The morning light streamed through the tall windows of Class 2-B in clean, even bands, casting a warm glow across the rows of desks. The blackboard displayed math formulas, and the steady, rhythmic voice of Professor Chabashira filled the room with precise explanations.
Yuta sat in his usual spot. Posture straight, eyes on the board, pen in hand.
But his real focus wasn't on the lesson.
The faint presence of two minor spirits lingered in the corridors—one near the service stairs, the other gliding along the ceiling as if carried by the wind. They posed no threat. Yuta recognized their energy pattern: unstable but passive.
'Nothing to worry about.'
But his vigilance never wavered. Never.
Beside him, Suzune Horikita's controlled breathing seemed to sync with the scratch of her pen.
Further ahead, Aika Kiriyuu propped her chin on her hand, her expression feigning boredom. But Yuta knew she was listening to everything—her gaze fixed on the board, her eyes darting from number to number, as if mentally cataloging the concepts.
He glanced away for a moment.
Utaha.
She was two rows back, by the window.
Her face calm, almost impassive. Her eyes locked on something that wasn't in front of her.
Yuta didn't need more than three seconds to realize.
She was watching him.
With a low but direct intensity. The kind of look that didn't seek explanation—just an answer.
He didn't react. He simply returned his eyes to his notebook. But he noted it.
'Why is she looking at me like that?'
It wasn't provocation. Nor ordinary curiosity.
It was something suspended… as if she wanted to ask but didn't know if she should.
'Is she trying to figure out what I am?'
Yuta's eyes skimmed the scribbled page before him, but he wasn't really reading.
'Or… trying to understand what happened.'
The memory came back sharply—the dark corridor, the spirit's scream, the blade appearing in his hand without hesitation. Utaha seeing it all. No filter. No explanation.
'She saw too much.'
And yet, she didn't run.
'She doesn't want to know if I'm dangerous…'
Yuta's grip tightened slightly on the page's edge.
'She wants to know if I'm trustworthy.'
And that's when he understood.
Her silence wasn't disinterest. It was a reflection of what she'd seen—something no one was supposed to see, but she had.
Utaha kept her eyes on Yuta for a few more seconds.
He didn't look back. Nor did he seem uncomfortable.
'He noticed.'
Of course he did. It was the kind of thing she knew wouldn't slip past someone like him. And yet, he remained calm. Measured. Untouchable.
And that's what unsettled her.
Not what he did yesterday.
'He'll find out.'
Sooner or later.
About the game.
About the new script.
About the silent character sitting under the cherry tree, bearing Megumi's traits.
Yuta would find out… that Tomoya wanted to use his own girlfriend as inspiration.
And then what would he do?
Utaha gripped her pencil harder than necessary, the graphite scraping the thin paper. The name "Tomoya" flashed through her mind, laced with a mix of pity and suspicion.
'He's too deep in to see what he's doing.'
She knew how Tomoya worked. How he turned everything into art—feelings, jealousy, frustrations. How he used creation to justify his impulses.
But Yuta…
Yuta wasn't someone driven by impulses.
He was someone who acted when needed. With precision. With certainty.
And that made everything more dangerous.
'If he thinks Tomoya is a real threat…'
Utaha glanced at the board, pretending to focus. But her mind stayed stuck on the same point.
She didn't want to protect Tomoya.
But she also didn't want to see Yuta cross a line because of him.
'And if he decides the way to handle this… is his way?'
It wasn't fear.
It was concern for everyone involved.
For what could happen to Tomoya.
For what might change in Yuta.
And for what it all said about her, now caught in the middle—between the boy who saved her… and the boy who might need saving from himself.
---
In the neighboring classroom, Class 1-C followed a similar rhythm. Megumi Katō took notes from the board with her usual precision. Her pen flowed across the notebook's lines without haste or pause. The lesson was on classical literature—a subject she handled with ease.
But her focus wasn't entirely there.
Every five or six lines, she felt it. A discomfort.
Not at the nape of her neck. Lower, on her back. The sensation of being watched. Constant. Persistent.
She turned her head lightly, as if reaching for a new pencil from her case.
Tomoya Aki was three rows back, on the opposite side.
His hand rested on his cheek, his gaze… fixed on her.
Megumi looked away instantly, returning to her notebook. But the unease lingered.
Tomoya kept his face propped on his hand, his expression calm. But inside, nothing was calm.
His eyes, locked on Megumi, seemed to take in more than they should. Every gesture. Every breath. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear before writing.
'She's perfect for this.'
The game—the story—was already half-written in his mind.
The silent girl.
The invisible weight she carried.
The quiet grace in her movements.
'It's her. It's always been her.'
From the moment he saw her sitting alone in the shade of that cherry tree in the courtyard—the image stuck. It wasn't just inspiration. It was narrative destiny. A connection he only needed to reveal.
'She just needs to hear it. She'll understand. She'll see it makes sense.'
In his head, the invitation was already taking shape. The words, the tone. The perfect moment.
He'd ask her to talk. Explain the idea, show her the sketch of the protagonist—the simple clothes, the introspective eyes, the reserved demeanor.
Megumi would listen quietly, as she always did.
And then… she'd agree.
'She'll say yes.'
It was logical. It was natural. It was inevitable.
She'd always respected his projects. Always shown interest in his ideas—even if quietly. She wasn't like Utaha, who debated every detail. Megumi was different. She absorbed. And gave herself to things in a calm, profound way.
'Working with her will be different from anything else.'
But behind the enthusiasm, there was something else.
A fear he didn't want to name.
'What if she tells Yuta?'
The possibility gnawed at him.
Yuta was… unpredictable. Always distant, always quiet—and yet, always at the center of everything.
If he found out Megumi was involved in the project… or worse, that it was based on her…
'But it doesn't matter. It's just art. I'm not doing anything wrong.'
Tomoya bit the corner of his mouth.
'It's just a story.'
Even though everything inside him said otherwise.
Because, deep down, it wasn't just that. It wasn't just narrative. It wasn't just creativity.
It was an attempt to get closer.
To reclaim something that had already slipped through his fingers.
'She'll say yes. And when she does, everything will fall back into place.'
He believed it.
Because he needed to believe it.
It was the only script where he was still the protagonist.
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