My, what an unpleasant coincidence.
I hadn't intended to run into them so soon, yet there they were — Horikita and Ayanokōji, drifting through the aisles as if the fluorescent lights themselves weighed them down. Horikita's basket brimmed with the cheapest essentials, her posture rigid, defensive even in the act of choosing shampoo. Ayanokōji lingered behind her, studying price tags as though numbers might explain the world to him.
I stepped forward, my own basket neat, orderly. "Sometimes," I said, voice low and calm, "frugality says more about a person than extravagance ever could."
Horikita stiffened. She looked at me as one might an intruder. Ayanokōji blinked, expression flat, but I caught the tiniest flicker in his eyes. He was observing me. Interesting.
"You again," Horikita said, her tone as sharp as the edge of glass.
"Fate does have a way of weaving people together," I replied gently. "Though whether that's fortunate or not… that depends on the people involved."
Ayanokōji spoke as though to deflect her irritation. "Horikita was just explaining why she didn't join the introductions. She thinks silence avoids trouble."
"Ah," I murmured, stepping between them to glance over the gaudy wall of instant noodles. "Silence is one way to avoid trouble. But too much silence, and people begin to decide for you. They'll fill in the blanks you leave, Horikita. They'll write your story without your permission."
Her eyes flickered — not fear, not yet, but the beginning of doubt. I smiled faintly, as though I were offering advice rather than pressing my thumb against the fragile glass of her solitude.
"And what about you?" she asked, her voice clipped. "Do you prefer silence, or spectacle?"
"Neither," I said smoothly, plucking up an absurdly large "G-Cup Yakisoba" before setting it neatly back in place. "I prefer to be close enough to be noticed, yet distant enough that no one sees me too clearly. That way, others will tell you everything while believing you've revealed nothing."
Ayanokōji chuckled softly, though the sound rang hollow. He was studying me again. Careful. Watchful.
We drifted together, the three of us. Horikita's barbs cut at Ayanokōji's clumsy attempts at humor — his talk of razors, his awkward jokes. She dismissed him as inept, and he wilted under her judgment. How predictable. How fragile.
"You don't seem adept at socializing. You're terrible at conversation," she told him.
He muttered, "Well, if it's coming from you, then it's true."
I let out a quiet laugh, soft as silk. "You're too harsh, Horikita. Some people stumble in words because they think too much. Sometimes it's those very people who end up seeing others more clearly than anyone else."
Her gaze turned on me — suspicious, defensive, but no longer entirely certain. Exactly where I wanted her.
We reached the clearance bin in the corner. She plucked up a toothbrush marked Free. Three items per month. Her brow creased.
"Emergency relief supplies?" she asked.
"They must be for students who waste their points," Ayanokōji said. "This school is lenient."
I tilted my head, smiling as if amused by a private thought. "Lenient? No. This isn't kindness, Horikita. It's a leash. When people realize they can fall, and the school still catches them… they grow complacent. Dependent. And then, when that safety net disappears—"
I let the thought trail off, unfinished, like a blade glinting in the half-light. Her grip on the toothbrush tightened ever so slightly.
"You talk as though you know exactly what will happen," she said coldly.
"Not exactly." My smile widened just a fraction, soft enough to disarm, sharp enough to unsettle. "I only know that people who believe they can stand alone usually discover, sooner or later, just how fragile solitude really is."
For the first time, she looked away.
I had found a crack. And cracks, given time, always spread.
"Hey, shut it! Just wait a sec! I'm looking for it right now!"
The peace of the store shattered with a shout. I turned, curious, and saw him—the boy with the fiery red hair from class. His arms were overflowing with instant noodles, his voice sharper than it needed to be. At the register, he stood in the way of everyone, already the center of irritation.
Horikita's eyes narrowed in disdain, but Ayanokōji looked more curious than cautious. Interesting.
"What's going on here?" Ayanokōji asked him.
The redhead whipped his glare at him. "Huh? Who are you?"
"My name's Ayanokōji. I'm from your class. I just asked because it sounded like there was trouble."
"Oh. Yeah, I remember you." The boy's tone softened, just barely. "I forgot my student ID card. Forgot it's basically money now."
He abandoned his haul, hands suddenly empty. His face twisted in annoyance, ready to stalk back to the dorms.
Before he could, Ayanokōji made the mistake of stepping forward. "I can pay for you. I mean, it'd be annoying if you had to head all the way back. I don't mind."
So naïve. He didn't realize what he'd just done—offered loyalty to a wolf who would happily devour him.
"That's true. Thanks." The boy's grin was sharp, triumphant. "Name's Sudou."
As they exchanged courtesies, I let my gaze drift toward Horikita. She sighed, quiet but unmistakably contemptuous.
