition. Behind her, Issei caught her eye over Nemu's shoulder, his expression oddly earnest despite the child clinging to him like a barnacle.

"Right, let us continue..." Yuuma speaks slowly, her voice measured as she guides the kids through the next problem, but since they study in different classes, their problems are different, so she only gives them the general knowledge and lets them deal with their own problems with her assistance.

"Yuuma-sensei, I don't get this..." One of the boys points at a particularly convoluted word problem about dividing candies among friends. His brow furrows—not in frustration, but genuine confusion, the kind that makes his nose scrunch up adorably.

She leans over his shoulder, the scent of cheap erasers and childlike sweat filling her nose. "Read it again," she instructs, tapping the page with her chalk. "Slowly."

The boy obeys, stumbling over the words until the problem clicks. "Oh! So if I have twelve candies and three friends—"

"Plus yourself," Yuuma corrects automatically. The boy blinks, then grins—suddenly understanding that kindness includes oneself. His pencil scratches eagerly across the paper, dividing imaginary sweets four ways instead of three.

Across the room, Issei's sandal snaps. He curses under his breath as Nemu giggles, dangling the broken strap like a captured flag. Yuuma watches him kneel to repair it with clumsy fingers—the same fingers that had trembled holding Hajime's water cup hours earlier. There's something obscenely intimate about watching him fumble with leather and buckles, his calloused thumbs brushing the arch of a child's bare foot.

"Yuuma-sensei?" The girl beside her—Sayuri, barely seven—tugs her sleeve with ink-stained fingers. "Why do you wear gloves inside?"

The classroom noise dims. Issei's head jerks up, his hands freezing mid-knot. Yuuma's breath catches—not at the question, but at the dozen small faces suddenly studying her hands with open curiosity.

Before she can answer, Toru pipes up from Issei's lap: "She's a secret princess!" His jam-smeared mouth shapes the words with absolute conviction. "Gloves mean she's magic!" Yuuma giggles with her hand covering her mouth "Yes, I do wield magic, if I take off this glove, I can shoot ice everywhere" she jokes, spreading her fingers dramatically.

The children gasp—literally gasp—their collective inhale sucking all the oxygen from the room. Even Issei pauses mid-knot, blinking at Yuuma's sudden theatricality. Sayuri's eyes widen to saucers. "Really?" she breathes.

Yuuma flexes her fingers, the black lace stretching tight. "Would you like to see?" Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. The children nod so vigorously their bangs flutter.

She peels the glove slowly—inch by tantalizing inch—until pale fingers emerge...then out of nowhere, she touches Sayuri's cheek, sending a cool sensation along the child's cheek "See? Ice magic"

Sayuri squeals, scrambling back with delighted terror. The other children erupt into chaos—some shrieking, others clamoring to be next. Toru abandons Issei's half-tied sandal to barrel into Yuuma's lap, his sticky hands pawing at her exposed fingers. "Do me next! Freeze me!"

Yuuma's bare palm hovers over his forehead, the coolness of her skin intensifying unnaturally. Toru's breath hitches as frost crystals bloom across his bangs—delicate, harmless patterns that melt instantly under his excited puff of air. The classroom dissolves into awed whispers.

Issei's sandal drops are forgotten to the floor. His throat works silently as he watches Yuuma press her bare fingertips against child after child, eliciting gasps and giggles instead of screams. He sighs "So we're not studying anymore?" he asks playfully, scratching his head.

Toru grabs Yuuma's wrist with both sticky hands, pressing her palm flat against his flushed cheek. "Cold!" he squeals, but doesn't let go—his fingers tightening around hers with startling strength. The contrast between his feverish grip and her unnatural chill sends an odd shiver down Yuuma's spine.

Sayuri pushes forward, pressing her own cheek against Yuuma's other hand with solemn reverence. "Like snow," she whispers. But with more and more children wrapping their hands over Yuuma's, the warmth seeps through—not burning, but softening the cold edges of her borrowed grace. Their tiny fingers leave jam streaks and graphite smudges across her pale skin, marking her in ways no holy script ever could.

