Earlier that Friday, at 4:57 a.m., Ryosuke’s alarm never gets the chance to sound.
His eyes open on their own.
The room is dark except for the blue digits beside his bed.
Around him, the boys’ dormitory remains silent.
No voices in the hallway.
No movement overhead.
No water passing through the pipes.
Exactly as he prefers it.
The clock changes to 4:58 a.m.
Two minutes early.
Ryosuke reaches over and silences the alarm before it can begin.
Then he folds back the blanket, places both feet on the floor, and stands.
His room contains only what he uses: a bed, desk, narrow bookshelf, textbooks, cooking manuals, and notebooks arranged by subject.
His uniform hangs from the side of the wardrobe.
Running clothes wait on the chair where he placed them the previous night—black athletic trousers, a gray shirt, and a lightweight jacket.
He changes without turning on the overhead light.
By 5:06 a.m., his shoes are tied and his room is locked behind him.
The hallway lights remain dimmed for the early hour.
At the far end, an emergency light casts a faint green glow across the stairwell.
The front desk is unattended.
A small sign rests beside the exit register:
EARLY EXIT — RECORD NAME AND TIME
Ryosuke picks up the pen.
Nakamura Ryosuke.
5:08 a.m.
He returns it to the exact place where he found it and steps outside.
The cold meets him immediately.
He draws in the sharp morning air.
Tokui High stands in near darkness, its windows holding faint traces of moonlight.
Beyond the school gate, streetlights follow the empty road.
A delivery truck passes through a distant intersection, and somewhere beyond the buildings, the first train of the morning begins its route.
Ryosuke walks toward the main road with both hands in his jacket pockets.
He prefers the city at this hour.
No crowded sidewalks.
No unnecessary conversations.
No one calling his name from across the street.
Nothing requires an answer from him.
At the corner, he begins to run.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The first several minutes bring the usual resistance: cold muscles, shortened breaths, and the weight of a body not yet fully awake.
Then his pace settles.
His shoulders loosen, and his stride lengthens.
Closed storefronts pass beside him.
Apartment windows remain dark.
A RAWSON convenience store glows beneath fluorescent lights while an employee stacks boxes near the entrance.
Running helps him think.
More accurately, it allows him to choose what he thinks about.
Pace, footing, distance, breath—the routine occupies enough of his attention to keep everything else contained.
Usually.
Sayuri returns to his thoughts before the second intersection.
Her lowered eyes after he corrected her.
The tremor she tried to hide.
The careful way she packed her bow without looking at him.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
Her anger would have been easier.
Anger has rules.
She argues, frowns, and repeats herself until someone yields.
When something truly hurts her, she becomes quiet.
Ryosuke recognized that pattern long before he understood why it felt familiar.
A girl beneath autumn leaves.
A woman beside a dying fire.
A warrior cleaning blood from her blade without looking at him.
Different names.
Different faces.
The same silence.
He turns onto the uphill road and increases his pace.
Perhaps he had been too blunt.
His correction was accurate—Sayuri had been shooting against herself—but accuracy does not excuse poor delivery.
“Stop trying so hard.”
He could have explained what he meant.
Effort is not the problem.
Fear is.
Her fear of falling behind.
Her certainty that one mistake will become permanent.
Her belief that coming second to him means being less.
Ryosuke understands too well.
That is why he says so little.
Footsteps approach from the road beside him.
Sayuri rounds the corner in running clothes, her hair tied back.
She notices him a few strides later.
“Ryosuke.”
“Suzuki.”
He eases his pace as she joins the uphill road.
For several steps, they run beside one another.
He looks toward her.
“About yesterday.”
Her eyes stay ahead.
“I should have explained what I meant.”
“You meant I was trying too hard.”
“I meant you were treating every missed arrow as something you had to make up for.”
“Then you could have said that.”
“I could have.”
Sayuri glances at him.
He keeps his attention on the road, giving her time to answer.
“It sounded like you thought I wasn’t good enough.”
“That isn’t what I think.”
