It was the last week of the semester.
Final exams loomed, classrooms buzzed with end-of-year stress, and the sky held the kind of low-hanging grey that felt heavy even before the rain fell. In that in-between space—between routine and goodbye, between storm and silence—Ren found himself walking slower through the halls. Not out of pain. But hesitation.
Ever since the rooftop incident, the school hadn't felt quite the same.
People stared more. Whispered. Not about him directly—but about her.
"The transfer girl? Yeah, the one who took down Satoru and his gang."
"She trained in martial arts or something. You can't even see her coming."
"Did you hear she body-checked Kazu into the fountain? He cried."
Some said it in awe. Some in caution. All in the tone people used when speaking of natural disasters: reverent, wary, distant.
Aika, meanwhile, seemed utterly unaffected.
She still sat alone at lunch. Still left class without saying goodbye. Still carried her worn-out bag like it weighed less than it should. She didn't seek praise, didn't flash her power. She simply existed. Like a storm that had passed, but left its pressure in the air.
Ren didn't approach her.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because he didn't know how.
After everything she'd done—after pulling him from the rooftop confrontation, after wiping the blood from his temple, after saying the words that now echoed in his head during every silent moment—he felt too much. Too much gratitude. Too much shame. Too much something he didn't have a name for yet.
But fate, as always, cared little for his uncertainty.
It was Thursday afternoon when it happened.
He was heading to the bike racks after school, trying to avoid the worst of the rain when his foot caught on a broken curb near the gym and he fell hard—scraping his knee and landing half on the gravel.
He bit back a yelp.
Great.
Of course.
Because the universe just loved irony.
He started to push himself up when he heard footsteps. Quick, light, unhesitating.
"You're bleeding."
It wasn't a question.
It was her.
Aika crouched beside him before he could argue. Her hoodie was damp from the drizzle, hair tied back loosely. Without waiting, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small pouch.
"You always carry a first aid kit." Ren smiled weakly.
"Always." She dabbed at the cut with a disinfectant pad. "You wouldn't believe how often I've had to use it. On others. On myself."
He winced. "It's not that bad—"
"Stop talking. You'll distract me."
He obeyed.
As she worked, he watched her. Not her face this time, but her hands.
Careful. Efficient. Slightly scarred around the knuckles.
She wrapped his knee with practiced ease, tearing the gauze clean with her teeth and tying it snugly.
"There," she said, sitting back on her heels.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"You're welcome."
A pause.
Then he asked, "Why… do you always do this?"
Aika looked at him. Something unreadable flickered in her expression.
"You mean helping people?"
He nodded.
She glanced away. "Because no one ever taught me not to."
That answer stayed with him for hours.
The next day, he found her sitting under the Sakura tree again—legs crossed, head tilted back, eyes watching the shifting sky.
Without thinking, he joined her.
They didn't speak for a long while.
Then she asked, "What do you want to be?"
Ren blinked. "What?"
"In the future."
He thought for a moment. "Someone who builds things that help people. Quietly."
Aika nodded. "That suits you."
"What about you?"
She pulled a twig from the grass. Twirled it. "Someone strong enough to stop bad things before they happen. Maybe a lawyer. Or a detective. I don't know. Just… someone who doesn't walk away."
Ren smiled faintly. "You already are."
She turned to him. "Don't say that."
"Why not?"
"Because if I already am… then what's the point of trying?"
He understood.
Trying meant there was still hope to become better.
Trying meant you hadn't given up.
That weekend, he drew again.
But not just her.
He drew the bandage on his leg. Her hand steadying it. The angle of her shoulders when she crouched. The look in her eyes—not fierce, not soft, but unwavering.
He drew the tree behind her. The faint curl of a smile she hadn't realized she gave.
This sketch, he tucked into the back of his notebook.
He didn't title it.
But he knew what it meant.
The invisible thread that pulled her toward danger—and him toward her.
She told him once that she wouldn't always be around. But even then, the thread had already wrapped itself around both of them—and neither of them knew it would never really let go.