The Tuesday seminar had been a grueling slog of macroeconomic theory, dragging on until the noon bell finally released the tension in the halls. By quarter past twelve, Mike was navigating the transit corridor, that sterile, high-ceilinged stretch of concrete and glass that bridged the gap between the economics building and the main library.
He was moving with his usual purposeful stride, a man whose very presence seemed to command the air around him, when he saw her.
Haruka emerged from the direction of the international studies block. She moved with a singular, predatory grace, the gait of someone who had a destination in mind but possessed the intelligence to pivot the moment a more interesting variable entered her field of vision.
She was wearing the orange sweatshirt today. Mike noted the shift instantly.