"You're acting like a pushover right from the start," she told Ayanokōji. "Do you intend to become his servant? Or are you doing this to make friends?"
Her words were knives, but knives aimed outward. She hadn't yet realized how easily they could be turned inward.
"I didn't care about making friends," Ayanokōji said mildly. "I just wanted to help."
"You don't seem afraid," she replied, tone ice.
"Afraid? Because he looks like a delinquent?"
Horikita crossed her arms. "A normal person would keep someone like him at a distance. If he acted violently, I could rebuff him."
Ah. There it was again—the arrogance she wore like armor. I can handle it. I'm above them. I don't need anyone.
Arrogance is always the easiest mask to break.
We moved through the checkout quickly. Cards tapped, receipts printed. An efficient system, sterile and perfect. Too perfect. I watched Ayanokōji pour water into his noodles, calm as if none of this mattered. That boy's stillness fascinated me. It was not passivity. It was concealment.
"How does the school benefit from giving us this much money?" he murmured.
"Students who should be studying might slack off," Horikita replied.
"And when the money disappears?" I asked softly, stepping closer.
Her eyes flicked toward me, sharp. I smiled. "Imagine the panic. Students scrambling like animals, betrayed by the very system they trusted. I wonder who would endure that kind of collapse—and who would shatter."
Horikita's lips tightened, but she didn't answer. A crack. Small, but there.
When we stepped outside, Sudou was waiting, noodle cup in hand, waving as though we were comrades already. "Thanks again, man!"
I returned his wave with a polite smile, though he hadn't asked me. That was fine. Some people, you manipulate directly. Others, you manipulate by letting them think they've won you over.
Horikita made a disgusted sound. "I'm going back. I'll be stripped of my dignity if I spend more time here."
Dignity. The word was so fragile in her mouth, as if repeating it might keep it intact.
Sudou bristled. "What do you mean, 'dignity'? We're just high school students. Or, what, are you some high-born noble or something?"
She ignored him completely. The dismissal was absolute.
"Huh? Hey, listen to people when they're talking to you!" Sudou barked, his voice growing raw.
Still, she didn't turn. She treated him as though he didn't exist.
And that—of course—was enough to break him.
"Hey, get over here! I'll smack that smug look off your face!" His body surged forward, fists clenched.
Ayanokōji moved quickly, intercepting. "Look, I'll admit Horikita has a bad attitude, but you're taking this too far."
"She's bratty. Obnoxious. That's bad, especially for a girl!"
Horikita's reply was calm, clinical. "For a girl? That's outdated thinking. Ayanokōji, I would advise you not to become his friend." She turned her back to Sudou.
He erupted. "Hey, wait! You shitty girl!"
I watched it all unfold with quiet amusement. Horikita's coldness, Sudou's temper, Ayanokōji's restraint.
Three pieces on the board. Three flaws already exposed. Horikita's isolation. Sudou's violence. Ayanokōji's compulsion to intervene.
I almost laughed. The cracks were already there. All I had to do was widen them.
Horikita didn't spare Sudou another glance. She turned sharply, her steps precise, her posture straight as though she were marching away from the very concept of imperfection.
"I'm going back," she'd said—and she meant it.
Sudou shouted something behind us, vulgar and desperate, but it didn't touch her. His anger was just noise, background static to her retreat. Ayanokōji lingered near him, trying to calm him down. Predictable. He plays mediator, but not because he cares. Because it maintains balance.
I let them stay behind.
And I followed her.
Her pace was brisk, purposeful, but not hurried. She thought walking away was enough. She thought silence was victory. She thought being untouchable made her strong.
"You handled him interestingly," I said, my voice calm, deliberate, carrying easily on the quiet path toward the dorms.
Her shoulders stiffened, ever so slightly. "I didn't handle anything. I ignored him."
I smiled faintly. "That's what makes it interesting. Ignoring someone can cut deeper than any insult. But… I wonder. Doesn't it bother you, even a little, to be hated so openly?"
"No," she replied instantly, too quickly. "Why would I care about the opinions of someone like him?"
There it was—the fracture line. She wanted to believe her words, so she struck them like hammers. Conviction made brittle by repetition.
"Strange," I mused, tilting my head. "Most people say that because they want it to be true. Because if they don't say it, they might realize the opposite—that being hated, being rejected, leaves a mark."
Her eyes flicked to me, sharp as knives. "You don't know me."
"Not yet," I admitted pleasantly. "But I can see enough. You don't waste money, you choose the cheapest things in the store, you don't join the others, you cut off conversation before it can begin. You think distance will protect you. But distance… it's just another kind of weakness."
She stopped walking for a moment, turning fully toward me. "Weakness?"
