The evening had the soft-blue hush that made the academy sidewalks feel like hallways. Aiko slipped out through the side gate with a tote over her shoulder—errand to the pharmacy for elastics and saline, then back to finish notes before bed. The ivy along the outer wall clicked in the breeze. Somewhere a vending machine hummed.
She took three steps past the bike rack before the air changed—quiet, then too quiet—like sound ducked behind a door.
"Aiko."
Li Yanyue stepped from the shadow of the utility shed, cream coat buttoned, hair pinned without a flyaway. She didn't look like someone who had run; she looked like someone who had been waiting.
Aiko stopped. Her pulse spiked, then settled where Sayuri's drills had trained it to live when people got loud. The wrist wrap Aunt Keiko had given her was warm against her skin.
"Ms. Li," she said. "Campus is closed to visitors after six."
Yanyue didn't reply. She closed the distance in three silent strides and pushed—a sharp, calculated shove to Aiko's shoulder, strong enough to make her heel skid on the concrete. Before Aiko could fully recover, fingers speared into the side of her hair near the ear and caught, twisting just enough to sting.
"Say it," Yanyue said, voice low. "Break up with him."
Aiko inhaled. It wasn't the pain—that was bright and clear and easy to understand. It was the intention. Mean, specific. I get what I want because I take it.
"No," Aiko said.
Yanyue's grip tightened. "You're small," she murmured, almost conversational. "You mistake tenacity for scale."
Aiko did three things at once, everything Mrs. Sato and Hana had drilled into her without ever calling it "self-defense":
She dropped her chin and angled her body to take the strain off her scalp instead of yanking back against it.
She turned into the hold to slacken the line of hair, hand rising—not to hit, not to wrench—but to wedge two fingers between skin and grip so the pull landed on bone, not scalp.
With her free hand she tapped the side button on her phone through the tote—three quick presses. The emergency ping didn't ring; it sent.
"Let go," she said, steady. "Now."
Yanyue's eyes flicked, registering the shift. Surprise. Irritation. She shoved again. Aiko's shoulder clipped the bike rack, metal ringing out like a handbell.
"Break up with Javier," Yanyue said. "Or I make this simple."
Aiko didn't raise her voice. "If you pull my hair again, I'll scream," she said. "Security will come. There are cameras on the west gate. You will be escorted off campus and banned. Decide what you want attached to your name."
Something hard flickered across Yanyue's face—anger colliding with calculation. Her grip eased, then jerked back, a final sharp tug that made Aiko's eyes water. Aiko swallowed the sound it wanted.
Footsteps pounded from the quad. "Aiko?" Yuki's voice, high and scared. "Aiko!"
Kenta was half a step behind, breathless. "West gate—now!"
Yanyue didn't flinch at their approach. She leaned close enough for Aiko to smell the faint, clean citrus of expensive hairspray.
"Last chance," she whispered. "He will outgrow you. I'm saving you the time."
Aiko met her eyes. "You don't get to name my life. Or his."
The first campus guard rounded the corner at a run, flashlight beam slicing the dim. "Ma'am, step back. Hands visible."
Yanyue's fingers released. Aiko felt the hot bloom where hair had been trapped, the sting at her scalp, the ache in her shoulder where bone had kissed metal. She didn't step backward; she stepped sideways, away from the rack, making space between her and everyone.
"Ms. Matsumoto," the guard said, positioning himself between them, "are you hurt?"
"I'm okay," Aiko said, voice tighter than she wanted. "She grabbed my hair and pushed me. I pressed emergency."
Yuki reached her fast, hands hovering like she wanted to touch without making more hurt. "Let me see," she murmured, pulling a small detangler and a wide-tooth comb from sheer habit. "We'll check the scalp in reception. Deep breaths."
Kenta put his body between Yanyue and Aiko like a wall had decided to have a heartbeat. The second guard arrived; radios crackled.
"ID," the first guard said to Yanyue. "Now."
Yanyue's jaw worked. She produced a passport card with the smallest flick you could call a concession if you were generous.
"Li Yanyue," the guard read, professional but absolutely aware of the name. "You were told at reception that after-hours access is not permitted."
"I found the student I needed," Yanyue said, tone back to blasé. "We had a disagreement. It's finished."
"Not quite," came Professor Martinez's voice, crisp as a clean part line. She approached with Mei-Ling flanking her, their postures forming a kind of geometry: authority and kinship at odds with itself.
Mei-Ling took in the scene—Aiko's hand to her scalp, the bike rack, the guards—and went white. "No," she said, whisper-thin. "Please tell me you didn't."
Yanyue didn't look at her cousin. "The academy has a duty to protect its students' futures," she said to Martinez, making a last, disastrous play. "I was doing that. She's in over her head."
Professor Martinez didn't blink. "The academy protects students from harm," she said. "Including physical intimidation. You will leave now. Security will escort you to the gate. You will not return without my written permission." She turned to the guard. "We will provide camera footage and written statements. Please file your incident report tonight."
"As you wish," the guard said.
Mei-Ling stepped into Yanyue's path. "You're hurting people and calling it protection," she said, voice shaking. "I won't carry that for you."
For one raw half second, Yanyue's composure cracked—rage, then something that could have been fear if it had been allowed to breathe. She masked it so fast Aiko almost wondered if she'd imagined it.
"This is your atmosphere here," Yanyue said, gesturing around as if indicating not buildings but weather. "Small. Sentimental. It will break him."
"Maybe," Aiko said, before Yuki could drag her away. Her voice came out calm, to her own surprise. "Maybe the way you train breaks people sooner."
