Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The only light in the room came from the monitor, a pool of cyan spilling across the desk and over Mizuki's hands as they flew across the mechanical keyboard. The pastel keycaps, pink, blue, lavender, clicked and clacked in a rapid, almost musical staccato. It was a familiar rhythm, the soundtrack to countless late nights. But tonight, the rhythm felt different. Lighter. The cursor on the screen danced, layering ethereal wisps of color over Kanade's latest composition, a track so fragile it felt spun from starlight and breath.

"Seven days."

Her eyes, wide and luminous in the monitor’s glow, slid from the nebula she was crafting to a single peach-colored sticky note, stubbornly adhered to the screen’s bezel. Her own handwriting looped across it: "They know. And they're still here."

168 hours.

The memory hit as a sudden vivid warmth in the center of her chest.

Ena’s face, flushed with tears. Not soft, delicate ones, but angry, messy ones. Ten minutes of furious, loving, relentless scolding. The final, hissed command: "Let’s stay together, Mizuki." A threat wrapped in a promise. Mizuki’s lips curved in a private smile, the kind never captured by a stream or a selfie.

Her cursor paused, hovering over a layer named for Kanade. Kanade. Mizuki remembered as her moon-blue eyes deepened. After a long silence, she’d leaned closer to Mizuki. "To us, Mizuki is Mizuki, and nothing will change.” As if it were a simple fact of the universe: trust given, trust held. Mizuki had to bite the inside of her cheek hard that night, the sheer, unadorned grace of it threatening to unravel her completely.

Then, her gaze fell on the bottom layer of the project: "Mafuyu_Vocals_Track_Fin."

Mafuyu’s reaction had been… uniquely Mafuyu? Is that how she would put it? A slow blink. A tilt of the head, as if examining a new, fascinating piece of data. And then, that flat, definitive statement. "You're still Mizuki." No fanfare, no drama. At the time, it had been baffling. Now, Mizuki let out a soft, breathy chuckle that stirred the quiet air of her room. In Mafuyu’s uniquely opaque way, it had been the purest form of acceptance possible. Not before, no after. Just a continuous, unbroken is.

She pushed back from the desk, her plush gaming chair sighing in protest. Stretching her arms high, the oversized sleeves of her lavender hoodie collapsing toward her shoulders, she took a long, deliberate breath. The strawberry-vanilla scent of her room freshener filled her lungs.

The weight wasn't gone. She would never pretend it was. But its shape had changed. It was no longer a suffocating shroud she wore alone in the dark. It was a shared burden now, a heavy, awkward crate whose corners were firmly held by three other pairs of hands. The strain was distributed amongst the three, and the load finally felt bearable.

Her eyes drifted to the system tray, where the Nightcord icon glowed. She clicked it. The familiar dark interface bloomed on her screen. Four avatars in a row: K, Yuki, Enanan, Amia. All active. All present. A tiny, vibrant pulse of light next to each name, a silent, simultaneous heartbeat in the digital night.

Mizuki watched the four pulsing lights, her reflection faint in the dark glass of the monitor. For the first time in a long time, the person looking back at her didn't seem like a collection of carefully curated layers.

She exhaled, a long, slow release of air she felt like she’d been holding for years.

I can breathe.

The familiar, comforting rhythm of Kanade’s keyboard tapping came to an abrupt stop.

“Everyone…” Kanade’s voice was soft, already layered with an apology, as if the words themselves were an inconvenience. “I have an announcement. I’m afraid I won’t be… fully available for our sessions for the next few weeks.”

The response was immediate, a synchronized freeze. Mizuki’s hand, which had been deftly sketching costume adjustments on her tablet, paused mid-stroke. Ena’s furious pen-scratching, the sound of her translating emotion into sharp, aggressive lines, stopped dead.

“Huh?” Ena’s voice cut through the quiet, louder, edged with a concern that quickly sharpened into suspicion. “Kanade, what’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?” A familiar, protective urgency bled into her tone. “You haven’t overdone it again, have you?”

Mizuki felt it then. A cold, quick pinch in her chest. The old, familiar fear. Disruption. The circle breaking. The carefully maintained normalcy shattering. 

She took a quiet breath, pushing the selfish thought down. It’s not about me. It’s about her.

“N-No!” Kanade’s reply was a rushed, flustered burst of sound. “It’s not my health. It’s… it’s something else.” She paused, gathering the words. “My online school. They entered a Tokyo-wide physical school exchange program. It was… optional. I meant to click ‘decline.’ I really did. But I got distracted composing and…”

“I forgot.”

“The deadline passed.” She sounded like she’d accidentally broken a precious, shared instrument.

Before Ena could launch into a lecture about calendar reminders or self-care, another smooth voice cut in.

“I’m also participating in the program.”

Mafuyu’s statement landed in the call like a rock.

Another beat of surprise. Mizuki’s eyebrows lifted. Ena’s frustrated breath hitched, rerouting.

“Mafuyu?” Ena’s tone shifted from concern to bewildered accusation. “Why? Don’t tell me you forgot to click decline too?”

“My teachers nominated me.” Mafuyu’s reply was flat, factual. “They said it would look exemplary on my record.” A beat, then the sterile addition, the unspoken truth given voice: “A ‘good girl’ does not refuse opportunities that reflect well on her school.” The quotation marks around good girl were almost audible, a tiny, bitter frame around the hollow phrase.

Mizuki let out a soft, understanding breath. Not of relief, but of recognition. She got it. The invisible walls, the performance, the prison of expectations that had nothing to do with what you actually wanted. It was the outside world, in its most blandly bureaucratic form, reaching in and rearranging their fragile, nocturnal lives.

Ena let out a sharp, frustrated sigh that crackled through her microphone. “Mafuyu…” she began, the creak of her chair suggesting that she’d just thrown herself back into it. Her tone was scolding, but underneath it ran a current of exasperated, helpless care. “You have to speak up for yourself sometimes, you know? You can’t just let them shuttle you around forever like some… some prize exhibit. What do you want?”

A significant pause followed, and silence pooled from Mafuyu’s end of the line.

Finally, her voice returned, its flat, factual tone unchanged. “I don’t know.”

Ena sighed again, this time with a weariness that spoke of a long, fruitless battle. Her focus shifted audibly, the frustrated edge melting away into something softer, more deliberate, as she turned her attention back to Kanade.

“Well…” Ena started, her voice gentler now, almost motherly. “For you, Kanade, I’m kind of… happy? I think.” She was trying the sentiment on, testing it. “Getting out of that room for a few hours a day, seeing sunlight that isn’t filtered through a monitor… it might actually be good for you.” She was spinning it, weaving a positive narrative with sheer force of will, all for Kanade’s anxious sake.

Mizuki couldn’t help but smile to herself. Ena’s dual nature was in full, glorious effect. Tsun scolding for Mafuyu, dere encouragement for Kanade. Oh, how some things don’t ever change.

“Besides,” Ena continued, a self-deprecating laugh coloring her words, “it’s not like it’s my problem to deal with—ACK!”

A sudden, loud clatter erupted from Ena’s microphone. The unmistakable sound of a physical object, probably her phone, hitting a hard surface. It was followed by a stunned, dead-air silence.

“…No.”

“No way.”

Ena’s voice came back, but it was drained of all its previous energy. It was a whisper, thin and hollow with pure dread.

Mizuki leaned closer to her mic, her playful concern barely masking her curiosity. “Ena? You okay over there? Did your ego finally collapse under its own weight and shatter?”

Ena ignored the jab completely. The horror in her voice was palpable, cutting through the digital space. “I… I just checked my school portal. The notification… I saw it last week and thought ‘ugh, random selection, whatever’ and didn’t even open it…” She took a shaky breath, the sound of realization dawning like a slow, cold sunrise. “Mizuki. Kanade. Mafuyu. I… was also randomly selected.”

A long, theatrical groan of despair ripped through the call from Ena’s end. “A whole month!” she wailed. “Of waking up early! Of dealing with different annoying classmates! My sleep schedule!” A fresh horror dawned in her voice. “Oh my god, think of the bloody GROUP PROJECTS!”

Mizuki’s own minor worry was instantly eclipsed by a stronger, more familiar instinct: to deflect pain with lightness.

“Aww, come on, Enanan!” Mizuki chirped, her voice dialed up to maximum cheerleader brightness. “Think of it as… an extended source of inspiration!” She leaned into the mic, her tone conspiratorial. “And hey, you’ll get to play guide for Kanade! She’ll be lost without you.”

“I… would feel better if you were there, Ena,” Kanade added softly, her voice a gentle nudge of agreement.

Mafuyu’s contribution was, as always, delivered with deadpan efficiency. “Your volume in the mornings will help wake me up.”

“You…” Ena huffed, a sound caught between indignation and the beginnings of a laugh. The edge of despair in her voice had noticeably blunted, sanded down into grudging, dramatic acceptance. “Fine, fine! But you all owe me. Big time. I want five stacks of cheesecakes.”

Mizuki, ever the practical one when she chose to be, smoothly steered the conversation toward logistics. “Okay, so the Nightcord Trio is off on an adventure. When’s the big debut? Don’t tell me it’s next month and we’re stressing now for no reason.”