“Sometimes it’s difficult to tell.”
He looks at her again.
“I’m sorry.”
Her pace slows slightly before she catches it.
“Next time, explain.”
“I will.”
At the next junction, Sayuri takes the level road toward the eastern shops.
“I’m going this way.”
Ryosuke nods.
“See you at school.”
She lifts one hand and continues.
He watches her until she passes the first storefront, then returns to his own route.
He could have said all of that yesterday.
It would have cost him less than a minute.
At the next crosswalk, the signal remains red despite the empty street.
He stops and waits, his breath faint in the cold.
Sayuri’s expression returns.
Then Aina’s message.
Only two words, sent at 11:42 p.m.—late enough that she should have been asleep.
He had left the message on-screen for nearly a minute before putting his phone away.
Something about it had felt wrong.
Perhaps because Aina rarely sounded so distant.
Perhaps because his own first night had begun with the same exhausted attempt to behave normally.
He had wondered then whether something had started.
The headache.
Images arriving too quickly to separate.
A hand slipping from his.
Smoke.
A palace corridor.
A battlefield.
A hospital room.
Amber eyes dimming beneath an unfamiliar sky.
Crimson hair darkened with blood.
Emerald eyes—
The signal changes.
Ryosuke crosses the street and dismisses the emerald-eyed presence lingering at the edge of his recollections.
Sometimes a voice.
Sometimes emerald eyes disappearing behind smoke.
Never a name.
One detail refuses to join the others.
On a battlefield he cannot place, an arrow had struck the earth where he stood.
A violent pull at the back of his armor dragged him clear an instant before impact.
He remembers his heel cutting through mud.
He remembers turning toward whoever had moved him.
Nothing follows.
The fragment resumes several steps later, with his sword still raised and no one behind him.
He runs harder.
By the time he turns toward school, the sky has begun to lighten.
Dark blue thins above the rooftops.
Birds move beneath the eaves, delivery shutters rise, and one apartment window after another fills with light.
Ryosuke slows near the dormitory entrance.
His breathing remains controlled, though damp strands of hair have fallen across his forehead.
Inside, he records his return and heads upstairs.
At 5:54 a.m., cold shower water strikes the back of his neck.
The run should have settled his thoughts.
It has not.
Sayuri.
Aina.
The fire.
Emerald eyes.
The missing instant.
Ryosuke closes his eyes.
The fragment finds him anyway.
Rain had churned the ground into mud.
A sword slipped inside his blood-slick hand.
Beyond the flames, a boy shouted something Ryosuke could not hear.
The shower returns.
He opens his eyes.
“Enough.” The word disappears beneath the water.
By 6:20 a.m., Ryosuke is dressed in his school uniform.
His hair remains slightly damp as he ties his necktie, packs his textbooks, and checks his phone.
No new messages.
Good.
Or not.
He cannot decide.
He slips the phone into his blazer pocket, then notices the notebook on his desk.
The black one has N.R.
written neatly in its lower corner.
He almost left it in the dojo the previous evening.
That is unusual.
Ryosuke rarely forgets anything.
Except entire lives, apparently.
He places the notebook inside his school bag and leaves for class.
✦ ✦ ✦
By third-period World History B, most of the whispering has stopped.
Their teacher distributes two translated accounts of the same failed uprising, followed by a comparison worksheet.
“Work with the person beside you,” she instructs.
“Identify where the accounts agree, where they contradict each other, and what each writer may have gained by presenting the event that way.
Evidence first.
Interpretation second.”
Desks shift as students form pairs.
Saki looks toward Ryosuke.
Neither objects.
Two source texts lie between them.
Ryosuke draws the first closer while Saki takes the second.
“I’ll mark the sequence,” Ryosuke says.
“I’ll compare the claims.”
They begin without further discussion.
For several minutes, only pencils move between them.
Ryosuke lists the events described in the first account.
Saki builds a comparison chart and marks every detail supported by both writers.
“The western gate,” Ryosuke says.
“Both accounts mention it.”
“Different explanations for why it failed.”
