Miyuki's POV
The park was nearly empty, the air cool with the faint scent of rain still clinging to the grass. Souta and I sat on a bench, paper cups of soda in hand, the silence between us light, almost comfortable.
I glanced at him, at the easy way he lounged back, his grin always ready, his voice always steady. Being with him didn't demand anything of me it simply was.
My chest tightened.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Souta asked, tilting his head, amusement flickering in his eyes.
I hesitated, fingers tightening on the cup. The words slipped out before I could stop them.
"…You're better than Haruto in some ways."
The confession hung in the air, heavier than I expected. My stomach twisted as guilt clawed at me. I loved Haruto. I did. I couldn't imagine breaking him. And yet, saying it out loud felt like exhaling something I'd been choking on for weeks.
"But…" I added quickly, my voice low, almost pleading. "I don't want to hurt him. He's still… my boyfriend. I don't want him to be sad because of me."
Souta leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, a slow grin spreading across his face. His eyes gleamed with something sharp, something dangerous.
"So keep him," he said smoothly. "Let him have the title. Let him have your loyalty. But when he's not around…" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "…I'll be the one to keep you company."
My heart stuttered. The words were wrong, reckless and yet, a part of me felt strangely relieved. The possibility was terrifying, but it shimmered with a forbidden thrill.
I looked away, shame heating my face, but I didn't argue. I didn't say no.
And Souta's grin only widened.
Haruto's POV
Twelve days.
The number etched itself into my thoughts as I sat at my desk in the quiet of my grandmother's mansion. The days here had blurred together rain, ink, and silence but each had sharpened me in ways I hadn't imagined.
My notebook was no longer just a record of betrayal. It had become a weapon, a map of every lie, every hidden smile, every careless moment Souta and Miyuki thought belonged only to them.
Dates. Locations. Witnesses. Patterns.
I had refined the fragments into something usable. Evidence. Not vague memories, but chains that would one day bind them. A photograph here, a receipt there, a time that could be corroborated. Even rumors whispered at school, once harmless, now stood out as threads in a larger web.
I flipped through the pages slowly, my own handwriting glaring back at me:
"Repeated intimacy. Private meetings disguised as chance encounters. Emotional withdrawal masked by public loyalty."
The picture was clear. Too clear.
I closed the notebook, pressing my palm against the cover, my breath calm.
They thought they were playing a game in secret. But they had already lost.
Valkyrie's voice coiled in my mind, cold and certain: The blade is nearly ready. When you return, you will not strike blindly. You will cut precisely, and they will bleed where it hurts most.
Outside, the cicadas screamed into the summer night, but inside I was still. My grandmother's house had become a forge. And I was no longer just a boy scribbling pain into a notebook.
I was preparing the truth.
And the truth would destroy them.