Rin's initial glance upward had been one of pure, pragmatic curiosity. Why did a book fall? It was a simple question seeking a simple visual answer.
He had not expected the girl on the ladder to misinterpret his gaze, to smooth down her ankle-length skirt with that performative modesty and deliver her soft, chiding line. For a fraction of a second, his usually impassive mask slipped, replaced by an expression of profound, deadpan bewilderment. The corner of his mouth twitched.
A quiet, incredulous mutter escaped him, the words slipping out in the familiar cadence of his native tongue, a language out of place and time. "Shenme… gui…" ("What… the hell…")
The girl on the ladder—Sumireko Sanshokuin—caught the shift in his expression and the foreign mutter. Instead of taking offense, a smile blossomed on her lips, followed by a light, chiming laugh that seemed too bright for the dusty, silent library. She descended the ladder with careful grace, her long skirt whispering against the rungs, and approached him.
She brushed a bit of dust from her palms and then extended her right hand toward him, her magnified eyes regarding him with open, unguarded curiosity. "Hello. I'm Sumireko Sanshokuin, the student librarian here. And you are?"
Rin looked at the offered hand, then back at her face. He took it, his grip brief and businesslike. "Rin Kuga." The introduction was delivered with minimalist efficiency, and his hand was withdrawn almost the moment the words were spoken.
Most boys, upon encountering her self-consciously frumpy appearance, would have reacted with similar haste, their discomfort palpable. Sumireko was accustomed to it; the deliberate dowdiness was a shield, and its effectiveness was confirmed by such reactions. Her expression didn't falter.
Yet, she found herself pressing, testing the waters with this unusually composed boy. "I see," she said, her voice taking on a deliberately wistful, probing tone. "So, even you aren't interested in spending time with a girl like me, huh?" The words were a calculated feint, a script she'd run before. But this time, something deeper, an instinct she couldn't name, urged her to say them to him.
Rin regarded her for a moment, then shook his head slightly. "The duration of a handshake and the act of 'avoiding' someone are not logically connected," he stated, his tone matter-of-fact, as if correcting a minor error in data. The name 'Sumireko Sanshokuin' had clicked a piece into place in his mind—a fragment of knowledge from another world's stories. The girl who would do anything for the one she loved. Observing her now, in this guise, it was clear that particular chapter of her life hadn't begun yet.
His response—so clinical, so utterly devoid of either pity or disgust—caught Sumireko completely off guard. A genuine, surprised laugh bubbled up from her throat, and she brought a hand to her mouth to stifle it. Her eyes crinkled behind her thick lenses. "Rin-kun," she said, the informal suffix slipping out naturally, "you really are interesting."
She changed tack, her curiosity now fully engaged. "So, Rin-kun, are you ditching class?" Her logic was sound; no dedicated student would be here during lessons, and no typical truant would choose the library as their refuge.
In response, Rin simply walked past her, his attention turning to the towering shelves of books. He began scanning the spines, his fingers trailing lightly over the leather and paper. "No," he replied without looking back. "The classroom curriculum is irrelevant to my current objectives. The information here holds more potential utility."
Sumireko watched him go, then, with a surprisingly light step, she fell in beside him, her hands clasped behind her back. A small, intrigued smile played on her lips. "'Current objectives,' huh? You really are an interesting person, Rin-kun. Tee-hee~"
As they moved between the shelves, Rin's foot brushed against something on the floor. He paused, crouched down, and retrieved a hardcover book that had been lying spine-up. He brushed a layer of fine dust from its cover.
Sumireko peeked over his shoulder, her braids brushing against her blouse. She read the title aloud, her voice a mixture of recognition and slight surprise. "Dancing with Illness?"