Neither of them spoke.
Only the soft sound of wooden pieces tapping against lacquered tiles filled the quiet air. The rain tapping at the windows kept a steady rhythm—like background music neither of them had chosen, but both accepted.
Mizuki played clean. Precise. Her moves were practiced, but not mechanical—like she had played this exact pattern before and still wanted to test its strength.
Haruaki, on the other hand, moved differently.
Unorthodox. Calculated, but... reactive. As if he was solving a puzzle rather than following a plan.
Halfway through the game, she realized—he wasn't playing to win.
He was playing to understand.
That alone made her pause.
But somewhere along the edge of midgame, his strategy shifted. The hesitation in his fingers disappeared. His king was protected. His rook advanced. A trap she'd laid was sidestepped with frustrating ease.
For a moment—a very real moment—she thought she might lose.
That's when she smiled.
Only slightly.
Only to herself.
Because the second that thought formed... she moved her bishop.
And the board began to close in.
Endgame came fast.
His counterattack staggered, just once, just enough. She capitalized on it without hesitation.
Three moves later, he was cornered.
He stared at the board. Then exhaled through his nose. Quietly.
"...That's game."
He extended a hand across the board. "Good match."
She looked at it. Not insulted. Not surprised.
Just curious.
Her eyes studied his fingers, his wrist, the space between them.
But she didn't take it.
He waited a second longer. Then pulled his hand back and gave a sheepish half-smile.
"Anyway. Good game."
And then—like that—he left.
No name.
No title.
No excuse.
Just the memory of his warm hand, suspended for a handshake that never landed.
She stared at the board a little longer.
Not to analyze it. Not this time.
Just... thinking.
Who was that?
Why had he felt familiar?
She tapped one finger lightly against her knight. The one he almost took.
Her brow furrowed, just slightly.
Back in the classroom, Haruaki leaned over his desk, arms crossed, cheek against his forearm.
He'd been close.
He really thought he had her. The bishop fork had caught him off guard. Should've moved the silver general first. He ran the sequence again in his head.
Aika slid into her seat beside him, her usual storm of energy somehow not crashing into anything.
"You okay? You look like you got betrayed by a vending machine again."
He blinked at her. "No, I just played Shogi."
"Ohhh. With who?"
"Someone better than me," he said, sitting upright. "I lost."
Aika gasped, hand to heart, like he'd been assassinated. "You lost? No way. Was it a grandpa from the board game club? Or like... a secret chess master in disguise?"
He shook his head. "Just someone out of my league."
He meant it more ways than one.
"Whoa. Are you gonna seek vengeance and become their rival forever?"
He gave her a sidelong glance. "Definitely not."
"Hmm. Suspicious. I think you do have a rival now," she said in a sing-song voice.
"Class is starting," he mumbled.
"Oh come on—"
"Page 42," their teacher called from the front.
Aika groaned, flipping open her book, and Haruaki allowed the subject to drift away like a piece on the wind.
But in the quiet moments between pages and paragraphs, his thoughts went back—
To the girl with the expressionless face, the elegant hand, and the ruthless bishop.
She hadn't said a word.
But somehow, she'd said everything.
Later, in the library
Mizuki remained seated long after he left.
The rain had eased into a faint drizzle, barely audible now. The board in front of her remained unchanged, a final scene from a story she didn't quite know how to end.
She traced her gaze across the pieces—her winning move still fresh in her mind, but oddly... unsatisfying.
This should have felt routine. It usually did.
Another game. Another win. Another curious challenger who wanted to see if the rumors were true. She always obliged, mostly out of boredom. They made careless blunders. They played into her openings. Some tried to mimic her style halfway through the match, as if that would unlock the logic behind it.
None of them were interesting.
She thought this would be the same.
When he sat down, she'd assumed it was a board game club member. Maybe someone from a neighboring class who had mistaken her silence for invitation.
She expected a smile. Some kind of comment.
A cocky move. A too-bold opening. A need to prove something.
Instead—
He had opened with a counter.
A soft, deliberate move—not flashy. Not aggressive. But aware.
He hadn't followed her tempo. He hadn't copied any patterns, even when it would have been smarter to.
Every decision felt personal.
Like he had looked at her strategy and quietly told it, no.
Mizuki tilted her head.
Who was he?
Someone like that should have said something. Even if just to ask who she was. Or gloat. Or thank her. Or stall after losing.
But he'd only offered a handshake.
And when she didn't take it, he hadn't flinched.
He simply nodded. Smiled—awkwardly, but honestly—and left without pressing the moment.
No name. No club. Not even a uniform detail that gave him away.
She couldn't decide if she found it irritating... or interesting.
She shifted slightly, just enough to rest her elbow on the table and lean her chin into her palm.
Maybe it was the rain. Or the silence. Or the way his pieces had moved like water through a puzzle.
But the match replayed in her mind again.
And again.
And again.
She recalled the exact moment she realized he had adapted to her. Not followed—adapted. Like he'd been studying her, not just the game.
And how, despite all that, he still lost. Gracefully. With no trace of frustration.
That was strange.
People who played her were often emotional—flustered, eager, stubborn. Or desperate for approval.
He'd shown... none of it.
No anger. No awe. No desire to prove himself.
She couldn't tell if that made him forgettable or unforgettable.
She sat back and folded her arms lightly, her eyes drifting to the window.
The rain had nearly stopped now. A few late students passed by under umbrellas, their shoes clicking faintly in the hallway outside.
Her fingers tapped once against the edge of the table.
"...He saw the bishop fork coming," she murmured to no one.
And still walked into it.
Not out of foolishness. But because—she was almost certain—he wanted to see how she'd punish him for it.
Was it a test?
Or a challenge?
She wasn't used to being uncertain. Especially not like this.
Then another thought drifted in.
He was the one who stared at me.
A few days ago. In the same library. She hadn't looked up right away, but she'd felt it. That silent hesitation in someone's presence—when a person sees you and doesn't know what to do with it.
Back then, she thought nothing of it.
But now...
Was he trying to understand her then, too?
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Not suspiciously.
Curiously.
She'd never paid much attention to new transfers. Not unless they directly affected the student council. And certainly not if they seemed like the type to fade into the background.
But maybe she'd missed something.
Maybe, just this once, someone had stepped into her rhythm without announcing themselves.
Moved before she could predict it.
And left before she could ask why.
She sat there for a while longer.
Not thinking. Not planning.
Just quietly rerunning the game.
And the boy who played it.