The classroom had already emptied when Ayanokōji stood by the window, watching Satō's hurried figure disappear down the hallway. Her small silhouette grew fainter with every step, until only silence remained.
He sighed softly, turning to leave — but before he could, a calm, clear voice halted him.
"Come with me, Ayanokōji."
He froze. That tone. That subtle authority. Chabashira-sensei stood by the door, her usual confidence replaced with something… fragile. Vulnerable, even. Her gaze was averted, and her hands were clasped tightly together, as though bracing herself for something unpleasant.
"I'd like you to follow me," she said, quieter this time.
He said nothing, merely nodded, though a deep sense of foreboding spread through his chest.
She led him through the empty corridors, past the stairwells and offices, to the headmaster's room — a place few students had ever entered.
When the heavy door opened, the atmosphere shifted. The air was tense, thick with restrained dread. Two men waited inside.
The first — a frail man in his sixties, balding, sweat running freely down his temples — was the principal. His hands trembled slightly as he bowed.
The second man stood beside him, tall, immaculately dressed in a dark tailored suit. His presence dominated the room like an immovable shadow. His eyes, cold and unflinching, locked onto Kiyotaka's with chilling familiarity.
"Sir," the principal stammered, "as requested, he's here."
"Good," the man replied. His voice was deep, even, and yet it carried the weight of unspoken threat.
The principal bowed again, repeatedly, before excusing himself. "I'll leave you gentlemen to your discussion."
Chabashira bowed deeply as well, her voice trembling. "If you'll excuse me—"
Before leaving, she cast one nervous glance back at Ayanokōji. He caught it. That fleeting, anxious look — as if silently warning him to tread carefully.
And then she was gone.
Only silence remained. The man in the suit studied him like a specimen under a microscope.
It had been a year and a half since Kiyotaka last heard that voice.Since he'd left that cold white room behind.
The man's lips curved into a thin, humorless smile. "So. This is where you've been hiding."
Kiyotaka met his gaze evenly. "It's been a while, Father."
The older man — Professor Ayanokōji, the architect of the White Room — smirked faintly. "Father, is it? How generous of you."
"I didn't intend to stay long," Kiyotaka said. "I promised some friends I'd meet them."
"Friends," the man repeated, as though tasting a foreign word. He gave a quiet, contemptuous laugh. "You? Make friends?"
Kiyotaka didn't respond. His silence only seemed to irritate the man further.
Without another word, Professor Ayanokōji reached into his briefcase and withdrew a thin folder. Inside were crisp sheets of paper — official documents bearing the school's seal.
"I've prepared the withdrawal forms. All they require is your signature."
He placed them on the desk between them.
"I won't be dropping out," Kiyotaka replied evenly.
"You seem to misunderstand," the man said. "Whether you stay or leave is not up to you. You were created by me, raised by me, and your purpose was defined by me. You exist because of my vision — nothing more."
His words cut through the air like a blade.
The same gaze that had broken countless others now turned fully upon him — the gaze of a man who saw the world as data and people as variables.
Kiyotaka felt the weight of it, the raw intensity, the silent command that demanded submission. Yet, for the first time in years, it didn't make him flinch.
"Tell me," Kiyotaka said quietly, "should a parent ruin their child's life for their own convenience?"
"A parent?" His father's tone dripped with disdain. "Don't delude yourself. I've never acknowledged you as my son."
"Then that makes it mutual," Kiyotaka replied calmly. "You've never regarded me as one either."
For a brief instant, there was silence — heavy and taut.
Professor Ayanokōji's eyes narrowed. "You've become insolent."
"I've become free," Kiyotaka corrected.
His father exhaled slowly through his nose, regaining composure. "So the school has made you talkative. That ridiculous environment is infecting you."
"Maybe," Kiyotaka said, shrugging slightly. "Or maybe I just learned to think for myself."
"Think for yourself," the man echoed, almost amused. "You were never designed for such a trivial function. You are my property, Kiyotaka. Whether you live or die is up to me."