A brief pause. The only sound was the faint, frantic clicking of a mouse from Kanade’s end.

“It…” Kanade’s voice was small, carrying a hint of genuine, dawning panic. “Starts. Tomorrow.”

“TOMORROW?!” Ena’s shriek was pure, unadulterated shock.

Mizuki couldn’t help it—she burst out laughing. “Kanade! You really left this to the last possible second, huh? Classic!” She clapped her hands together, the sound sharp through her mic. “Okay, everyone! Log off, go to bed right now! You need to be at least somewhat conscious for your first day! No all-nighters!”

“But…” Kanade’s protest was a whisper, a last, desperate clutch at the familiar. “The composition for the new song’s bridge… I just had an idea for the strings…”

Mizuki opened her mouth, ready to launch into a playful but firm rebuttal about the importance of not being a zombie. But she stopped.

On the voice call, there was no sound from Mafuyu. No verbal protest, no sigh. But Mizuki could feel it—a sudden, focused, silent pressure emanating from Mafuyu’s channel, or perhaps between the physical space of where Kanade and Mafuyu were.

A beat passed. Then two.

The silent pressure did not relent.

Kanade, sensitive to the subtlest shifts in Mafuyu, wilted under it. “…Okay,” she murmured, thoroughly deflated and obedient. “I’ll go to bed.”

“Good night,” Mafuyu stated, her mission accomplished.

Almost simultaneously, the status icons for “K” and “Yuki” winked out, leaving only “Amia” and “Enanan” glowing in the quiet dark of the voice channel.

Ena let out a long, dramatic exhale that crackled with static. “Jeez. What a night. I haven’t packed a thing. My uniform probably needs ironing. This is a complete and utter disaster.”

Mizuki’s grin was audible in her teasing voice. “You’ll be fine, Princess. Just throw everything in a bag and hope for the best. Oh, but do be sure to set twelve alarms as you always do. Wouldn’t want you to sleep through your grand debut like a grumpy little bear.”

“A grumpy little what?” Ena shot back, her indignation sparking to life. “What did you just call me?”

Mizuki’s smile widened. “Aww… Don’t you think bears are cute? All fluffy and round, with little scowls?”

“Do NOT compare my beauty to one of those fat, hibernating furballs! I am NOT fluffy, I do NOT hibernate, and I absolutely do NOT ramble around knocking over trash cans!”

“You sureeeee?” Mizuki sing-songed. “I seem to remember a certain someone ‘rambling’ right into a display at the craft store last week because she was too busy arguing with me about glitter glue—”

“That was YOUR fault for distracting me!” Ena huffed, but there was no real heat behind it. “And it was iridescent medium, not glitter glue, you philistine!”

They volleyed like this for a few more lines—light, easy, a comfortable dance of bickering that was its own kind of intimacy.

“Fluffy is for slippers and failed pancakes,” Ena insisted, her nose practically turned up through the mic. “My aesthetic is defined, elegant. Sharp lines.”

“Oh, so more like a… spiky hedgehog?” Mizuki tapped her chin theatrically. “All prickly on the outside, secretly wants to be fed apple slices?”

A sound of pure exasperation. “A hedgehog? Do you just have a mental rolodex of ‘round, small animals’ to insult me with?”

“I’m not insulting! I’m observing!” Mizuki’s laugh was a bright, bubbling thing. “And hey, at least I didn’t say porcupine. Those are just hedgehogs who gave up on being cute.”

“I am going to give up on this conversation!” Ena shot back, but there was no bite, only the familiar, warm friction of their dynamic. “You’re impossible. Your brain is just a glitter-filled snow globe someone shook too hard.”

“And yours is a full of selfies!” Mizuki fired back without missing a beat.

“They are not!”

“Prove it.”

A pause. A faint, rustling sound from Ena’s end, as if she was actually considering showing Mizuki her recent phone gallery. Then a huff.

“This is a waste of time,” she declared, but her voice had lost its frustrated edge, softening into something more thoughtful. “I have important things to do. Like… finding my hairbrush. And helping Kanadee… and Mafuyu.” Her tone drifted, a little dreamy.

“Honestly, Kanade’s going to be like a littleeee lost silver-haired bunny in a hallway full of wolves. She’ll probably just stand there, blinking, until someone points her to a room. I’ll have to make sure she eats something that isn’t from a can. And if she tries to apologize for existing more than three times in one day, I’m putting a sticky note on her forehead that says ‘NO SORRIES.’ She’s just… so small. A little music-making marshmallow. One strong gust of social interaction and she’ll just… poof. Dissolve into a puddle of anxious sparkles.” Mizuki could feel Ena melting from across the monitor.

“See? Already thinking about others. So noble. So… mother bear.”

“I—! MIZUKI! It’s not like that! It’s basic human decency! Someone has to be responsible! She’s a… a…! It’s a civic duty!”

“Uh-huh,” Mizuki hummed, the sound dripping with amused understanding. “A civic duty that involves detailed fantasies and calling an actual human a marshmallow. You’re so obvious, it’s adorable.”

“SHUT UP! COME TO SEKAI, NOW! SO I CAN PUNCH YOU!” Ena spluttered, the warmth in her cheeks practically transmitting through the internet connection.

It was the sound of everything being okay. The world outside might be tilting, shoving them into early mornings and unfamiliar hallways, but here, in this private, digital space, they could still spin gold out of nonsense. The teasing was a thread, pulling them back to center, a reminder that no matter what tomorrow brought, they could still make each other indignant, could still make each other laugh. It was their own, weird, vital harmony.

Finally, a massive, unconcealed yawn broke through from Ena’s end, her voice growing soft and fuzzy at the edges. “Ugh, I guess you’re right. I should actually… try to sleep. You better not stay up all night tweaking designs either, Mizuki. I’ll know.”

Mizuki brought her hand up in a playful salute, even though Ena couldn’t see it. “Yes, ma’am! Sweet dreams, Enanan~!”

“G’night… dummy…” Ena mumbled, the words already slurry with impending sleep.

Her icon—the fiery, proud “Enanan”—vanished from the voice channel.

The call was empty. The software interface displayed only Mizuki’s own colorful avatar in the center of the silent, dark digital room. The playful energy of the moment evaporated, leaving behind the quiet hum of her computer and the sudden, gentle weight of being the last one awake. She smiled softly to herself, a private, fond thing, before reaching over to click the ‘Leave Call’ button. The room, and the night, were finally still.

Mizuki leaned back in her chair, the familiar leather giving a soft, accepting creak. The silence in her room was profound now, but it was a peaceful quiet, filled with the gentle afterglow of connection rather than emptiness. The frantic energy of the call had dissipated, leaving behind a warm, settled feeling.

She glanced at her monitor, at the half-finished, vibrant artwork still open on the screen—a costume design for a character who was all confidence and sparkle. Then her gaze drifted to the dark window, reflecting her own tired but smiling face back at her. A bubble of positive energy, light and effervescent, swelled in her chest.

They’re going out into the world. Kanade. Mafuyu. Even Ena, kicking and screaming. They’re stepping out of our little digital box.

The thought was followed by another, quieter one.

And I… I’ve been hiding in my room, in this good feeling, for a week.

It was true. Since the confession, since everything had shifted into this new, terrifyingly honest alignment, she’d treated her happiness like a fragile secret to be guarded indoors. She’d cocooned herself in the safety of her projects and their voice chats.

Maybe… maybe I should go out into the world too. Just for a day. A change of pace.

Her mind jumped to Rui. To his unwavering, off-kilter support. He’d asked, just last time they’d met, his voice casual but his gold eyes knowing: “So?” She’d given him a wobbly thumbs-up and a shaky, real smile.

She owed him more than that. She owed him a proper thank-you.

The decision crystallized then and there.

I’ll go to school tomorrow. I’ll find Rui. I’ll tell him properly. 

It felt like the next logical step in this new, honest chapter. A thread of continuity between her hidden world and the visible one. Smiling, she grabbed her phone and tapped out a quick DM to Ena.

<Amia:> hey so. crazy idea. i think im gonna go to school tomorrow too. gotta thank rui for his services, don’t wait up! (´• ω •`)ﾉ

She began her shutdown routine of dragging files into folders, closing endless tabs, and watching the rainbow hues of her digital workspace wink out one by one. As the monitor’s glow died, casting the room into deeper shadow, a final, trivial thought drifted across her mind, as inconsequential as a stray bit of lint.

Oh. I never asked which school they’re going to.

She padded over to her bed. 

Probably all different ones, spread across the city. That’s how these big, bureaucratic programs work, right? They shuffle kids around to different districts to maximize… cultural exchange or whatever.

She pictured Ena, gloriously lost and scowling in some unfamiliar train station in a far-flung ward, trying to decipher a map while muttering curses about early mornings. The image made her chuckle softly into her pillow.

Wouldn’t it be hilarious if they ended up at Kamiyama?

The idea was so absurd, so ridiculously coincidental, that she dismissed it instantly with a shake of her head and a private smile. The odds were astronomical. The world wasn’t that neatly, poetically scripted.