Saki draws a line between the conflicting passages.
“One blames the soldiers.
The other blames the commander.”
“Neither writer witnessed the initial breach.”
“So we can confirm the gate failed, but not why.”
Ryosuke writes the conclusion.
“Agreed.”
Across the classroom, another pair debates which source they are supposed to defend.
Someone near the windows has highlighted nearly an entire page.
Their teacher reminds the class that marking everything defeats the purpose of highlighting.
Ryosuke and Saki continue.
“The retreat happened before sunrise,” Saki says.
“Both accounts agree.”
“But they disagree about who ordered it.”
“Another confirmed event with an unconfirmed cause.”
Saki adds it to the chart.
“You make history sound like an investigation.”
“It is one.”
“That explains why most people find it exhausting.”
✦ ✦ ✦
Within fifteen minutes, their comparison table is complete.
Saki has divided the evidence into three precise categories:
Agreement.
Contradiction.
Unverifiable Claims.
Ryosuke reads through it once.
“You’ve done this kind of analysis before.”
“At my school in Kyoto.”
“You transferred late.”
“So everyone keeps reminding me.”
“That wasn’t a criticism.”
“I know.”
“Family circumstances?”
“Yes.”
Ryosuke waits.
Saki looks over from his worksheet.
“You ask questions directly.”
“It saves time.”
“It can also make people dislike you.”
“I know.”
Saki’s mouth lifts slightly.
“Good.
Self-awareness saves time too.”
Their teacher approaches and looks down at the completed worksheet.
“You’re finished?”
“Yes,” they answer together.
She examines the table.
“Which account is more reliable?”
“Neither in full,” Saki says.
Ryosuke indicates the points of agreement.
“The shared sequence is more reliable than either writer’s explanation of motive.”
The teacher reviews their evidence before nodding.
“Good.
Begin the reflection questions.”
She moves on to the next pair.
Saki turns the page while Ryosuke takes out his pen.
They complete the first two questions in silence.
Then Saki says, “You’re in the archery club.”
Ryosuke pauses over the third response.
“How do you know?”
“The callus on your hand.” Saki continues writing.
“And your posture.”
“What about it?”
“You hold your shoulders like someone spent years correcting them.”
Ryosuke studies him.
Saki looks up.
“Was I wrong?”
“No.”
For an instant, the classroom gives way to another place.
An emerald-eyed boy stood behind Ryosuke, correcting the angle of a sword.
“Your shoulders are too rigid.”
The image disappears before the surrounding room can take shape.
Ryosuke sets down his pen.
“You shoot too.”
A small change passes through Saki’s expression.
“How did you know?”
Ryosuke indicates Saki’s left hand.
A faint callus marks the skin near the base of his thumb.
It does not match Ryosuke’s exactly, but it belongs to someone who has spent years drawing a bow.
“You noticed mine.”
Saki examines his hand.
“Fair.”
“What kind of archery?”
“Mostly target archery.”
“Not kyudo?”
“A little.” Saki returns his pencil to the worksheet.
“A long time ago.” The answer settles differently from everything else he has said.
Saki’s mouth tilts as though he intends to make light of it.
“That sounded more mysterious than I meant it to.” The joke does not quite reach his eyes.
Ryosuke recognizes the uncertainty beneath it.
“Don’t force it.”
Saki’s pencil stops.
“Force what?”
“An answer you don’t have yet.”
“That is a very unsettling thing to say during history class.”
Ryosuke picks up his pen.
“Forget it.”
“I don’t think I will.”
The bell rings before Ryosuke responds.
Their teacher begins collecting the worksheets while conversations resume around the room.
Saki closes his textbook.
“I’m going to look at the clubs after school.”
“Good luck.”
“You could recommend one.”
“Kyudo.”
“That was fast.”
“You said you’ve done archery.”
“Who said I want to continue?”
“No,” Ryosuke says.
“But you do.”
Saki considers him for a moment.
“You decide a lot for other people.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“Frequently?”
“Mostly from one person.”