It was the same tone — the same absolute conviction — that had once crushed even the strongest minds. But Ayanokōji Kiyotaka only looked back, unyielding.
"I decide for myself," he said softly.
That was when his father smiled — not kindly, but darkly, like a man about to prove a point.
"Do you remember Matsuo?"
The name froze him. For the first time, Kiyotaka's expression shifted slightly.
"He was the one who gave you the idea to come here, wasn't he?" the man continued. "That old fool I hired to keep you in line."
"He… defied your orders," Kiyotaka said quietly.
"He did," his father confirmed. "And he paid for it. Severely."
Images flickered through Kiyotaka's mind — the kindly butler in his late fifties, the man who had taught him how to tie a tie, who had spoken to him not as a machine, but as a boy.
"Matsuo begged for you," his father said. "Begged that I spare you from my wrath. I punished him — mildly, by my standards. Eternal unemployment. His son barred from every high school in the nation."
Kiyotaka stayed silent, his eyes hard.
His father's voice lowered to a whisper. "He took his own life two months ago."
The words hit like a slow, cold wave.Kiyotaka blinked once, twice. He didn't move. Didn't breathe.
"He killed himself out of guilt — and to 'save' his son. A tragic waste of a human, wouldn't you say?"
Still, Kiyotaka remained silent.
The man smirked. "Do you feel nothing? He gave up everything for you — and you don't even flinch. I suppose he'd regret ever helping you."
"I understand what you're trying to do," Kiyotaka said evenly. "You came here to remind me that mercy has no place in your world."
His father's eyes glinted. "And you still refuse to return?"
"If Matsuo truly died," Kiyotaka said, "then I have even more reason to stay — to honor what he believed in."
His father's expression hardened. "You've changed."
"Yes," Kiyotaka admitted. "Because you gave me time. A blank year. You called it your biggest mistake."
"You think you can live without me?" his father asked quietly. "That you can thrive among these commoners?"
"I'm learning what it means to be human," Kiyotaka said. "Something your White Room could never teach."
"You dare insult the institution that made you?" his father growled. "The White Room is perfection."
"It's unethical," Kiyotaka replied. "But I'll admit — it gave me knowledge most people never touch in their lifetimes. It taught me how the world works… and how wrong it can be."
"Spare me the sentiment," his father said sharply. "You deserted because you couldn't handle the discipline."
"I deserted," Kiyotaka said quietly, "because the White Room doesn't understand freedom."
His father's face darkened. "Freedom is a delusion. Power is reality."
"And yet," Kiyotaka said, "this is the one place you can't reach me."
The older man's jaw clenched. "You think this school can protect you?"
"You had to close the White Room, didn't you?" Kiyotaka asked. "Even temporarily, that's not a decision you make lightly. Something went wrong."
"That is none of your concern."
"It's entirely my concern," Kiyotaka said. "Because it means you're losing control."
His father's gaze sharpened, the first hint of true emotion flickering in his eyes — anger. "Don't test me, boy. I could still drag you out of here."
"You could," Kiyotaka agreed. "But you won't. The school's protected by government charter. You have no authority here. And your bodyguards aren't around."
The silence that followed was thick. For a brief moment, the man's jaw twitched — a tell that Kiyotaka caught instantly.
"If you could expel me, you'd have done so already," he said. "But you're careful, Father. You can't risk public exposure."
The older man exhaled through clenched teeth. "Even in death, Matsuo continues to inconvenience me. Did he plant these ideas in your head?"
"They're mine," Kiyotaka said. "No matter how precisely you trained me, rebellion was inevitable."
His father chuckled coldly. "Rebellion? You call this rebellion?"
"I call it living," Kiyotaka replied.
"You were supposed to surpass me," his father said bitterly. "To guide Japan into the future. And now you waste yourself here among failures and idiots."
Kiyotaka met his gaze calmly. "Maybe that's exactly what I need — to see if people are truly unequal, or if that's just what you want to believe."
The older man's eyes flashed with disgust. "This place is full of garbage. Bottom-feeders. You can't learn anything from them."