She pulled the covers up to her chin, the week’s accumulated relief and the day’s newfound purpose blending into a potent, gentle lullaby. The last conscious thought she had was a pleasant buzz of anticipation for tomorrow, for sunlight, for saying thank you.

She fell asleep faster than she had in years, a soft, unguarded smile on her lips, completely unaware that the plot of her life had just been handed the most delightful, terrifying, and perfect twist imaginable.

Mizuki woke not to the shriek of an alarm, but to a gentle, insistent warmth. A sliver of morning sunlight had found a narrow gap in her curtains, painting a bright stripe directly across her closed eyelids.

She blinked slowly, once, twice, consciousness seeping back into her limbs. The first sensation she registered was not the familiar, tight coil of anxiety in her gut, of the daily, visceral reminder of the performance ahead, the calculations, the masks. Instead, there was a… stillness. A quiet hollow in her chest where the dread usually lived.

Huh. The thought was soft, neutral. It’s morning.

She stretched, a long, luxurious, cat-like motion that made the bedsprings creak softly. Her toes pointed, her back arched, and then she collapsed back into the mattress with a contented sigh, her arms flopping to her sides.

She lay there for a long moment, staring at the familiar landscape of her ceiling. The events of the previous night drifted back into focus. They didn’t bring a wave of stress. They carried a low, steady hum of anticipation. A plan. A thread to follow.

With a final, decisive breath, she pushed the covers back. The cool morning air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps on her arms. The act of swinging her legs over the side of the bed and planting her feet on the floor felt different. It wasn’t like dragging a leaden weight up from the depths. It was simpler. It was just… beginning.

She padded into the bathroom, the cool tiles a pleasant shock against her bare feet. With a soft click, she flicked on the single vanity light. The sudden, stark illumination bloomed in the small space, banishing the shadows.

She stood before the mirror, her hands braced lightly on the edges of the cool porcelain sink. This was the moment. The daily, unspoken reckoning.

She looked.

One week ago, she thought, the memory clear in the quiet of her mind, I told them. I said the words out loud. To the people who matter most.

Her eyes traced the familiar landscape in the glass. The soft curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the particular arch of her brows she’d learned to shape with such care. For years, this morning inspection had been a forensic search. Hunting for flaws, for subtle betrayals, for the faintest signs of the truth she worked so hard to conceal or correct. Every glance was a calculation, a tightening of the mask.

Today, the scrutiny was different. The sharp, gut-punch of dissonance, the cold fear that used to twist her stomach into knots as she met her own gaze… it was muted. It wasn’t gone. She could still feel its ghost, a faint, cold echo in her veins, like the phantom ache of a long-healed fracture. But it was distant. It belonged to another room, another lifetime.

This is me.

Mizuki.

They know that. Ena knows that. Kanade, Mafuyu… they see that.

And then, something remarkable happened. A small, genuine smile touched her lips, so unbidden it startled her own reflection. It wasn’t the bright, polished grin, all sparkling charm that she used to wear. It was softer. A little sleep-rumpled. A little wondering. And for the first time in a memory that felt as long as her life, it reached all the way to her eyes, warming the amber-brown gaze that looked back at her from the mirror.

The routine began, a sequence of motions as familiar as breathing. But the intent behind them had undergone a silent, fundamental shift.

She gathered her long, pink strands in her hands. Before, styling was an act of deliberate containment, of engineering a specific, “acceptable” image. Today, her fingers moved with a lighter, more playful curiosity. She parted her hair not with precision, but with a feeling. She attempted a slightly more intricate braid than usual, weaving the sections together with careful focus. Then, on an impulse, she reached for a small dish on the counter, retrieving a few tiny, pearl-like clips she’d bought on a whim months ago and had never dared to wear. She tucked them into the weave of the braid, their subtle sheen catching the light. She stepped back, cocked her head.

It looked… cute. It looked like something she would choose. Not a character. Not a deflection.

Not a mask. Armor. My armor. Pretty and strong.

Her hand didn’t immediately fly to the heavy-coverage foundation with the old, desperate urge to blanket and obscure. She picked up a lighter formula, applying it with a careful, almost sparing touch, just to even her skin tone. The focus became enhancement, not concealment.

She took her time with the eyeliner, steadying her hand against her cheek as she drew a wing that was sharp, clean, and undeniably confident. She blended eyeshadow with a light, practiced hand, choosing a soft, shimmering lilac that complemented her hair without shouting. A gentle dusting of blush on the apples of her cheeks, a single, glossy swipe across her lips.

Each step was deliberate, almost meditative. The soft shush of brushes, the gentle tap-tap of containers, the scent of powder and cream, it was all a ritual of creation. A ritual of not hiding Mizuki but presenting her. She was curating the external to better, more beautifully, match the internal truth that now felt seen, acknowledged, and held sacred by the three most important people in her world.

She finished and leaned in close to the mirror, her breath fogging the glass for a second before clearing. She examined her work, her gaze traveling from her eyes to her lips and back again.

The person looking back was unmistakably, beautifully Mizuki. Not a perfect doll, not a flawless illusion, but a girl. A little tired, a little hopeful, wearing her chosen colors with a newfound steadiness. The relief that washed through warmed her up, spreading from her chest out to her fingertips, as if she’d finally stepped into a sunbeam after years in a shade she’d built herself.

Flushed with a quiet, private triumph, Mizuki padded back into her bedroom. The plan was solid in her mind: get dressed, grab her phone, head out. She wanted to check for any last-minute messages—maybe a pre-dawn rant from Ena about Lil-brosef, or perhaps a soft, anxious “good luck” from Kanade, something to carry with her like a lucky charm.

Her phone sat on her nightstand, exactly where she’d left it after the call last night. The screen was a flat, featureless black.

She picked it up, her thumb automatically finding the power button. She pressed it.

Nothing.

A faint frown touched her freshly glossed lips. She held the button down, counting in her head. The device remained inert, a cool, dead weight in her palm.

Dead? The thought was more an observation than a worry. Oh, right… I was so… just happy last night. I just climbed into bed. I forgot to plug it in.

She dropped to her knees, rummaging through the tangled nest of her bedsheets until her fingers closed around the familiar rubberized cord of her charger. She plugged it into the wall, then carefully connected it to her phone’s port.

She waited. The screen stayed dark. No friendly charging symbol flickered to life. The phone was completely, utterly drained. It would need a solid ten, maybe fifteen minutes of uninterrupted charging before it had enough juice to even wake up and show the pathetic red sliver of a battery icon.

She pouted, a little annoyed at her own forgetfulness. 

Oh well. It’s fine. It’s not like the world will end. I’ll check it on the train or once I get to school. Nothing’s that urgent.

She left it there on the charger, the dark screen a silent, insignificant detail in her sunlit room. The severance, in that moment, was total. The digital tether to Nightcord, to any last-minute warning, coordination, or shared panic, was completely cut. She was moving into her day guided only by her own new resolve and yesterday’s plans, blissfully, fatefully disconnected.

She dressed quickly in her Kamiyama uniform, the pleated skirt and blazer feeling like a different kind of costume today, one of simple belonging rather than complex camouflage. She adjusted the ribbon at her collar with a practiced, almost theatrical flourish. Bag slung over her shoulder, she gave the dead phone on her nightstand one last, dismissive glance, and left the sanctuary of her apartment.

The morning air outside was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of damp pavement and the distant, yeasty promise of a bakery just opening its doors. The streets were still shaking off the last traces of night. A soft, peach-gold light spilled over the rooflines, gilding the edges of telephone wires and the dew-slick leaves of potted plants on balconies. Her walk to Kamiyama High was a path worn deep into her muscle memory, but today, her perception of it was subtly altered. The filter had changed.

Change of pace, she thought, her steps light on the sidewalk. That’s what I wanted. A normal day. Well, as normal as it gets for me.

She turned onto a quieter residential street. The rhythmic shush-shush of a sprinkler watering a tiny patch of lawn. The distant, metallic clatter of a shop shutter being rolled up. The rich, earthy smell of wet soil from a small community garden plot, mingling with the faint, sweet perfume of early-blooming hydrangeas from behind a fence filled the calm air. Her good mood was a buoyant, resilient thing inside her chest. She felt physically lighter, as if the act of confession had been a leaden cloak she’d finally shrugged off.

Crossing onto the main avenue, sunlight filtered through the broad, old Zelkova trees, dappling the pavement in a shifting mosaic of light and shadow. A bakery on the corner had its doors propped open, releasing a cloud of warm, buttery scent that wrapped around her like an embrace—the yeasty promise of fresh bread and melting sugar.  The occasional glance from another commuter didn’t spear through her today. She met the world with her chin held a fraction higher, the morning sun glinting off the tiny pearl clips woven into her pink braid.

Ahead, the familiar, sloping hill leading up to Kamiyama came into view. From this angle, with the sun behind it, the school’s clock tower was silhouetted against the brightening sky, its hands still visible in the clear morning light. The red brick of the building seemed to glow from within, softened by the dawn haze. Students in identical uniforms dotted the path up the hill like a slow, scattered migration, their voices and laughter carried down on the breeze as indistinct, cheerful noise.