The conversation has required far less effort than Ryosuke expected.
He decides not to examine why.
✦ ✦ ✦
At 12:35 p.m., Ryosuke leaves his lunch unopened.
A carton of milk and a package of melon bread rest beside it.
He bought them after someone from Class 2-A told him that Sayuri had taken Aina to the infirmary.
Her absence from lunch confirms what last night’s message first suggested.
Something has begun.
If Aina’s experience follows his, sleeplessness will come first.
Then disorientation.
Missed steps.
Images vivid enough to intrude on daylight.
Pain belonging to wounds that do not exist.
Ryosuke has spent a year containing those fragments behind an ordinary schedule: classes, kyudo practice, morning runs, and conversations in which he pretends not to know how often the people around him have died.
Beside him, Saki unwraps a convenience-store sandwich.
“You aren’t eating?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Saki considers the untouched lunch.
“You always forget to eat when you’re worried.”
Ryosuke turns toward him.
“Always?”
The word appears to surprise Saki as much as it does him.
Saki attempts a smile.
“A confident assessment after three periods.”
“Do I know you?”
“I transferred this morning.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
The sandwich remains halfway to Saki’s mouth.
Around them, Class 2-B continues its usual lunch-hour chatter.
“No,” Saki answers after a pause.
Ryosuke looks away first.
Saki lowers the sandwich.
“Do I know you?”
“No.” The answer comes too quickly.
Neither believes it.
Ryosuke takes the milk and melon bread from his desk and stands.
His chair shifts sharply against the floor.
“I need to leave.”
“During lunch?”
“Yes.” He walks out before Saki can ask where he is going.
A black pen slips from the disturbed desk and rolls beneath the neighboring chair.
✦ ✦ ✦
Saki watches the doorway after Ryosuke disappears.
Then he notices the fallen pen.
He bends to retrieve it.
The instant his fingertips touch the metal, the classroom vanishes.
Smoke burned his lungs.
Flames climbed the closely packed wooden buildings, throwing sparks across the narrow street.
A sword struck fallen timber hard enough to jar his arm.
A dark-haired boy turned toward him, soot and blood streaking one cheek.
Somewhere beyond the smoke, a woman shouted.
Another figure disappeared beneath a collapsing eave.
The classroom returns.
Saki jerks his hand away.
The pen strikes the floor with a sharp clatter.
For several seconds, he remains on one knee beside the desk.
Chalk dust and warm lunch boxes surround him, yet smoke and ozone cling to the back of his throat.
A nearby student looks over.
“Are you all right, Shimizu-san?”
Saki retrieves the pen more carefully.
“I’m fine.
The pen staged an ambush.”
The student gives him a puzzled laugh before returning to her conversation.
Saki places the pen on his desk.
His hand is not entirely steady.
The joke has done its job.
No one continues watching him.
Saki does not touch the pen again.
✦ ✦ ✦
At 3:15 p.m., bright marching music begins playing through the classroom speakers.
Class 2-B moves into its assigned cleaning routine.
Desks shift toward the back of the room.
Saki takes a broom while Ryosuke raises chairs onto the desks and wipes the windowsills.
Saki listens to the music for several seconds.
“Does cleaning always sound as though we’re marching into battle?”
“Every day.”
“That was not a reassuring answer.”
“It keeps everyone on schedule.”
“I suspected you would defend it.”
Ryosuke returns a chair to its place and aligns its legs with the desk beside it.
“Why?”
“You adjusted that chair twice.”
“It was crooked.”
“So were the previous two.”
“Yes.”
Saki guides the broom beneath the next row.
“You and this school appear remarkably compatible.”
Ryosuke ignores the observation and lifts another chair.
“How was your first day?”
“I learned three things.
My name attracts attention, the west and east wings were designed to confuse transfer students, and cleaning music improves morale through intimidation.”
“You found the classroom.”
“Eventually.”
“You said you’re visiting clubs after school.”
“Literature first.
Somewhere with chairs no one measures.”
“Kyudo has benches.”
