Seven did not make much sound when he landed.
The thick carpet absorbed the impact.
The fibers sank slightly under the moment his feet touched the ground. Weight dispersed evenly. Knees bent—buffer complete.
But in that instant of descent—
the center of the air shifted.
Almost at the same time, every gaze locked onto him.
Glasses halted at lips.
Cigarettes paused between fingers.
The previously loose postures tightened, just slightly.
Those at the perimeter stepped back half a pace.
No order was given.
Just instinct—making space.
Heels brushed against the carpet, producing a faint friction of fibers.
At the center of the room, a clean open area formed.
On the central sofa—
the half-reclining figure slowly lifted his eyes.
Under the light, smoke split into thin layered sheets.
The ember glowed faintly between his fingers.
He looked at Seven.
"…Five-Seven?"
His voice was lazy.
The tone rose slightly at the end.
Not a question.
A confirmation.
Seven straightened.
Shoulders leveled.
He raised a hand and lightly brushed his sleeve.
Clean.
No dust.
Still, the motion was completed.
"Good memory, senior."
His tone was flat.
Number Thirteen of Year Six moved the cigarette away from his lips.
Ash fell.
Shattered into fine powder inside the ashtray.
"I heard you went looking for Five-Year Thirty-Three today."
He did not sit up.
His body remained sunk into the sofa.
An arm rested along the edge of the armrest.
His tone did not change.
"I heard he received your… attention."
The air still carried the scent of alcohol.
Light struck the bottles on the table, scattering cold fragments of reflection.
"Cause and effect."
Seven walked to an empty chair and sat down.
The chair legs moved across the carpet without noticeable sound.
He sat naturally.
Back against the chair.
As if he had come to discuss homework.
"My juniors—Seventy-Seven, and Ros."
His pace did not change when he spoke their names.
"They received his enthusiastic attention."
The air stilled for a moment.
Someone gently set down a glass.
A faint sound of glass touching the table.
Thirteen let out a quiet laugh.
"So you came to me?"
The cigarette had already been extinguished.
A thin thread of white smoke still rose from the ashtray.
"Procedures should be followed."
Seven leaned back in the chair.
Shoulders relaxed.
"Can it pass through?"
"Pass through."
The phrase lingered in the air for a moment.
Thirteen slowly sat upright.
The leather of the sofa creased softly.
The girls on both sides were casually moved aside by him.
The motion was not forceful.
They shifted away naturally.
"Yes."
He answered quickly.
No one around spoke.
Seven showed no reaction.
"But there's a condition."
Light fell along one side of Thirteen's face.
Shadow pressed down the other.
"What condition?"
Thirteen stared at Seven.
His gaze was no longer lazy.
Straight.
Unwavering.
"Let Ros stay with me until graduation."
His tone was light.
Each word clear.
No smile.
No rise or fall.
Not a negotiation.
A line crossed.
The air grew heavy.
No one laughed.
No one spoke.
The pressure did not come from volume—
but from the pause after the words landed.
Seven was silent for half a second.
His breathing remained even.
Then he shook his head.
A small motion.
"Unfortunately."
His tone did not change.
"Negotiation failed."
The moment the words fell—
time did not stop.
But it compressed.
Several ballpoint pens vanished from Seven's hand.
The next instant—
armrest.
backrest.
edges.
side cushions.
Multiple points were struck simultaneously.
Plastic casings embedded into the leather with dull thuds.
No one saw the motion of his hand.
Thirteen was already on his feet.
His body shifted diagonally backward.
The pen tips cut through the air—
missing by half an inch.
"Tch."
A metallic clash rang out.
At some point—
a metal rod had appeared in his hand.
Its length nearly that of his forearm.
No patterns on its surface.
Cold light reflected under the lamps.
He stepped in.
The carpet sank.
The rod swept horizontally.
Air split.
Seven raised his arm to block.
Metal struck bone.
A dull sound.
The impact traveled along his arm.
Vibration climbed from wrist upward.
The second strike followed immediately.
Steady rhythm.
Not random.
Seven stepped back half a pace.
Sole dragging against carpet.
His arm took another impact.
Muscles tightened.
He pulled a metal ruler from his side.
A faint sound as it slid free.
Metal against metal.
A brief spark flashed under the light.
Thirteen's strength was heavier than expected.
Each strike pressed solidly.
But the force that landed on Seven—
always stopped at a threshold.
Never breaking through.
As if deliberately controlled.
The rod fell a third time.
Seven blocked with the ruler.
Metal trembled.
He shifted sideways.
Distance opened for an instant.
Those at the edges had already retreated to the walls.
Backs pressed against the surface.
No one interfered.
No one called it off.
The rules were clear.
Negotiation failed.
Resolution followed.
Thirteen steadied himself again.
The metal rod spun once in his hand.
Smooth.
"You think you're stable?"
Seven did not answer.
He adjusted his breathing.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Rhythm steady.
The next strike came faster.
The rod blurred under the light.
Seven blocked again.
Vibration traveled into his palm.
Bones numbed.
The web between thumb and index finger trembled.
He could feel it.
The force was not light.
Yet always—
just short.
If the opponent truly had the ability to break through—
he would not keep stopping at suppression.
Something was off.
Very off.
Attack frequency steady.
Rhythm even.
Controlled.
Seven took several hits.
His arms numbed.
Muscles swelled with dull ache.
His side was grazed once.
Fabric shuddered.
Pain spread.
But the moment that should have broken through—
never came.
As if delayed.
As if stretched.
As if dragged.
As if tested.
The air seemed to grow heavy.
Breathing met slight resistance in his chest.
Thirteen suddenly closed in.
Distance shrank.
The rod shifted from sweeping to thrusting.
Seven turned his body.
The metal brushed past his clothing.
A faint scraping sound.
Next instant—
the rod lifted from below in an upward strike.
A tricky angle.
Seven blocked with the ruler—
but felt half a beat slow.
Not strength.
Reaction.
Neural signals felt dragged.
Command issued—
execution slightly delayed.
The air felt thicker.
Thirteen stepped back.
Watched Seven.
"You feel it?"
His tone was light.
"Slowing down."
Seven did not answer.
He glanced at his hand.
Fingertips trembled slightly.
Not fatigue.
A subtle lag.
As if a thin membrane existed between time and body.
"A mental-type ability?"
he said quietly.
Thirteen smiled.
The curve of his lips was small.
"Not in the system records."
The moment the words fell—
another strike came down.
Seven took it head-on.
The ruler held horizontally.
The impact was heavier.
Deeper vibration.
But still—
just short.
Thirteen clearly had the ability to break through.
Yet he did not.
Like playing.
Like slowly pressing.
Dragging the tempo to its slowest point.
The air seemed filled with an invisible haze.
Not dense.
But clinging.
Seven stepped back.
Heel pressing into the carpet.
His breathing remained steady.
Chest barely rising.
Light fell across his face.
Sweat formed at his temple.
The next moment—
he closed his eyes.