She wasn’t naïve. She was too seasoned to believe in a world without snide comments or cold stares. But today, the possibility felt less like a looming threat and more like a distant, minor nuisance. It felt like it might just… slide off the new, polished surface of her calm.

The atmosphere around her was gently gathering, not bustling. It was the sound of bicycle bells tinging politely, of shoe soles scuffing on concrete, of low morning conversations that held no urgency. It was the sight of sunlight catching in the steam rising from a street vendor’s cart, of cats stretching in patches of warmth on stone walls.

She had a secret strength now, a hidden layer of kevlar under her pretty armor: three people, in three different rooms across the city, knew her truth. And they hadn’t flinched. That knowledge walked with her, silent and powerful, turning a mundane commute through the calm, warm awakening of the city into a quiet victory march.

Mizuki pushed through the main gates of Kamiyama, the familiar murmur of the schoolyard washing over her. Her eyes, sharp behind their fresh eyeliner, scanned for a specific, vibrant shock of orange.

She spotted him by the bank of vending machines near the courtyard, scowling at a can of coffee as if it had personally offended him. A familiar, mischievous energy bubbled up. She bounced over, her bag swinging.

“Lil~ brosef!” she chirped, sing-song. “That frown’s gonna get stuck permanently, you know? You’ll scare all the innocent first-years. Think of the children!”

Akito didn’t jump. He just slid a slow, sidelong glance her way, his expression flat. “Tch. Akiyama. Look who’s talking. You’re annoyingly bright this morning.” He cracked the can open with a sharp hiss. “What, find a new limited-edition sparkly plushie or something?”

Mizuki gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. “You know me so well! But no,” she said, her cheer dialing back into something more genuine, more serene. “Just enjoying the beautiful, simple gift of life~!”

Her authentic good mood seemed to irritate him more than her usual teasing. He took a long sip of his coffee, mumbling into the can. “You do you.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze drifting over the gathering students. “Hey, you hear about that big exchange student thing today? Whole school’s buzzing. Supposed to be a whole herd of ‘em.”

The comment was casual, just mundane morning gossip. Mizuki’s mind, still floating on the private high of her own resolved world, didn’t even flicker. The exchange program was their thing. A distant, abstract nuisance affecting her Nightcord circle somewhere out there in the bureaucratic ether. It had no possible intersection with her here, now.

She waved a dismissive hand, already turning to head inside. “Eh, probably just a bunch of stiffs from some fancy prep schools. Nothing that’ll actually liven up this old place. See ya, grump!”

She skipped away, leaving Akito to his caffeine and his scowl, the seed of crucial information falling on utterly uninterested soil as she went to enter her classroom.

The pre-class hum filled the air: shuffling bags, murmured conversations, the squeak of chairs. As she walked in, the usual dynamic played out. A few students looked up from their phones or conversations. Most glances were merely curious, sliding off her. But from a pair in the back corner by the window, a familiar look flickered her way. It was a glance she knew intimately, one of a quick, shared assessment between them, a mix of disdain and whispered judgment before they looked away.

Before, her spine would stiffen. Her bright smile would lock into place, becoming a brittle, defensive shield. She’d make her body smaller, her steps quicker, and hurry to the safety of her desk, the heat of shame already pricking at her neck.

But now? She saw the look. She met it, held the gaze for a calm, unflinching half-second with a mild, almost bored expression, as if she’d seen something mildly uninteresting out a window. Then she smoothly looked away, her attention already moving on. She didn’t shrink. She didn’t speed up. She walked to her desk with her usual, slightly swaying gait, the pearl clips in her hair catching the fluorescent light.

Nuh uh. You don’t get to touch me today.

She spotted Toya already seated near the middle of the room, his nose in a book. A safe harbor. She made her way over, her expression brightening into something real.

“Morning, Toya-kun!”

Toya looked up, marking his page with a finger. A faint, polite smile touched his lips. “Good morning, Akiyama-san. You seem to be in particularly high spirits.”

“Just feeling the boundless possibilities of a brand-new day!” she declared, sliding into the desk next to his. “Any exciting pre-class gossip? Heard any juicy scandals?”

They chatted briefly, Toya mentioning a complex piano piece he was struggling with, Mizuki recommending a music theory video she’d seen.

A moment later, An joined them, sliding into a desk in front of Mizuki with a wide, energetic grin. “Mizuki! Your hair!” she exclaimed, her voice full of genuine appreciation. “Those clips are so cute! Subtle but shiny. New look for a new vibe?”

Mizuki reached up, twirling the end of her braid with a pleased smile. “You noticed! Gotta keep my signature style evolving, An-chan! Can’t let myself get predictable.”

For a few precious minutes, the three of them talked about a new boutique that had opened in the shopping district, about the merits of platform boots versus chunky sneakers. Mizuki laughed, offered opinions, was teased. She was just another student, chatting with friends before the bell. The sheer, mundane normalcy of it was a gift she hadn’t realized she’d been starving for. And today, for the first time, it felt earned.

The low hum of morning chatter died as Mr. Tachibana took his place at the lectern, tapping his binder against the worn wood. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound was the official starter’s pistol for the school day. The class settled into a rustling, semi-attentive silence.

Mizuki kept her gaze forward, her posture consciously relaxed. 

Just announcements. Attendance. Then we start. Normal day.

Mr. Tachibana’s eyes, magnified slightly by his practical glasses, swept the room in a practiced arc. They passed over her, then snapped back. He did a subtle, genuine double-take, his eyebrows rising a millimeter above the frame.

A slow, bemused smile spread across his face.

“Well,” he began, his voice carrying that particular brand of teacherly dryness. “Akiyama. You’re here.”

He paused, letting the statement hang. A few heads turned in her direction.

“And on time, no less.” He made a theatrical show of checking his wristwatch. “Someone mark the calendar. I believe we’ve witnessed a minor miracle.”

A ripple of low, good-natured chuckles passed through the room. The sound was familiar, a script they’d all performed before. Mizuki felt the expected eyes on her. She summoned her armor: a tight, brilliant smile that didn’t quite reach the corners of her eyes, and a playful, fluttering wave of her fingers.

“Gotta keep you on your toes, sensei!” she chirped, the pitch perfect, the tone light as spun sugar.

Inside, her thought was a single, focused line: 

Just get through the announcements. Just be normal. Get to the first bell.

Mr. Tachibana cleared his throat and opened his binder, the rustle of official paper cutting through the residual chuckles. "Now," he began, adopting his 'important announcement' tone, a shade more formal. "As some of you may have already heard, our school has been selected to participate in the Tokyo Metropolitan Cross-School Educational Enrichment Program for the next four weeks."

The words hit Mizuki’s ear with the dull thud of a lead weight.

Cross-School… Educational Enrichment…

The air in her lungs turned to ice. The sterile, bureaucratic phrasing was a perfect match, an exact, terrifying echo of the halting explanation Kanade had given over Nightcord just last night. That program. The one that was supposed to be Kanade’s problem. Mafuyu’s burden.

No.

Her mind scrambled, a frantic animal in a trap. Tokyo was massive. Dozens of schools. Hundreds of students. Coincidences happened, but not ones this precise, this cruel. The cold trickle in her stomach became a spreading pool of dread.

Mr. Tachibana droned on, his voice now a distant buzz. "...a valuable opportunity for cultural exchange... broadening academic perspectives... fostering inter-school camaraderie..."

Each hollow, administrative phrase was another turn of a screw. The cheerful morning sunlight streaming through the window felt suddenly garish, too bright. The mundane sounds of the classroom—a cough, a shifting chair—receded as the slow, heavy thump of her own heartbeat filled her ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. A primal drum counting down to an unseen impact.

Her gaze, sharp with panic, jerked to the classroom’s sliding door. It was just a door. Plain, pale wood, with a narrow panel of frosted glass. The most ordinary object in the world. Yet it now felt like the lid of a box she was trapped inside.

"We are fortunate," Mr. Tachibana announced, his voice lifting with perfunctory pride, "to be hosting three exceptional students from other esteemed institutions. I expect you all to make them feel welcome."

This was it.

The point of no return.

The pencil held loosely in Mizuki’s fingers lost all purchase. It slipped free, tumbling through the air in a slow, silent arc before striking the linoleum floor with a sharp, startling clack. The sound was obscenely loud in the sudden, expectant quiet.

She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She stared at the fallen pencil, a tiny, fallen log in the landscape of her frozen world, as Mr. Tachibana turned toward the door.

The door slid open with a soft, metallic sigh.

Kanade seemed to materialize in the doorway, hesitant as a mirage. The clothes—a pale, collared shirt under soft gray V-neck sweater-vest, dark slacks—were perfectly normal, yet they hung on her slight frame like garments on a porcelain doll, beautiful and foreign. The classroom sunlight, so mundane moments before, caught the strands of her silver hair, making her seem to glow with an otherworldly luminescence. She took one small, uncertain step inside, her gaze fixed on the floor. Then, as if remembering a script, she forced her head up, her wide, blue eyes sweeping the class in a fleeting, terrified glance before she dropped into a quick, stiff bow.