Saki pauses with the broom.
“Is that your best argument?”
“It also has fewer people.”
“That is considerably better.”
“Observe before deciding.”
Saki gives him a thoughtful look.
“That almost sounds as though you are deciding for me.”
“I recommended it.”
“You announced it with remarkable certainty.”
“That is different.”
“Personal growth on the first day.
Impressive.”
Ryosuke moves the final chair into line.
“Keep sweeping.”
Saki resumes with a faint smile.
By the time the music ends, the floor has been swept, the windowsills wiped, and the desks restored to orderly rows.
The students wash their hands and take their seats for closing homeroom.
Their teacher delivers several reminders, confirms the following week’s responsibilities, and dismisses the class at 3:45 p.m.
The final chime sounds.
Students collect their bags and disperse toward the dorms and after-school activities.
✦ ✦ ✦
Saki stands near the school’s main entrance with a folded activity guide in one hand.
Students stream around him carrying sports bags, instrument cases, and wide art portfolios.
He moves aside before someone with a tuba case can force the decision for him.
The guide lists dozens of options.
Baseball.
Basketball.
Track.
Literature.
Calligraphy.
Student council.
Kyudo.
His attention pauses on the final entry.
Ryosuke’s answer returns with irritating certainty.
“Kyudo.”
Too immediate.
Too confident.
Saki tries the literature club first.
Three students discuss a novel he has never read and offer him green tea.
The room is quiet and welcoming.
It also feels wrong.
He thanks them after ten minutes.
The student council room comes next: organized shelves, labeled trays, and more forms than any reasonable person should confront voluntarily.
Saki looks through the doorway and decides his civic duty can wait.
At the gymnasium, the basketball team is already deep into practice.
Shoes squeak across the polished floor while a coach shouts over the pounding of the ball.
Saki lasts less than a minute.
“An excellent club,” he murmurs as he retreats.
“From a considerable distance.”
He passes the track field and baseball grounds without stopping.
Eventually, the covered walkway leads him toward the quieter edge of school.
The air cools beneath the roof, carrying the scents of pine and damp earth as the noise of the academic buildings recedes.
Beyond the final turn, the dojo doors stand open.
Students enter, remove their outdoor shoes, and arrange them in the wooden cubbies.
Saki stops at the threshold.
Recognition arrives without comfort.
He removes his shoes and steps inside.
A club member assigned to greet visitors approaches him.
“Are you here to observe?”
“Yes.”
“You can watch from the viewing corridor.
Just remain clear of the shooting floor.”
“I understand.”
Saki follows her directions onto the raised wooden passage.
A breeze moves through the hall, carrying damp earth, dried straw, polished wood, and bow wax.
His next step falls short.
For an instant, another range replaced this one.
The timber of the practice shelter was darker, its surface scarred by years of weather.
Jagged mountains rose beyond the archery targets.
Someone laughed beside him, close enough that the voice should have been familiar.
Then Tokui High returns.
Along the shooting line, archers dressed in white kyudogi and dark hakama move through a disciplined sequence: approach, stance, raise, draw, and release.
Long hair is tied securely away from the bowstring.
Most of the girls wear fitted chest protectors secured diagonally across their uniforms.
Each archer has brought four arrows to the line.
One pair rests on the floor a few inches in front of each stance while the other remains in hand.
Twang.
An arrow crosses the open range.
Thunk.
Saki follows the next archer’s form from the placement of her feet to the settling of her bow after release.
One raises too early.
Another carries tension into her wrist.
Then he reaches the final position.
Ryosuke.
The three-fingered leather glove on Ryosuke’s right hand has darkened with use and molded itself to his thumb and first two fingers.
His ring and little fingers remain bare.
The distractions of the dojo appear to fall away when he raises his bow.
His posture settles, and the arrow leaves on a controlled exhale.
Twang.
It strikes the center.
Thunk.
Ryosuke offers no reaction.
He lowers the bow and, after completing the movement, brings forward the second arrow held against the bow in his left hand.
The club member steps beside Saki.
