Maybe his quiet days of being ignored were finally over.
That thought stayed with Kruel long after the bell released them. Even as students poured out of classrooms, voices rising in relief at the end of the week, his mind replayed the table scene over and over. Ted's stare, Mike's chatter, and, most of all, Nira's silence, her sharp eyes quietly measuring him as though she were piecing together a puzzle no one else could see.
He walked slower than usual toward the art wing, his sketchbook tucked under his arm. The halls were buzzing with chaos, as if the thin grip of order had finally snapped after five long days. Two seniors crashed into lockers while their friends egged them on; someone tossed a chair into the hallway just for fun. Teachers tried halfheartedly to intervene, but most seemed too tired to care.
Kruel kept his head down and slipped through the door of the art room.
Inside, the noise quieted instantly, replaced by the scratch of pencils and the low hum of conversation. The air smelled faintly of paint thinner and chalk dust. This was his refuge. His place.
"Yo, Kruel," a voice called. It was Kie, one of the club leaders, a tall girl with paint smudged permanently into her cuticles. "Grab a spot. We're sketching free form today."
Kruel nodded, sliding into his usual corner seat. He flipped open his sketchbook, staring at the blank page. For a long moment, he just sat there, pencil hovering, waiting for something to come.
And then, without realizing it, he began to draw her.
Nira's hair first, sharp, dark lines that curled just slightly at the ends. Then her eyes, narrowed and alert, almost daring the world to look away first. His pencil moved faster, his hand sketching with an urgency he didn't understand. He shaded the scar on her wrist, the subtle angle of her jaw, the way her mouth curved when she smirked.
By the time he noticed, he had filled half the page.
"Nice work," Kie said, suddenly over his shoulder. He hadn't even heard her approach.
His heart jumped. He instinctively tried to slide his hand over the sketch, but she had already seen.
Her brows lifted slightly. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across her face her smile still in place, but her eyes cooler, distant, like she was forcing herself to look at a painting she didn't want to admire.
"Who's she?" she asked, her tone casual but edged just enough to cut.
Kruel's throat tightened. He slammed the sketchbook closed, a little too quickly. "No one."
Kie's smirk lingered, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Right. Sure."
She stood there a moment longer, then finally walked off, her ponytail swinging sharply behind her. She rejoined another group, laughing at something someone said, but her laugh came late, like her mind was still elsewhere.
Kruel sat there burning under the weight of it.
He shoved the sketchbook into his bag. Why her? Why Nira? He barely knew her, and yet she was worming her way into his thoughts, his drawings, his rhythm. It was dangerous. Distracting.
Across campus, the karate club was gathering in the gym.
Nira stood at the edge of the mats, her hair tied back, her uniform crisp. A row of students stretched in unison, but she was still, her gaze fixed ahead. When the instructor, a wiry man with sharp eyes, called for sparring practice, Nira stepped forward immediately.
Her opponent was a second-year boy, taller than her, already sweating from earlier drills. They bowed, and then the match began.
Nira moved like water over stone, fluid, precise, unyielding. The boy lunged, and she sidestepped, her foot snapping out to catch him in the ribs. He staggered but recovered, throwing a punch that grazed her shoulder. She absorbed it, twisted, and in the next breath had him flat on the mat, her knee pressing into his chest.
The room went quiet.
The instructor's lips curved slightly. "Impressive. Again."
Nira stood, offered her hand to the boy, who took it grudgingly. She wasn't gloating, but her eyes flickered with something sharp, something that made the other students step back.
Later, as practice wound down, she sat against the wall, wiping sweat from her neck. Her mind drifted...not to the fight, not even to Mike, but to Kruel.
She had seen him heading to the art wing earlier, sketchbook under his arm as usual. She knew he drew. It clung to him like the graphite on his fingers. And she wondered, briefly, what kind of things filled the pages he guarded so tightly.
By the time the clubs ended, dusk was settling outside. The halls were quieter now, emptied of the chaos from earlier. Kruel stepped out of the art room, stretching his shoulders, only to spot Mike waiting at the end of the hall.
"Bro! Finally." Mike jogged up, slightly out of breath. "Where've you been? I was dying in chess club."
"You joined chess club?" Kruel asked, surprised.
"Yeah," Mike said, grinning sheepishly. "Figured it's safer than, you know, getting my face smashed in somewhere else."
Kruel almost laughed. Almost.
He shook it off as Nira emerged from the gym doors, still tying her hair back. Her uniform had been swapped for casual clothes again, but there was a sharpness about her.
The three of them walked out of the school together. The sky was painted with streaks of orange and purple, the streets humming with the sounds of the city settling into night.
For a while, they didn't speak. The silence wasn't comfortable exactly, but it wasn't hostile either. It was something new, something forming in the cracks of everything else.
Finally, Nira broke it. "What did you draw today?"
Kruel stiffened. "What?"
"Art club," she said simply, glancing at the bag slung over his shoulder. "You had that look again."
Mike blinked. "That… is kinda creepy how you know that."
Nira ignored him, her gaze on Kruel.
"Just… stuff," Kruel muttered.
She nodded, like that was enough—for now.
Mike groaned. "Oh great. First Ted, now you two are having secret art conversations. I really am the third wheel, aren't I?"
Neither of them answered.
They kept walking.