“I’m… Yoisaki Kanade,” her voice was a soft, melodic whisper that somehow carried perfectly in the hushed room. It was the same voice that composed their world’s salvation, now trembling on a single, polite phrase. “Please… take care of me.”

Kanade. Here. In clothes. In sunlight. Mizuki’s mind reeled, unable to reconcile the image. She looks like a ghost who wandered into the wrong story. My ghost. An instinct more powerful than shock surged through her: a violent, desperate urge to stand, to step between Kanade and the staring eyes, to shield her from this brutal exposure. Maybe she, too, was also a mother bear.

Before the urge could become action, Mafuyu entered. Her steps were measured, silent, and perfect. The pristine uniform of Miyamura Girls' Academy—a symphony of light gray sailor lines, a stark red neckerchief, a dark cardigan worn like ceremonial armor shone in the classroom. Every pleat was sharp, every button a polished eye. She stopped beside Kanade, her posture erect and regal. She offered the room a smile. It was a technically flawless curve of the lips, a masterpiece of polite, vacant beauty that left her violet eyes untouched, as still and deep as a frozen lake.

“I’m Asahina Mafuyu,” she announced, her voice sweet, clear, and hollow as a bell. “I look forward to learning with you all.”

Mafuyu. In full ‘honor student’ regalia. The pang Mizuki felt was one of painful, intimate understanding, cutting clean through her own shock. Of course. She didn’t come here. She brought her cage with her.

Then came Ena.

She claimed the doorway. The standard-issue Kamiyama uniform—beige cardigan, white shirt, striped ribbon—looked utterly different on her. The cardigan was worn open with a defiant ease, the ribbon tied not just correctly, but with a pronounced, artistic flair. She wore it not as a requirement, but as a choice.

“Good morning. I’m Shinonome Ena.” She introduced herself, her tone sweet like honey.

Her sharp, amber eyes swept the room, not with submission or shyness, but with a blazing, assessing intensity. She was scanning, searching, hunting.

Her eyes found Mizuki’s.

For Mizuki, the world collapsed into a silent tunnel. The murmur of the class, the figure of Mr. Tachibana, the very walls themselves dissolved into a blur of meaningless static. There was only Ena’s face, here, in her school, under her classroom’s fluorescent lights. Real. Tangible.

Ena’s searching gaze locked onto hers. For a single, breathtaking fraction of a second, her mask of confident defiance wavered, revealing a flicker of the same surreal, gut-punch shock Mizuki felt. 

Then, that flicker was utterly consumed by something else. A spark ignited in Ena’s eyes, blazing into pure, unadulterated mischief. A glorious, chaotic joy.

Ena’s lips curved. Not a full, open smile. It was a secret, shared, knowing smirk that carved a dimple in her cheek. And then, clear as daylight, meant for Mizuki and Mizuki alone, she winked.

The world crashed back in with a deafening roar of blood in Mizuki’s ears. The wink was a lightning bolt, fracturing the seismic shock that had frozen her.

And through the cracks in her disbelief, an impossible, dizzying, effervescent joy began to flood in, warm and terrifying and brilliant.

The wink was the pin pulled from the grenade.

Silence held for one more suspended second, and then the classroom erupted.

The spell of awe and curiosity shattered into a frantic, buzzing cacophony of whispered fervor. It was like a kicked beehive, the sound vibrating through the floorboards into Mizuki’s bones.

“Whoa…” a voice breathed from the row behind her, hushed with genuine awe. “They’re all so… pretty.” It was said with the simplicity of a fact, a sentiment that rippled through the room in a wave of nods and murmured agreement.

From the side, a more nervous whisper, tinged with intimidation: “A Miyamasuzaka student… in our class? Is this a prank?” 

Then, cutting through from near the window, a low, lewd whisper, unmistakably aimed at the confident figure still standing by the door: “Damn, check out the one in our uniform. She’s got an attitude. I like it.” An ugly snicker followed.

Mizuki heard it all as if through thick, muffling glass. The words reached her, but their meaning blurred into a single, overwhelming hum of presence. Her face felt intensely hot, a flush climbing from her neck to her temples. She was vaguely aware of Toya glancing at her, his expression one of quiet, analytical concern, but she couldn’t meet his eyes.

Her gaze was locked, magnetized, on the three figures standing at the front of the room. Kanade, looking like she wanted to dissolve into the floorboards. Mafuyu, a perfect statue of alien grace. Ena, who now wore a small, defiant smirk that seemed to answer every whisper in the room.

They were mirages. They were digital ghosts made flesh. They were fragments of her most secret, cherished world, violently and wonderfully crammed into the mundane reality of homeroom.

They were here.

Mr. Tachibana, looking thoroughly pleased with the dignified, if slightly unsettling, impression his new charges had made, gave a firm nod and consulted his clipboard. "Excellent. Now, let's see..." he mused, finger tracing a pre-drawn chart. "We want you to integrate smoothly, get a feel for our classroom dynamics. Best to start with a friendly face." He scanned the room, his gaze landing like a spotlight. "Akiyama!"

Mizuki jolted in her seat as if prodded with a live wire. Every ounce of her screamed don't look, don't move, don't breathe.

"You're a... distinctive presence," the teacher continued, his tone suggesting this was a diplomatic choice of words. "You can help our new students get accustomed. Yoisaki, Asahina, Shinonome—you'll be seated in the block around Akiyama's desk. Consider her your home base."

It was a teacher's perfectly logical, utterly clumsy solution. Isolate the outliers. Group the anomalies together. To the rest of the class, it was a mildly interesting seating shuffle. To Mizuki, it felt like either divine intervention or a spectacularly cruel twist of fate. Her emotions were too scrambled to decide which.

They began to walk down the aisles, a procession that silenced the whispers into rapt, watching silence.

Kanade moved first, a faint, ghostly rustle of fabric. She slipped, soundlessly, into the desk directly behind Mizuki. Mizuki didn't need to turn. She could feel her presence, a gentle, anxious warmth at her back, a soft exhalation that seemed to hold the same fragile melodies as her music.

Mafuyu followed, her steps silent and exact. She took the seat next to Kanade, aligning her notebook and pencil case on the desk with spine-straight, ceremonial precision, creating an immediate island of intimidating order.

Then came Ena.

She didn't walk so much as she claimed the territory. She arrived at the empty desk directly beside Mizuki, dropping her bag with a decisive thud that made several nearby students flinch. She slid into the chair. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned her head.

Her full, blazing attention settled on Mizuki. Not a glance. Not a look. It was a focus, intense and unyielding. Her amber eyes held a universe of feeling: the residual shock, the triumphant mischief, a challenge, a question, and a sheer, overwhelming hereness that made the scant few inches between their desks feel like the most charged space in the entire city.

The moment she was settled, a predator's stillness fell over Mizuki, Then, in one fluid, decisive motion, she closed the distance between their desks. Her chair leg scraped against the floor with a sound that made Mizuki’s shoulders tense. She leaned so far over the narrow aisle that the scent of her, hints of citrusy perfume and the sharp, clean smell of art-grade gesso, filled Mizuki’s senses. The vibrant pink of her uniform ribbon brushed against the sleeve of Mizuki’s.

Suddenly, they were in a space that was no longer public. Ena’s face was mere centimetres from her own, close enough for Mizuki to see the faint, meticulous strokes of her eyeliner, the individual flecks of amber in her blazing eyes, the soft, impatient part of her lips. The intimate proximity was so shocking, so utterly unforeseen, that a violent, hot blush exploded across Mizuki’s cheeks and raced to the tips of her ears. Her breath hitched, caught in a sudden, dizzying vacuum.

"Y—" she began, her voice a useless squeak.

"You." The word was a hiss, a low, ferocious whisper vibrating with an affected, theatrical anger. "Dummy."

And then she swung.

It connected with a sharp, crisp smack against Mizuki's upper arm. The sound was startlingly loud in the settling room. It wasn't a hit meant to injure, but it was a solid and physical punctuation mark that shattered the last, lingering shard of Mizuki's disbelief.

Mizuki flinched, her hand flying to the spot. The sting was superficial, a fleeting warmth. The real shock was the contact itself. The undeniable proof that the girl from her screen, the voice in her ear, was here, in solid form, close enough to touch and to strike.

She stared, mouth slightly agape, her mind wiped utterly blank.

Ena, seeing the stunned look, puffed her cheeks in an exaggerated, furious pout. 

"We waited for you!" she whispered, the volume creeping up in her indignation. "At the main crossroad by the station! We stood there like total idiots for fifteen minutes! I pinged you on Nightcord like a million times! 'Where are you?!' 'Did you get lost?!' 'Are you dead?!' Nothing!"

The words hit Mizuki like individual raindrops, each one beading and rolling off the shell of her understanding. 

Waited? Crossroad? A cold knot of confusion tightened in her stomach.

The timeline of her morning suddenly collided head-on with an entirely different morning, a parallel reality she'd known nothing about. A reality where three other girls had been standing together, waiting, looking for her.

Her voice, when it finally came, was hollow, stripped of all its usual melodic flair by pure, unvarnished shock.

"...Waited?"

The Shinonome household did not awaken gently.