"Then maybe you should visit sometime," Kiyotaka said lightly. "You might learn something too."
The man glared, but before he could reply, the door opened.
A new voice entered the room — calm, respectful.
"It's been a long time, Sensei."
Both men turned. A middle-aged man stepped in, wearing a simple suit and carrying an air of authority. His hair had streaks of gray, and his eyes — intelligent, gentle — held no fear.
"Sakayanagi," Professor Ayanokōji muttered, almost with surprise. "Seven, eight years, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Chairman Sakayanagi, bowing slightly. "You haven't changed."
He turned to Kiyotaka. "You must be Kiyotaka. Please, sit."
Kiyotaka hesitated, then complied. The man smiled faintly. "I see the resemblance."
Sakayanagi faced Professor Ayanokōji again. "Now then — may I ask why you've come all this way?"
The professor spoke bluntly. "My son will be withdrawing from this school immediately."
Sakayanagi's smile remained, but his gaze sharpened. "I see. And may I ask for the reason?"
"That's irrelevant."
"On the contrary," Sakayanagi said evenly, "reasons are vital. Parental wishes hold weight, but we do not dismiss students lightly."
"He enrolled without my permission."
"High school isn't compulsory," Sakayanagi replied smoothly. "And as this institution's fees are fully covered by the government, autonomy lies with the student."
A flicker of irritation crossed the older man's face.
Kiyotaka suddenly understood. This was why Matsuo chose this place.
Sakayanagi wasn't merely following rules — he was defying his father's shadow.
"I remember the old Sakayanagi," Professor Ayanokōji said softly. "Agreeable. Weak."
"I still respect you," the chairman said gently. "But I also intend to protect my father's vision — and my students."
"Why was he admitted?" the professor demanded. "Don't play ignorant. Your entrance exam is a façade."
Sakayanagi's smile faded. "I accepted him personally."
"And why?"
"Because he's qualified," Sakayanagi said simply. "And because this school values potential — not obedience."
A sharp silence followed.
Then, with quiet finality, Sakayanagi said, "Ayanokōji Kiyotaka is a valued student. I will protect him as long as he wishes to remain. That is my decision."
The professor's expression darkened, fury flickering behind his eyes. "You'll regret crossing me."
"Perhaps," Sakayanagi said calmly. "But not today."
After a long moment, the elder Ayanokōji stood, his coat rustling softly. "We won't meet again."
"Pity," Kiyotaka said. "You should visit more often, Father. Parents' Day, maybe?"
The man paused at the doorway, glancing back. "Once is quite enough."
When the door closed, the room exhaled — as though finally released from suffocation.
Sakayanagi sank into his chair, rubbing his temple. "That man hasn't changed in decades."
Kiyotaka said nothing.
"You've lived under his gaze your whole life," the chairman said quietly. "I can't imagine what that's like."
"I've learned to breathe through the pressure," Kiyotaka said.
Sakayanagi smiled faintly. "Good answer."
He studied him for a moment. "I've known about you for a long time. Your father praised you endlessly — his greatest creation."
"Some creation," Kiyotaka muttered.
Sakayanagi chuckled softly. "You know, my daughter — Arisu — speaks highly of you too. She inherited her sharpness from me, unfortunately."
"So she's your daughter," Kiyotaka said. "That explains a lot."
"She earned her place here," Sakayanagi said with pride. "Though I won't deny… certain students are admitted through other means."
He leaned forward slightly. "This school exists to nurture potential, not conformity. As chairman, I'll protect you — but only within the rules. Anything beyond that… you're on your own."
"I understand," Kiyotaka said, standing.
Sakayanagi nodded. "Then keep doing your best, Ayanokōji-kun. You've made quite an impression."
As Kiyotaka left the room, the lingering echo of his father's presence faded into the corridor — replaced by the hum of distant voices, the ordinary sounds of life.
He exhaled slowly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile curving at the corner of his lips.
Freedom, he thought, isn't given. It's claimed.