The next morning, it was raining.
Not hard. Just enough to soften the gravel paths and patter on the glass of the dorm windows. A drizzle that clung to the air without committing to fall.
Inside the girls' locker wing, towels were tossed over bags, hair was tied up quickly, and most of Class 1-B had one collective hope:
"Please don't get paired with her."
They didn't say it out loud.
But it was there in the sideways glances, the clipped silences when Kagura passed through.
No one accused her of anything. She hadn't cheated. She hadn't broken rules.
She hadn't even won a race yet.
She'd just existed too close to something they didn't understand.
And nobody likes being reminded that physics might play favorites.
Kagura tied her laces slowly, sitting near the back benches, alone. Her boots were standard-issue, nothing special. Her uniform was clean. Neat. Not spotless, not showy.
Just… meticulous.
Everything about her felt like that. Not intentional. Just done right.
She stood when her name was called.
"Lane six," Coach Misaki said. "You'll be running solo today."
No one asked why.
Everyone knew.
From the bleachers, Agnes watched through a pair of long-range monocular.
She wasn't hiding.
But she wasn't part of drills either.
"Lane six, solo pacing lap," Misaki called again. "800 meters. Moderate rain. Adjust for slip. Target: 17.2 m/s."
Kagura stepped onto the track, rain slicking the vinyl surface beneath her.
She didn't look up at the clouds. She didn't flinch at the water dripping from her collar.
She just aligned her shoulders.
Waited for the whistle.
Then
She ran.
It wasn't impressive at first glance.
Her footfalls were light. Her posture upright. Her arms moved economically, hands just below the line of her ribs.
But anyone watching carefully could see it.
The track didn't slow her.
Rain made everyone slip even elite runners.
But Kagura's stride didn't adjust. She didn't compensate. She didn't need to.
Her pace stayed even: 7.1 meters per step. 2.4 strides per second. 17.04 m/s average across the first 400 meters.
Agnes jotted it down.
"She's easing into it," she murmured.
But then at the second curve something new happened.
The rain curved around her.
Not visibly. Not obviously.
But on frame 17,033, droplets behind her waist shifted direction mid-fall. A side gust hadn't caused it. The leaves on the sidelines stayed still.
Yet a ring of falling water bent outward, forming a brief, flickering halo before correcting.
Agnes gripped the binoculars tighter.
"Frame ripple in rain... not air.
That confirms it's atmospheric, not psychological.
She's warping the space she runs through."
Kagura never changed expression.
She crossed the finish line at 46.9 seconds flat.
A perfect even-lap time. No acceleration, no loss.
No visible effort.
Coach Misaki gave a short nod. "Next group."
Kagura stepped off the track.
And for a moment, as her foot hit the gravel, a student nearby one who hadn't even run yet stumbled.
Her balance broke just from standing near her.
Later that afternoon, Tracen's science wing was dim, its lights flickering under old motion sensors. Agnes had taken over a side classroom with a projector, two laptops, and half a dozen graphs pulled up across different devices.
She sat cross-legged in a chair, holding two clickers, flipping through data like a mad DJ.
Her audience?
Just one person.
Kagura Seiran.
Agnes had asked her to come.
Kagura didn't ask why.
She simply showed up on time.
Now, she stood silently, arms crossed, watching the screen.
"I'm going to say some things," Agnes said. "You don't have to respond."
Kagura nodded once.
Agnes clicked.
A graph appeared: oxygen efficiency by proximity range.
"I've measured your effect on nearby runners. Anyone within three meters loses stability. Not every time. But consistently."
Click.
Heart rate variance in pacing drills.
"Your presence increases others' stress responses by up to 12%. Without provocation."
Click.
Video frame rippling rainfall.
"You broke the rain."
Kagura tilted her head, ever so slightly. "The rain?"
Agnes didn't smile. "It bowed outward behind you. For one second."
Kagura blinked. "I didn't do it on purpose."
"That's the part I'm trying to figure out," Agnes said. "You're not speeding up. Not pulling. You're... holding something. Something passive."
Kagura said nothing.
Agnes sighed.
She powered down the projector.
"I'm not scared of you," she said.
Kagura raised an eyebrow. "You sound like someone who is."
Agnes gave a tight smile. "Maybe. But mostly I'm interested."
Another pause.
Then Kagura asked, softly: "What do you want from me?"
Agnes looked up.
"Just to know," she said. "If it's a Zone, or a Field, or something new. Something only, you have."
Kagura looked past her to the dark screen.
"I don't know what it is," she said. "But I don't think it wants to be known."
That gave Agnes pause.
"You think it's separate from you?"
Kagura nodded.
"I'm not making the world change. I think I'm just… running through it differently."
A silence settled between them.
Agnes sat down fully, legs dangling over the edge of the chair.
"No one wants to run near you right now," she said.
Kagura's gaze lowered.
"I noticed."
Agnes looked at her. "That bother you?"
Kagura was quiet for a moment.
Then: "No."
That night, the dining hall was less crowded than usual.
Word had gotten around.
No one had declared it, but it had already started.
An invisible line between "everyone else" and her.
Not malicious.
Just... protective.
Like something about Kagura needed distance.
She sat at the edge of a long table, untouched tray in front of her, black coffee in one hand. The other rested gently over her thigh.
Across the room, Erimo Excel looked over once, then looked away.
Jungle Pocket didn't even glance.
Agnes watched it all.
She wasn't surprised.
But she was annoyed.
Not at Kagura.
At everyone else.
They'd seen something they didn't understand. So, they'd decided not to look.
Agnes stood up.
Walked across the room.
And sat beside Kagura.
No announcement. No fuss.
Just sat.
Kagura didn't look over.
But her shoulders relaxed slightly.
Agnes said nothing.
Neither did Kagura.
But the quiet that surrounded her finally changed not by vanishing, but by making room for one more.