It was ambushed by sound.

A cacophony erupted from the darkness of Ena’s room. A blaring, overlapping symphony of five different, brutally loud alarm tones. They wailed from her phone, her tablet, and two separate, aggressively analog alarm clocks, a wall of noise designed to conquer even the deepest of post-midnight creative comas.

Ena herself was a motionless, defensive lump under her thick duvet, impervious.

Her bedroom door flew open without a courtesy knock. Akito stood silhouetted in the harsh hallway light, his orange hair a chaotic mess, his face a masterpiece of pre-caffeinated suffering due to her sister.

“ENA!” His voice was a ragged shout, straining to be heard over the din. “I CAN HEAR YOUR ALARM FROM THE LIVING ROOM! WAKE THE HELL UP!”

He marched into the warzone, ignoring her immediate, furious grumble from beneath the covers. With the ruthless efficiency of a seasoned veteran (somehow), he located the edge of the duvet and yanked it off her in one swift, merciless motion.

“HEY!” Ena screeched, bolting upright, instantly and violently awake. Her hair was a wild chestnut storm around her face. “I was in the middle of a really good dream! There was cheesecake! A perfect one! I WANT IT BACK!”

“Your dream is committing auditory TERRORISM ON MY EARS.” Akito shot back, tossing the duvet unceremoniously onto the floor like a defeated flag. He pointed a rigid finger at the various shrieking devices. “What is this, a fire drill for the hearing-impaired? Turn. Them. Off.”

“Maybe I want the firefighters to come!” Ena snapped, slapping the first alarm clock into silence. “They’d be more useful than you! At least they carry axes to deal with problems!”

“The only thing that needs an axe is your sleep schedule,” Akito grumbled, flinching as another alarm continued its piercing whine. “And your taste in alarm tones. What the hell is that?”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Ena yelled, finally killing the last alarm on her phone. The sudden silence was almost as loud as the noise had been. She glared at him, her chest heaving. “And what are you even doing up? Don’t you usually sleep through earthquakes?”

“I was trying to enjoy the last five minutes of peace before my eardrums were legally classified as casualties of war,” he shot back, already turning to leave. “Just be faster tomorrow. Or I’m getting a super soaker.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me.”

The room was finally quiet, save for Ena’s own ragged breathing and the phantom echo of Akito’s complaints in the hall. She flopped back onto her pillows, the familiar glow of her phone screen illuminating the pout on her face.

She thumbed open the Nightcord app.

In the member list, two statuses glowed with serene, steady light: “K” and “Yuki” were online. A tiny, unexpected spark of solidarity ignited in Ena’s sleep-fogged chest. She wasn’t suffering through this ungodly hour alone. They were in this together.

<Enanan:> uuuuuuuuuuuu morning. you two are up too?

The response from Kanade was almost instantaneous.

<K:> Good morning. I never slept.

<Yuki:> Good morning.

Ena snorted, the sound crackling softly through her mic. Classic Kanade. Of course she hadn’t slept. The girl probably considered ‘sleep’ a vaguely remembered luxury from a past life.

Her thumbs flew across her screen.

<Enanan:> ok so were all confirmed for the same place, right?

Before Ena had finally surrendered to sleep the night before, she’d opened the official notification on her school portal with the grim determination of someone reading their own execution order. But as a precaution, she opened it again under the daylight.

And there it was. A PDF document with all the warmth of a tax form. Her name, student ID, and the dreaded assignment: Kamiyama High School Day Course. Scrolling down, her eyes had skimmed the appended roster of other ‘exchange participants’ from various feeder schools. And there they were, nestled among a list of strangers, Yoisaki, K. and Asahina, M. She imagined some overworked administrator, bleary-eyed from coffee, had probably clicked ‘Bulk Assign’ without a second thought, consigning them to the same month of early mornings and barely lit classrooms. It was the kind of dry, administrative fate that felt too boring to be tragic, but too inconvenient to be funny.

It was, in Ena’s opinion, the perfect, soul-crushing cherry on top of the whole ridiculous situation. Not only were they being exiled from their comfortable, nocturnal routines, but they weren’t even being scattered to different corners of the city to suffer in interesting, unique ways. No. They were being herded together. Packaged as a set.

For plot reasons! a dramatic, internal part of her wailed, though she’d never admit to thinking in such terms. It felt like God was an asshat hack writer and forced its characters into the same location to manufacture drama.

Then, an idea bloomed against the grey dread of the morning.

<Enanan:> hey, since we're all being shipped off to the same place… wanna meet up and go there together?

There was a brief pause, before both icons showed typing indicators.

<K:> That sounds… manageable. Yes.

<Yuki:> Agreed.

A real smile broke through Ena’s grogginess. Okay. This was a plan. A tiny bit of control. They could face the foreign hordes of Kamiyama students as a unit.

Her finger then drifted, almost on its own, to the fourth icon in the list: “Amia.” It was grey, idle. She tapped it, sending a single, cheerful ping into the void.

…

No response.

Her smile faltered a little. Probably still dead asleep, she reasoned. The girl sleeps like a rock after her marathon editing sessions.

She sent another ping. Then a third. A full minute ticked by on her clock. The icon remained stubbornly grey and silent.

“Come on, Mizuki…” Ena muttered, tapping her phone against her forehead. Then, driven by a mix of concern and rising, sleep-deprived irritation, her thumbs began to fly.

<Enanan:> Hey!
<Enanan:> You awake?
<Enanan:> We’re meeting up at the corner by the convenience store at the crossroads! You should come!
<Enanan:> Helloooooo? Earth to Mizooki?
<Enanan:> MIZUKIIII! Don’t you dare sleep through this!

Silence. Only the gentle, mocking pulse of Mizuki’s offline icon.

Ena deflated against her headboard, letting out a long, frustrated puff of air. “Fine,” she grumbled to the empty room, the worry she felt carefully wrapped in layers of performative annoyance. “Be that way, you nocturnal gremlin. Your loss.”

Ena’s getting-ready routine was faster, more pragmatic than Mizuki’s artistic curation, but no less intentional. Her makeup was her war paint—foundation blended with brisk efficiency, eyeliner drawn in sharp, confident strokes that winged out like a challenge. She changed into her own Kamiyama uniform, the one she’d secretly steamed the night before to ensure a crisp, perfect look, and headed out to the kitchen.

The Shinonome kitchen smelled of miso soup and freshly toasted nori. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching the steam rising from the rice cooker. Ena, still radiating the grumpy energy of her wake-up call, was aggressively scrolling on her phone with one hand while using chopsticks to push tamagoyaki around her plate with the other.

“Pass the soy sauce,” Akito grunted from across the table, not looking up from his own phone. He was already dressed for school, a slight frown etched on his face as he scrolled through what looked like a live music schedule.

“Get it yourself,” Ena muttered, her thumb flying across her screen. She was checking the Nightcord logs from the previous night, a tiny crease of concern between her brows.

Akito kicked her chair leg lightly. “You’re literally right next to it.”

“And you have legs. It’s character-building.” She finally glanced up, shooting him a look. “Shouldn’t you be doing morning practice scales or whatever it is you do to annoy the neighbors?”

“Says the athletically inept.” he shot back, leaning over to grab the soy sauce bottle himself.

“You brat. I’m perfectly healthy!”

Mrs. Shinonome, stirring a pot at the stove, listened to the familiar back-and-forth with a soft, almost invisible smile. She turned, wiping her hands on a towel tucked into her apron. “Enough, you two. Eat properly. Ena, you’ll be late.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ena mumbled, finally putting her phone down face-up on the table. She took a proper bite of rice, her expression still distant.

“You’ve been in a very good mood lately, Ena,” her mother observed, her voice gentle, almost casual.

Ena startled, nearly dropping her phone. “What? I’m just… normal. It’s morning. I’m never in a good mood in the morning.”

Akito snorted into his soup but wisely said nothing.

Mrs. Shinonome’s knowing smile deepened. She turned, wiping her hands on a towel. “It’s been since last week, hasn’t it? Ever since you rushed out so late to help your friend… Mizuki-chan, was it?”

Ena froze, a piece of tamagoyaki suspended halfway to her parted lips. Her mother’s perception was a terrifying, gentle superpower.

“You’ve been humming,” her mother continued, her tone warm with amusement. “Absentmindedly. While you sketch. Your father mentioned it, too, yesterday. Said it was a nice change from the usual frustrated grumbling.” She tilted her head. “And you haven’t had a single late-night rant to me about your selfie socials or… what do you call them… ‘unsophisticated commenters’ in days. The silence is almost suspicious.”

Ena looked down at her bowl, a warm, telltale pink spreading from her neck to her cheeks. She set the tamagoyaki down. “It’s not… it’s not a big deal like that,” she mumbled, the protest losing all its steam. “We just… we all finally had an important talk. That’s all.” She braced herself, waiting for the gentle, teasing ‘Oh? A talk?’

But her mother’s tone shifted, the amusement softening into something more sincere, more grounded. “I’m glad.”

Ena’s eyes flickered up.

“Whatever it was you talked about,” Mrs. Shinonome said, her gaze a warm blanket wrapping around the brunette, “you seem lighter, Ena.” She paused. “And I’m relieved Mizuki-chan is safe.”

