The morning after the fire felt… too calm. Like the city had decided to hide its wounds under a fresh coat of sunlight. Smoke still lingered in the air, faint but sharp, sticking to Haruya's hoodie as if it wanted to remind him of last night. He stuffed his sketchbook deeper into his bag, careful not to bend the corners.
"Man, this city's really good at pretending nothing happened," he muttered, kicking at an empty soda can on the street.
Reo walked beside him, yawning. "That's what cities do. Pretend. Hide. Until someone digs up the rot again." He shoved his hands into his pockets, eyes locked forward, but Haruya could tell his friend hadn't slept at all.
"You think Miyuki's… okay?" Haruya asked, softer this time.
Reo didn't answer immediately. His jaw tightened, and he glanced at the neon sign of a closed café before replying. "She's alive. That much I know. But alive doesn't mean safe."
The words hung heavy between them.
---
They reached the school gates, which looked out of place—too ordinary, too untouched after what they had seen. Students laughed, shared snacks, and compared test scores, as if smoke hadn't swallowed a part of the city. Haruya slouched, eyeing the gates.
"Feels weird to go in after all that."
"Then don't," Reo said flatly.
Haruya blinked at him. "Skipping school? You serious?"
Reo smirked, the faintest curve of his lips. "When am I not?"
For the first time in two days, Haruya laughed. Loud, sudden, catching the attention of a few passing students. "Man, you're hopeless. If we keep this up, one of us is definitely failing this year."
"Correction," Reo replied, deadpan, "you are failing. I'm just not graduating."
"Same thing!" Haruya snorted, shaking his head.
The two walked away from the gates, ignoring the stares, heading toward the quieter part of town.
---
They stopped at an old library. It wasn't large, not like the modern glass towers filled with digital screens, but a two-story building with cracked windows and vines creeping along the walls.
Haruya tilted his head. "This place again? Didn't know you liked books so much."
"I don't," Reo said, pushing the heavy wooden door open. "But this library has something no one else does."
Inside, the air smelled of old paper and dust, the kind that clung to your throat. Sunlight slipped through narrow windows, casting long shadows over the shelves. The place was quiet, except for the faint hum of an ancient ceiling fan.
And in the far corner, past the shelves of untouched novels, sat a girl.
Her hair was tied loosely, strands falling over her face as she flipped through a notebook. She wasn't reading a book from the shelves—she was writing, fast, as if every second mattered.
Reo walked toward her. Haruya hesitated, then followed.
The girl didn't look up when they stopped in front of her.
"You're late," she said, voice low but steady.
Haruya blinked. "Uh… do we… know you?"
Finally, she lifted her head. Her eyes were sharp, too sharp for someone sitting in a dusty library. "You're Haruya, right? The one who draws everything. And you," she glanced at Reo, "the one who never smiles unless he's planning something."
Reo's expression didn't change. "Who told you that?"
The girl smirked, tapping the edge of her notebook. "I don't need anyone to tell me. I've been watching."
Haruya shifted uncomfortably. "Okay, creepy. Why?"
"Because," she said simply, closing her notebook, "the fire last night wasn't random. And you two were there."
---
Haruya froze. His heart raced, though he tried to play it off. "We… just happened to pass by."
The girl leaned forward, her eyes glinting like a blade in the dark. "Happened to pass by? At the exact place, at the exact time? No. You were meant to see it. The city's patterns don't allow accidents like that."
Reo's gaze sharpened. "And what would you know about the city's patterns?"
For the first time, the girl looked almost amused. "More than you think. Every corner of this city is written before it happens. The streets, the gangs, even the fire. All recorded. All drawn."
Haruya's stomach dropped. His hand went to his bag instinctively, where his sketchbook rested.
"Wait…" he whispered. "What do you mean 'drawn'?"
The girl tilted her head. "You'll understand soon. But for now, just know this—Miyuki isn't the only one being watched."
---
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Finally, Haruya forced a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "Okay, cool. Thanks for the horror-movie speech. But uh, who are you again?"
The girl smiled faintly, as if she'd been waiting for the question. She opened her notebook again, and on the page was a rough sketch—three figures standing in a burning street. Two boys. One girl.
Beneath it, in small letters: Haruya. Reo. Miyuki.
"My name doesn't matter," she said, snapping the notebook shut. "But the city already wrote yours."
---
Haruya and Reo walked out of the library minutes later, the air outside colder than before. Haruya gripped his sketchbook tightly, as if someone might steal it from his bag.
"Reo," he muttered, voice shaky, "what the hell was that?"
Reo didn't answer right away. His eyes were dark, unreadable, fixed on the busy street ahead.
Finally, he spoke.
"She's right about one thing. We're being watched. Question is…" He turned to Haruya, expression unreadable. "…watched by who?"
—