A sharp clap startles them all. The head matron stands in the doorway, her glare bouncing between the abandoned worksheets and the children clustered around Yuuma like worshippers at an altar. "Hyoudou," she snaps, "explain why my classroom smells like a candy factory exploded in a stationary shop?"

Issei scrambles to his feet, Nemu still clinging piggyback. "Uh—advanced historical reenactment? With...tactile math supplements?" His sandal flops undone as he bows, sending Nemu into giggles. The matron's eye twitches. "Good excuses, 'big bro', now, let them go clean and have dinner"

The children groan in unison but scatter like startled sparrows when the matron claps again. Toru lingers, pressing Yuuma's chilled fingers to his cheek one last time before darting off, his untied shoelaces slapping against the floorboards. Yuuma flexes her bare hand—streaked with jam and graphite—feeling oddly exposed without the lace barrier.

"Here." Issei tosses her glove with surprising accuracy. It lands in her lap, the black fabric crumpled from the children's eager handling. "Before you freeze someone's nose off." His grin falters when she doesn't immediately put it back on.

Sayuri tugs at Yuuma's skirt. "Will you stay for dinner?" Her voice is small, hopeful. The question hangs between them like a dare. Yuuma's gaze flicks to the window—the sun already dipping below the orphanage's rusted swing set.

A warm weight settles on her shoulder—Issei's hand, calloused and steady. "C'mon," he says, softer than she's ever heard him. "They make killer curry today, you'll love it" Yuuma looks at Issei, then at the children expecting to stay 'Just this once....that should give me more time...' she thought as she nodded, pulling her glove back on with deliberate slowness. The children cheer, already dragging her toward the dining hall.

[Timeskip: Brought to you by Yuuma eating with Issei and the orphans]

When dinner is done, Yuuma excuses herself to head outside for a phone call, which has buzzed 10 times today, and she knows the one on the other side is angry. Pressing the number, she takes the phone to her ear "Well?" The voice welcomes her with a snare rather than a greeting.

"I still need more time, the Sacred Gear is sleeping deep, hard to pinpoint what it is" She answers, she knows this is more like an excuse than explanation, but it's partly true "That's not an answer, Raynare, I need something concrete, not this fleeting excuse"

The voice is impatient, almost threatening, "You have to give me an answer by the end of this week or else I'll tear your wings apart, and I'll make sure it's as slow as possible like your working speed!" Something on Yuuma's back aches hearing that, it's a painful phantom pain she thought she had moved on from.

Yuuma exhales sharply through her nose, her fingers tightening around the phone—tight enough that the plastic casing creaks. The orphanage's courtyard is quiet, save for the distant laughter of children inside. The fading sunlight casts long shadows, stretching her silhouette grotesquely across the gravel. "I don't need threats," she mutters, low and measured. "The Sacred Gear is dormant. If you want to see it so badly, come here yourself"

A scoff crackles through the receiver. "You're daring me, Raynare? Fine. Enjoy your little human games—but remember whose leash you're on." The call cuts abruptly, leaving Yuuma gripping dead air. Behind her, the orphanage's windows glow amber, framing Issei's silhouette as he herds children toward the baths. His laughter carries through the glass—warm, oblivious.

Her wings itch beneath glamoured skin. She flexes her shoulders, feeling the phantom ache on her back fading away as she turns back to see Issei "You alright, Yuuma?" he comes closer to her, worried, but she just shakes her head "Just phone call with my parents..." she answers smoothly, she doesn't need to lie, but she does it anyway.

"I see, they must be worried seeing their daughter being out all day. Then tell them I said hi, okay?" Issei's grin is painfully earnest—the kind that makes Yuuma's stomach twist. When he was inside, Yuuma said nothing, then immediately on her way 'What to do now?'

She asks herself before turning sideway to look back at the orphanage, her mind starts recalling today, about the ride, the words of that old man Hajime, the child.....her time with Issei Hyoudou...not knowing that a black cat is watching her from the rooftop