The clock didn't announce eight.
It simply let it happen.
Itsuki noticed the shift anyway—not because of the numbers, but because the room felt settled, like it had reached a decision and wasn't asking for permission anymore.
The presence remained.
Not looming.Not pressing.
Just there.
Itsuki rested his elbows on the desk, fingers interlaced, eyes unfocused. He didn't look directly at the corner anymore.
"So," he said after a while, voice low, almost thoughtful. "Is this how it's going to be?"
No immediate answer.
He rolled his chair back slightly.
"Because if you're staying," he continued, "we should probably set some boundaries."
A faint pressure brushed the back of his mind.
"Boundaries protect things that break easily."
Itsuki scoffed. "You think I don't?"
"You endure."
Something about that landed wrong.
Itsuki stood and crossed the room, stopping just short of the corner.
"You keep saying things like you know me," he said. "But knowing someone isn't the same as being them."
"You don't look where I am. You look where you're allowed."
Itsuki clenched his jaw. "That doesn't mean you get to stand there and pretend you belong here."
A pause.
"I didn't crawl."
That was all.
Itsuki exhaled slowly and turned away.
"You said you don't lie," he said. "So let's test that."
The presence waited.
"When I wake up tomorrow," Itsuki continued, "you won't be there."
Silence stretched.
Then, gently—
"Morning isn't mine."
Itsuki's fingers tightened against the window frame. "So you do have rules."
"Rules imply permission."
"Limits, then."
"Limits imply fear."
He turned back, eyes narrowing. "You're very sure of yourself."
"Confidence isn't borrowed."
That was enough.
Itsuki dropped back into his chair.
"Fine," he said. "Stay tonight. But you don't interfere."
A pause.
"Define interfere."
"No voices in my head when I'm around other people. No suggestions. No pushing."
"And if you ask?"
Itsuki hesitated.
"If I ask," he said slowly, "that's on me."
"Agreed."
The word didn't echo. It simply existed.
Time moved strangely after that.
They didn't talk much.
Itsuki worked through homework. The presence watched.
Once, when he struggled to recall something he'd studied, the answer surfaced—clean, exact.
He froze.
"…I didn't ask."
No reply.
The smile didn't change.
By the time the clock neared eleven, fatigue pulled at him.
"I'm going to sleep," he said.
The presence didn't react.
"You said morning isn't yours," Itsuki added. "So when I wake up—"
"I won't be here."
Not a promise.
A statement.
Itsuki nodded once. He shut off the desk lamp.
As he lay down, facing the ceiling, he felt the quiet return.
"One more thing," he murmured.
A faint pressure brushed his mind.
"Why now?"
The pause was long.
Then—
"Because you stopped running from the quiet."
Itsuki closed his eyes.
Sleep took him.
No blackout.
No fracture.
Just rest.
Morning arrived normally.
Light through curtains. Utensils clinking in the kitchen. His mother moving through routine.
Itsuki opened his eyes.
The room was empty.
The corner was just a corner.
He dressed. Ate breakfast. Shouldered his bag.
Normal held.
At school, the world behaved.
But somewhere between second period and lunch, while staring at the board, a thought surfaced—quiet, certain.
"Seven waits."
Itsuki's pen paused mid-word.
He swallowed.
And this time, he didn't push it away.