Ena put her chopsticks down with a soft click. She stared at the golden surface of her soup, her voice dropping to a near-whisper.

“…I am too. Relieved, I mean.” She swallowed hard, the admission feeling both vulnerable and necessary. “She… trusted us with something really big. And she’s okay.” She lifted a hand, pressing her fingers lightly against the soft fabric of her uniform over her chest, where a warm, steady glow had taken up permanent residence over the past week. “It just… it makes me feel calm. And happy. For her.”

Akito, who had been pointedly focusing on his food, glanced between his sister and his mother. He didn’t say anything, but the usual sharp edge of his expression softened just a fraction before he went back to eating, leaving the two women in the quiet, sunlit understanding of the kitchen.

Ena arrived at the designated crossroad, a spot bathed in a delicate, golden morning light that seemed poured directly from the sun’s first cup.

It caught on the myriad beads of dew clinging to the neatly trimmed grass of a small, triangular traffic island, turning each one into a fleeting, brilliant prism. The air was crisp and clean, still holding the sharp, metallic hint of the night’s chill, though it promised to soften soon. A few early-spring cherry trees along the sidewalk held the last of their pale blossoms, petals drifting down in slow, silent spirals whenever a breeze whispered through. The traffic was still light, the rumble of an occasional car or the whir of a bicycle tire providing a soft, rhythmic backdrop to the morning’s quiet. The buildings here were mostly older, low-rise apartments and quiet offices, their windows reflecting the peach-colored sky.

Kanade was already there, standing under the shadow of a large street sign as if trying to borrow its solidity. She looked impossibly small and out of place in the real world, like a character from a black-and-white film spliced into a technicolor reel. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, fingers twisting slightly. Her wide, blue eyes darted to every passing car, bicycle, and pedestrian with the alert wariness of a woodland creature on a busy highway.

A few feet away, Mafuyu stood as if planted there by a meticulous landscaper. She was perfectly still, perfectly upright, a study in human stillness that contrasted sharply with Kanade’s. Yet, her presence was not inert. One of her hands rested lightly on Kanade’s upper back. As Ena watched, stunned, Mafuyu’s other hand lifted and came to rest on top of Kanade’s head. Her movements were slow, deliberate, almost clinical. She gave two soft, patting motions, the way one might reassure a skittish animal or adjust a slightly off-center object.

Ena’s jaw went slack. A wave of indignant, proprietary outrage surged through her, momentarily eclipsing her concern. Headpats?! How dare she! That was—that was Ena’s jurisdiction! Not this… this emotionless, robot-patting! Kanade was a person, not a dusty shelf! But as she stormed closer, ready to unleash a torrent of protest, she saw Kanade’s shoulders, which had been hunched nearly to her ears, drop a fraction. The frantic twisting of her fingers stilled. She leaned, just barely, into the touch.

The clinical pats, against all odds, were working. Mafuyu, in her own profoundly alien way, was providing comfort, and Kanade was accepting it. The sight was so bizarre, so heart-wrenchingly sincere in its awkwardness, that Ena’s outrage fizzled into a bewildered, grudging awe.

“Kanade! Mafuyu!” Ena called out, her voice and her energy cutting through the quiet morning. She strode over, her school bag swinging. “You made it!” Her artist’s eyes immediately landed on Kanade, taking in the details. She stopped, her own eyes widening in genuine surprise. “Kanade, your… your outfit! It’s so cute! You look…” She scrambled for a word that was encouraging but not overwhelming. “…You look really nice. Put together.”

Kanade flushed a delicate pink, looking down at her simple blouse and skirt as if seeing them for the first time. “O-Oh. Thank you, Ena,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the distant traffic. “Mafuyu helped me choose it last night. It’s… unfamiliar.”

Mafuyu nodded once, a crisp, mechanical motion. “Yes.” Then, after a deliberate pause, she added in her flat, factual tone, “I helped to style Kanade’s hair this morning.”

Ena’s confident pose froze. Her head swiveled slowly towards Mafuyu, her eyes narrowing. “You… what?”

“Her hair,” Mafuyu repeated, her violet gaze meeting Ena’s without a flicker. “It was uneven in the back. I fixed it.”

A vein seemed to twitch near Ena’s temple. “And you just… had to mention that? Like you’re taking credit for the whole look?”

Mafuyu’s head tilted a fraction, a sign of genuine processing. “You noticed her appearance. I provided additional information. Isn’t that how conversation works?”

“It works by saying ‘you look nice,’!”Ena shot back, her hands flying to her hips. “What’s next? A report on how many times you reminded her to breathe?”

“If you think it would be helpful,” Mafuyu said, her expression serene. A beat passed. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of her mouth tightened—not a smile, but something just as intentional. “Your own ribbon is crooked, Ena.”

It wasn’t malice. It was… an observation. A fact. But delivered in that placid tone, after the hair comment, it was the verbal equivalent of poking a hornet’s nest with a very calm, very straight stick.

Ena’s hands flew to her neck. “It is not! It’s styled that way!”

“It’s crooked,” Mafuyu stated, her voice perfectly even. “The left loop is 1.5 centimeters lower than the right. I can fix it for you, too, if you like.”

“I’LL CROOK YOUR—! Don’t you DARE touch it!” Ena caught herself, taking a deep, shuddering breath. She pointed a finger at Mafuyu’s chest. “You. Are baiting me. On purpose. I can see it in your creepy, empty eyes.”

Mafuyu looked down at the finger, then back up at Ena’s face. “My eyes have standard human morphology. And I am not ‘baiting’ you. I am participating in the conversation you initiated about appearances.” She paused. “Your face is getting red. Is that part of being ‘nice’?”

Kanade, who had been slowly attempting to fold herself into her oversized cardigan, finally spoke. Her voice was a soft, clear chime, slicing through the charged air. “Um.”

Both Ena and Mafuyu turned to look at her.

“Thank you,” Kanade said, her gaze dropping to the pavement between them. “Both of you. Mafuyu, thank you for the hair. It… it feels secure. It isn’t falling into my face.” She lifted her eyes to Ena, offering a tiny, fragile smile. “Ena, thank you for saying I look nice. I… I’m glad you’re both here.”

It was like a pin had been pulled. The fight drained out of Ena instantly, replaced by a wave of soft, exasperated affection. She deflated, her shoulders slumping, the aggressive point of her finger curling into a loose fist that she dropped to her side. “Yeah, well,” she mumbled, looking away and scuffing her shoe on the curb. “Of course we are. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t apologize to a lamppost or something.”

Mafuyu simply nodded again, that same deliberate, unchanging motion. “Yes. We’re here.” Then, without shifting her tone, she looked past Ena, down the length of the empty, sun-drenched sidewalk stretching towards Kamiyama. “Mizuki is not.”

Ena crossed her arms, the faux-annoyance returning as a familiar, comfortable cloak. “Probably slept through all her alarms. Or her phone finally gave up and died because she kept doomscrolling into the night.” She sighed, a long-suffering sound. “Well, she’s on her own then. We gave her every chance. She’ll just have to catch up and be amazed by our superior teamwork later.”

Kanade’s brow furrowed with faint concern. “Do you think… she’s alright?”

“She’s Mizuki,” Ena said, as if that explained everything. “She’s fine. Probably. Come on.” She turned, gesturing for them to follow as she started walking in the direction of the school. “Let’s get this over with. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can find a quiet corner to hide in.”

As the familiar, imposing gates of Kamiyama High came into view, the abstract "exchange program" solidified into a very concrete, very crowded reality. The buzz of hundreds of students filled the air, a living wall of sound and movement. Ena’s hand dipped into her pocket almost reflexively, pulling out her phone. She thumbed the screen awake.

Nothing. No new notifications. The icon for Amia remained a stubborn, silent grey.

“Where are you…” she muttered under her breath, the words laced with a concern that had finally stripped away the last of her performative irritation.

They were swept into the main current of students flowing towards the entrance. The press of bodies, the cacophony of overlapping conversations and slamming locker doors… It was a sensory tsunami. Kanade instinctively flinched, her steps faltering. Without a word, she drifted closer to Ena, her shoulder almost touching Ena’s arm, seeking an anchor in the chaos. Beside them, Mafuyu’s face underwent a subtle, terrifying transformation. The placid neutrality vanished, replaced in an instant by a perfect, polished smile that didn’t touch her eyes, a seamless, impenetrable shield clicked into place for the world to see.

They navigated the unfamiliar halls (for Kanade and Mafuyu, at least), following sparse instructions to the staff room, where a harried administrator handed them identical slips of paper. By some stroke of bureaucratic randomness—or the invisible hand of narrative fate by—all three had been assigned to the same second-year classroom. The irony was lost on them; it was just one less thing to panic about.

A teacher was summoned to escort them. The walk to the classroom door was a blur of polished linoleum and the muffled sounds of lessons already beginning. They stopped before a closed door, the number plate gleaming under the hallway lights.

In the final, suspended seconds before crossing the threshold, they shared a look. Not through pixelated avatars on a dark screen, but a real, physical glance between three flesh-and-blood people who held a profound, digital secret in their shared hearts.