“You’ve done this before.”
“A little.”
“In this club, ‘a little’ usually means much more than people admit.”
Saki adopts an innocent expression.
“Then I may have answered strategically.”
Her smile widens.
“You’ll fit in.”
He returns his attention to the shooting line.
“Are all the members here?” he asks.
“Most of them.
Our vice-captain is absent today.”
“Who’s the vice-captain?”
“Suzuki Sayuri.
She is taking care of another archer after school.”
The name catches somewhere inside him.
Sayuri.
Sparks swirled around a chestnut-haired girl beneath a smoke-blackened sky.
Flames reflected in her wide amber eyes.
Blood darkened the layered fabric across her shoulder.
The fragment ends there.
Saki deepens the fold in his activity guide and keeps his voice light.
“So I chose an incomplete day for my inspection.”
“You can come back on Monday.” The club member gestures toward the two ranking boards beside the office door.
Three nameplates occupy its highest positions.
Saki reads the order without commenting.
The board tells him how they rank.
It does not explain their relationships or reveal why any of the names seem heavier than they should.
He asks no further questions.
On the shooting line, Ryosuke settles the second arrow against the string.
Before raising his bow, he glances toward the unoccupied position beside him.
The pause lasts less than a second.
Twang.
The arrow strikes beside the first.
Thunk.
Saki is no longer observing from idle curiosity.
He compares Ryosuke’s posture, timing, and release against techniques he cannot clearly remember learning.
Footsteps sound along the viewing corridor.
The club advisor approaches.
“You’re Shimizu-san, correct?”
Saki turns and bows.
“Yes.”
“Nakamura mentioned that you might visit.”
“He did?”
“Before practice started.”
Saki’s eyes narrow slightly.
Ryosuke had casually recommended the club during history class—before the fallen pen and the rush of shared memories.
He had already paved the way for Saki here, apparently expecting him to come before Saki had made the decision himself.
“We accept experienced members throughout the school year,” the club advisor continues.
“You would need to complete an evaluation first.”
“I understand.”
“Do you own a bow?”
The question brings the absent weight of its case across Saki’s shoulder.
The worn wooden grip of a bow rested against his palm.
A familiar voice spoke from somewhere behind him.
“Don’t hold your breath.”
The moment passes before a face appears.
“Yes,” Saki says.
“It’s with the rest of my belongings.
I only intended to observe today.”
“Bring it Monday.
We’ll evaluate you after classes.”
“Thank you.”
Saki remains in the viewing corridor until the round ends.
As the archers step back to make room for the next group, Ryosuke lowers his bow and turns.
Their eyes meet across the polished floor.
Ryosuke gives the smallest nod.
Saki cannot tell whether it is a greeting, an acknowledgment, or confirmation that something passed between them in the classroom.
He steps back from the corridor.
“I’ll return Monday.”
“We’ll be here,” the club member says.
At the entryway, Saki puts on his outdoor shoes and follows the covered walkway toward the main school building.
Evening light stretches across the school in long bands of gold.
He stops once and looks back.
The dojo doors remain open.
Twang.
Another arrow crosses the range.
Thunk.
Saki is not ready to draw again.
He knows only that he will return.
The ranking board follows him from the dojo: three names arranged like a problem without instructions.
Ryosuke and Sayuri belong to fragments he cannot explain.
Whatever the third name means, he refuses to examine it here.
His hand settles over the brass dormitory key inside his pocket.
A third-floor suite.
A roommate he has not met.
Instructions from his family that had left little room for refusal.
Perhaps transferring to Tokui High had never been entirely his decision.
His stomach interrupts the thought.
Saki ate little more than half his sandwich at lunch before the fallen pen destroyed his appetite.
Now hunger steers him toward the covered dining hall connection instead of the dorms.
✦ ✦ ✦
The dining hall is nearly empty at this hour.
Vending machines hum along one wall, and the last trace of broth lingers near the closed service counter.
Saki buys a rice ball and hot tea from the vending area, then chooses a corner table beside the window.