"Yes," I said softly, my gaze steady on hers. "Because when you're alone, you have no one to stop you from falling. And you will fall, Horikita. Everyone does. The question is… will anyone notice when you do?"
Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Her silence wasn't dismissal this time. It was hesitation.
She turned away quickly and resumed walking, faster now, as if her stride could erase my words.
I followed at the same steady pace, unhurried, patient. There was no need to press harder. Not yet. I'd planted the seed. Seeds don't need force. They grow in silence, fed by doubt.
By the time we reached the dormitory gates, I already knew: she was thinking about it. She'd think about it tonight, too, when she was alone in her room, convincing herself she didn't care.
And the more she told herself she didn't care, the more she'd prove that she did.
Horikita swiped her student ID at the dormitory entrance, the machine chiming faintly as the doors slid open. She didn't look at me as she stepped inside, though her posture was straighter than before, as though she were consciously guarding herself.
I followed. The lobby smelled faintly of polish and new carpets, an artificial cleanliness that matched the artificial generosity of this school. A paradise dressed as a prison.
The elevator doors opened with a mechanical chime, and she stepped inside without a word. I followed her in. The doors slid shut, sealing us in a box of chrome and humming fluorescent light.
"Still not speaking?" I asked lightly. "That's unlike you."
Her voice came out colder than the air-conditioning. "There's nothing worth saying."
"Mm. Perhaps." I smiled faintly, letting my gaze drift over the mirrored panel before settling back on her. "But silence, too, speaks volumes. Especially when it hides a reaction."
She shot me a sidelong look, one sharp enough that most people would flinch. I didn't.
"You seem… intent on analyzing me," she said.
"Not analyzing," I corrected gently. "Observing. You make yourself very easy to observe, Horikita. You stand apart, keep people at arm's length, pretend it doesn't bother you. But it's written in your movements. The way you refuse kindness as if it's poison. The way your answers come too quickly, as though rehearsed. You're strong, yes—but strength can be a performance, too."
Her stance shifted slightly, the faintest falter, before she straightened again. "You're wrong."
The elevator climbed steadily, each floor number glowing above the doors as I spoke.
"If I am, then tell me—why do you seem more upset with me for pointing it out than you were with Sudou for screaming at you? He wanted to hit you. I only spoke."
That struck. I saw it in the tightening of her jaw, the way her hands clenched at her sides.
"Because you're meddling," she said, clipped.
"Meddling." I nodded slowly, as if tasting the word. "Or… seeing? There's a difference."
The elevator chimed as we reached her floor. She stepped out, but I lingered a step behind, my presence still pressed against her thoughts.
At her door, she hesitated. Her card hovered over the reader, but she didn't swipe. She stood there, back to me, as though deciding whether to end the conversation or let it linger.
"You should be careful, Johan," she said quietly. "I don't want friends. And if you're trying to make me one, you're wasting your time."
I smiled faintly, though she couldn't see it. "That's good, then. I wasn't trying to be your friend."
Her hand froze, mid-swipe.
"I was only trying to understand you." My voice lowered, soft but precise, each word chosen like a scalpel. "Because people who say they don't need anyone… are often the ones who need someone the most."
I turned then, leaving her with that thought, walking down the hall at my own pace. No need to stay. No need to press further. I didn't have to.
Because tonight, when she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, she'd hear my words again. And she'd wonder, against her will, if I was right.
The hallway was quiet as I walked away, the muffled hum of the elevator vanishing behind me. Each door looked identical, sterile—an illusion of order, of safety. But inside those rooms, behind those locked doors, were fragile little egos, untested wills, children who thought themselves adults because someone handed them a hundred thousand yen.
Horikita's room disappeared behind me, but her silence lingered.
She had almost faltered. Almost. It was in the hesitation before swiping her card, in the way my words made her hand still. She wanted to believe she was untouchable, but what she really wanted—what she truly feared—was exposure.
That was the first crack.
I smiled faintly to myself as I reached my own door, sliding the card against the reader. The lock clicked open.
Breaking someone isn't about shouting them down or forcing them to their knees. It's patience. Precision. You push in small ways, the right words at the right time, until resistance feels pointless. Until they're not sure where their thoughts end and yours begin.
Horikita was perfect for it. Proud, aloof, convinced she needed no one. The type that mistook isolation for strength. But people like that… they always break beautifully.
I stepped inside my room. The air was stale, unclaimed, waiting to be shaped into something personal. I didn't bother. I didn't need comfort. What I needed was control.
And she had already given me the first piece of it.
Not with her words. Not even with her silence.
But with the simple fact that she was still thinking of me.
I shut the door quietly, almost gently.
Let the others waste their points on noodles and luxuries. Let them laugh, blind and happy.
I had something far more valuable already.
A foothold