Kanade’s blue eyes were wide, shimmering with barely-contained anxiety. She looked to Ena as a silent plea for reassurance.

Ena met her gaze and gave a single, firm, almost imperceptible nod. Her expression said everything: We’re together. I’ve got you.

Mafuyu’s perfect smile remained fixed, but her dark eyes shifted between them. Her expression didn’t change, yet she conveyed a clear, silent command with the slightest incline of her head. Proceed.

The teacher slid the classroom door open with a sharp rattle.

The trio stepped through, crossing from the quiet hallway into the buzzing ecosystem of the classroom. Dozens of curious, assessing faces turned towards them. But their own eyes, moving in unison, were already scanning the room with a singular, desperate purpose—searching for the one familiar point in the sea of strangers, the splash of vibrant pink hair, the person who was, in so many unspoken ways, the reason they felt brave enough to be standing here in the sunlight at all.

The vivid, sun-drenched memory of Ena’s morning superimposed itself over the reality of the classroom.

They waited, Mizuki’s mind reeled, the pieces locking together with dizzying clarity. They looked for me. They walked here together… for me?

A dry, breathless laugh escaped her lips. It wasn’t directed at Ena’s pout. It was a release valve for the sheer, overwhelming tension of the last two minutes, a helpless salute to the universe’s absurd, unexpectedly glorious sense of humor.

Her voice, when she found it, was a hoarse whisper, finally answering the unspoken accusation that had been hanging between them since the door slid open. “My phone… died. I forgot to charge it last night. I had no idea…” She trailed off, the explanation feeling pitifully small against the magnitude of their presence.

She turned her head fully to look at Ena, and the reality of it struck her like a second wave. Ena was here. Not a pixelated avatar, not a voice in her headphones. She was sitting in a standard-issue Kamiyama desk, the morning sun from the window glinting off the subtle, expertly blended shimmer in her eyeshadow, highlighting the faint, frustrated flush still high on her cheeks.

She was solid.

Real.

Worried. 

Here.

Mizuki felt a laugh bubble up in her chest again, this one tinged with giddy, disbelieving hysteria. She swallowed it down, turning back to face the front of the class, but the smile refused to leave her lips. It was a real smile, wide and unguarded, the kind that made her cheeks ache. The teacher’s voice droned on, calling names, but the sound was muffled, distant. All she could hear was the silent, screaming chorus in her head: They’re here. They’re really here!

Ena’s theatrical pout eased, the stern lines of her face softening into a more familiar, affectionate grumble. “Of course it did,” she muttered, shaking her head as if Mizuki’s forgetfulness was a foregone conclusion. “You’re completely hopeless.” But there was no real heat in the words. It was pure, undiluted relief, meticulously translated into the only language that Ena allowed herself to speak in public: fond exasperation.

Mizuki’s thoughts became a silent, rapid-fire film reel, projected over the grey classroom walls.

Lunch. They would all eat on the roof. The spring sun would be warm. She would share her fancy imported potato chips, the ones with truffle salt. Ena would complain theatrically about the school’s dry melon bread while secretly enjoying it. Kanade would have one of Honami’s meticulously crafted rice balls that she brought from home and nibble at it with the concentration of a small animal. Mafuyu would… Mafuyu would presumably consume something nutritionally optimized and characteristically bland. What would Mafuyu eat, actually?

fter the final bell, she could give them a proper tour. The music room, with its slightly out-of-tune piano. Kanade might find it charming. The colony of stray cats behind the gym, particularly the perpetually disgruntled orange tom. Ena would absolutely want to sketch him. Kanade would watch the cats with soft, wide-eyed fascination. Mafuyu would stand beside them, and maybe she’d pat the cat aswell.

And she could still find Rui. She could lead her trio to him, present them like living proof.  She could thank him properly, with them right there as evidence that his off-kilter, perceptive advice to Ena had borne miraculous fruit.

The fantasy was brilliant and immersive, a lifeline of pure, anticipatory joy. For a full minute, Mizuki floated in this parallel, perfect day where her two fractured worlds hadn’t just crashed together, but had meshed into a seamless, supportive, and wonderful whole. The frantic drumbeat of her heart quieted, replaced by a light, fluttering excitement.

The giddy film reel in her mind stuttered, the bright colors leaching into a colder, sharper hue.

Mizuki’s gaze, drifting in its happy haze, swept absently across the classroom. She registered the usual landscape of looks aimed her way: the sideways curiosity, the faint discomfort, the occasional flash of disdain from familiar corners. These were old ghosts. She had armor for those.

But then her eyes caught on something new.

Two rows over and across the aisle sat “Student A”—the one who had ruined her fucking life. He wasn’t looking at Mizuki. His attention was fixed past her, on Ena. His gaze was a slow, appraising crawl. It traced the line of Ena’s jaw, lingered on the proud set of her shoulders, the artful fall of her chestnut hair. Then, deliberately, his eyes flicked sideways. To Mizuki. Sitting right beside her.

His expression shifted. The idle appraisal vanished, replaced by a cold, dawning understanding. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Of course. The school’s resident anomaly and the loud, pretty transfer student. Birds of a strange, flamboyant feather. It all makes sense. Mizuki imagined that asshole’s thoughts.

The warm, fluttering joy in Mizuki’s chest flash-froze.

A clear, cold thought sliced through Mizuki’s mind. He wasn’t just looking at her anymore. His gaze had shifted, encompassing the space between them, measuring Mizuki’s proximity to Ena. He was drawing a line, connecting them in his assessment. And in that silent calculation, he was judging Ena by it.

The protective instinct that had surged when Kanade walked in, now hardened into something different. It became a sharp, defensive blade honed by years of practice. Mizuki’s spine, which had been relaxed in her happy planning, straightened almost imperceptibly. The playful, slightly slouching posture she’d worn all morning was gone, replaced by a subtle, coiled readiness.

She didn’t glare back. A direct challenge would give him power, make it a transaction. Instead, with a fluid, deliberate motion, she turned her shoulder, angling her body slightly towards Ena as if leaning in to catch a whisper. The movement was casual, but it placed the line of her back and shoulder as a partial, physical shield between that calculating gaze and her friend.

He doesn’t get to touch her. He doesn’t get to look at her like she’s a specimen to be categorized just because she chose to sit next to me. 

The teacher’s monotonous roll call finally sputtered to an end. A textbook was opened, a dry lecture on modern Japanese history began. The mundane, grinding machinery of school, momentarily jammed by their dramatic entrance, clanked back into motion.

Mizuki’s radiant, giddy mood had been tempered. Like a brilliant piece of glass plunged into cold water, the initial, fragile joy had hardened into something more durable. The core of it still glowed, warm and effervescent in her chest, but it was now wrapped in a new, steely layer of resolve. The look from Student A had been a chilling reminder: this sanctuary they’d created was built in occupied territory.

It’s okay, she repeated to herself. They’re here. I’m not alone today.

But the meaning of the words had shifted, deepened. An hour ago, walking to school, it had meant she wasn’t alone in her newfound peace. Now, sitting in this desk, it meant she wasn’t alone on the battlefield. The trenches of whispered judgments, of calculating glances, of social minefields she’d navigated in solitary, exhausting silence, she now had allies in them. She had a sniper with perfect eyeliner beside her, a composer humming a shield of music at her back, and a silent strategist observing from the rear.

A sharp, deliberate nudge against her ribs broke her reverie. She glanced sideways. Ena was ostensibly taking notes, her expression one of intense, scholarly focus. But in the wide margin of her notebook, drawn with quick, confident lines, was a tiny, cartoonishly furious face, its cheeks puffed out, brows slanted in rage. A speech bubble erupted from its mouth: "Pay attention, dummy! >:("

Mizuki bit down hard on her lower lip, a strangled sound caught between a gasp and a laugh escaping through her nose. It was a laugh of pure, unadulterated affection, layered with the sheer, bewildering happiness of the moment.

Grinning, Mizuki pulled out her own notebook, the blank page suddenly feeling less like a chore and more like a secret canvas. The teacher droned on about postwar economic policies. Mizuki tried to anchor a part of her mind to it, to scribble a dutiful heading, but her awareness was irrevocably split.

One thread tracked the teacher’s monotone. Another was attuned to the soft, anxious energy radiating from the desk behind her. The faint rustle of Kanade’s cardigan, the quiet tap of a pencil eraser.

For the first time in her entire school life, Mizuki felt truly, completely seen. Not as a spectacle to be dissected, not as a cryptic puzzle for gossip, not as ‘Akiyama the odd one.’ She was seen as Mizuki. The girl who loved frilly things and bold colors, who was brave enough to be vulnerable, who was trusted with other people’s fragile hearts. And she was surrounded, physically encircled, by the very people who had helped her learn that name.

The old fear, the cold drip of dread that usually accompanied being perceived, was absent. In its place was a buoyant, terrifying, and utterly exhilarating certainty. She wasn’t afraid. She was guarded. She was together. And for now, in this sunlit classroom that had become the most surreal and sacred place on earth, that was more than enough, and she would hope that this eternity never ends.