Outside, the sky pales over the athletic grounds.
He eats slowly while the day rearranges itself in his thoughts: Ryosuke’s immediate recognition, the vision inside the classroom, Sayuri’s name on the ranking board, and the bow waiting among his luggage.
By Monday, he will have to draw again.
He is less certain whether he fears remembering how—or discovering that he never forgot.
✦ ✦ ✦
Saki finishes the last bite of his rice ball and clears the table.
He drops the wrapper into the bin near the entrance, turns—and nearly collides with someone coming through the doorway.
Both stop in time.
Ryosuke stands before him with his bow case over one shoulder.
His dark hair is damp at the temples from showering after practice.
“Shimizu.”
“Nakamura.” Saki moves out of the doorway, then reconsiders the formality.
“We survived a group assignment together.
You can call me Saki.” The Kansai cadence he has softened throughout the day surfaces faintly in the invitation.
The solemnity in Ryosuke’s face eases by a fraction.
“Then call me Ryosuke.”
“Deal.”
Ryosuke glances at the discarded rice-ball wrapper.
“Was that your dinner?”
“It was food consumed during the evening.
Technically, yes.”
“You’ll be hungry again in an hour.”
“That sounds like a problem for future Saki.”
“I’m going to RAWSON.” Ryosuke adjusts the bow case against his shoulder.
“Come with me.”
The invitation carries the structure of an instruction.
Saki smiles.
“You really do decide things for other people.”
“You can stay here.”
“I didn’t say I objected.”
They leave school together.
Evening traffic fills the spaces between them, and neither reaches for conversation simply to break the quiet.
The illuminated RAWSON sign appears a short distance beyond the school gate.
Two figures round the far side of the building and enter through the sliding doors before either boy sees them clearly.
The door automatically opens and Ryosuke angles the bow case through carefully before allowing it to settle against his shoulder again.
A cheerful electronic chime welcomes them inside.
Saki selects a warm can of lemon tea.
Beside him, Ryosuke takes a black coffee before examining the steamed buns and fried snacks near the register.
“One rice ball isn’t dinner,” he says.
“It was a large rice ball.”
Ryosuke takes a steamed pork bun from the heated case and places it in Saki’s hand.
“Eat this.”
Saki looks at the warm package.
“I didn’t realize you were monitoring my meals.”
“I’m not.”
“You purchased evidence suggesting otherwise.”
“Your stomach was loud enough to interrupt practice.”
“I wasn’t standing inside the dojo.”
“Exactly.”
Saki’s smile returns.
“That is concerning.”
At the register, Saki reaches for his wallet, but Ryosuke pays for both of them before he can object.
“You can pay next time,” Ryosuke says.
“Next time?”
“You’re coming back Monday.”
Saki accepts the receipt.
“You sound remarkably certain about my future.”
“Someone has to be.”
Ryosuke collects their food and gestures toward the entrance.
“We’ll eat outside.”
The sliding doors open with a cheerful chime.
Ryosuke steps through first.
Saki follows with the warm tea and pork bun in his hands.
Two girls stand near the curb only a few paces away.
The chestnut-haired girl holds a plastic shopping bag rigidly at her side.
Pink remains high across her cheeks, and the composure in her posture looks recently—and imperfectly—reassembled.
The crimson-haired girl stands close enough that their sleeves nearly touch.
Color reaches the tips of her ears, and one hand rests against the front of her blazer as though she has only just removed it from somewhere else.
Both turn at the sound of the doors.
Ryosuke recognizes them immediately.
His attention moves from Sayuri’s lingering flush to Aina’s unsettled expression.
Whatever explanation occurs to him remains hidden, but the ease leaves his posture.
He becomes quiet and formal once more.
Beside him, Saki stops.
The chestnut-haired girl matches the face that surfaced when he heard Sayuri’s name inside the dojo.
Smoke, fire, and blood threaten to follow, but he keeps the fragment closed.
Neither girl speaks.
Under the bright RAWSON sign, the four of them face one another for the first time.