Yanyue's eyes cut to her. The guards guided her backward. She didn't fight them. She didn't apologize. She didn't look away.
When she was gone, the evening rushed in—crickets, a scooter on the street beyond the wall, the normal rustle of a campus after last class.
Yuki exhaled shakily and moved Aiko toward the reception's bright, kind light. "Let me check," she said again, tone settling into the practical. "We'll do a parting check, then saline, then a little scalp oil. I swear if she broke any follicles I'm going to—"
"Breathe," Kenta said to both of them, palms up. "We file, then we plan. No reaction posts."
Inside, Professor Martinez guided Aiko into a chair and carefully examined her scalp with the clinical gentleness that came from years of working with student injuries. "Superficial," she murmured. "No broken skin. Tenderness. We'll ice the shoulder. You'll be sore."
Professor Martinez set a clipboard on the counter. "Write what happened," she told Aiko, tone soft but anchored. "Facts. Time, place, actions. We'll handle the rest."
Aiko nodded. Her hand shook once. She wrote anyway.
Mei-Ling stood beside the water dispenser, hands clasped hard. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't think she'd ever… She's never done that. Not that I've seen."
"It isn't on you," Aiko said, meaning it. She lifted a tissue to blot the corner of her eye where a tear had decided to make its point. "You're not responsible for her choices."
Yuki dabbed a little camellia oil at the sore scalp, feather-light. "You did everything right," she said. "You got space. You called. You used your words like a wall."
Kenta crouched, eyes level with Aiko's. "We're adding escorts after dusk," he said, already switching to logistics. "Nobody walks alone to the street for a week. We'll rotate. Mei-Ling, you in?"
"Yes," Mei-Ling said at once, voice fierce now. "Every night."
Professor Martinez finished a brief phone call, expression set. "Security has the footage," she said. "Our legal office is drafting a trespass notice. I will alert the exhibition organizers that we've had an incident and require additional security on site. Aiko, you did well. You kept your head and protected yourself without escalating. That's hard. I'm proud of you."
The praise hit somewhere deep. Aiko let herself feel it, then let it go.
Her phone buzzed, screen lighting with a Madrid number.
JAVIER: At gym. Ten minutes free. You good?
She typed with one hand while Yuki held an ice pack to her shoulder.
AIKO: I'm okay. She showed up. Pushed, grabbed hair. Security handled. Martinez filed. I'm with our people.
The dots moved, then a reply:
JAVIER: Proud of you. Video on campus?
AIKO: Yes. We have it. Don't come. Train. We have escorts. We'll add security for exhibition.
A pause. Then:
JAVIER: I trust you. We plan tonight on call. Water, ice, sleep.
She sent a small ok and set the phone face down. The ice was beginning to numb the ache. Yuki replaced it with a fresh pack. Kenta handed her tea, the steam smelling faintly of ginger.
"What do we do now?" Mei-Ling asked, haunted and angry and trying to make those two things share a small body.
"We do what we came here to do," Aiko said. The answer surprised her with its solidity. "We work. We don't let this become the headline of our week."
Professor Martinez finished a brief phone call, expression set. "Security has the footage," she said. "Our legal office is drafting a trespass notice. I will alert the exhibition organizers that we've had an incident and require additional security on site."
A new voice joined them from the corridor—Ms. Hayashi from Student Affairs, carrying a tablet and wearing the kind of calm, professional demeanor that came from years of crisis management. "Ms. Matsumoto," she said gently, "I'm here to follow up on the incident report and ensure you have the support you need. Are you injured?"
"Superficial," Professor Martinez said, stepping slightly aside to let the student welfare officer take the lead. "Tender scalp, bruised shoulder. No broken skin."
Ms. Hayashi nodded, making notes. "We'll document everything thoroughly. Aiko, you handled this exactly right—you protected yourself, called for help, and stayed calm under pressure. That takes real strength."
The official validation hit somewhere deep. Aiko let herself feel it, then let it go.
Yuki made a face like she wanted revenge and would settle for excellence. "Fine," she said. "But if she touches you again, I'm calling Aunt Keiko and asking for permission to unleash culturally significant wrath."
Professor Martinez's mouth twitched. "I would pay to see that."
They laughed, too loud and grateful for the sound, while Ms. Hayashi continued her professional documentation with quiet efficiency.
When the paperwork was done and the ice pack had done its best, they walked Aiko back to her dorm—not as a scene, but as a simple procession: Yuki on her left, Kenta on her right, Mei-Ling slightly ahead, scanning. The path felt shorter. The dark felt less ambitious.
At the entrance, Mei-Ling stopped. "She'll hate consequences," she said, looking at the ground. "She thinks they don't apply to people who win."
"Then she can learn," Aiko said. "Everyone has to learn something."
Yuki squeezed Aiko's hand. "Text when you're in pajamas," she said. "And if your scalp throbs, I'll bring the good oil."
"I have it," Aiko said, smiling for real now. "Go eat."
Inside, the dorm hall smelled like laundry and ramen—the ordinary comforts of a life being lived. Aiko closed her door and sat on the edge of the bed, the quiet ringing a little. She changed into a soft tee and tied her hair in the gentlest loose braid she knew how to make.
Her phone buzzed again. Video call. She answered, and Javier's face filled the screen—gym light, towel around his neck, eyes dark with concern and held in check by respect.
"Let me see you," he said softly.
She angled the camera, showed the shoulder, showed the hairline. "Superficial. It stung. It's fine."
He exhaled. "I'm angry," he admitted. "I'm not letting anger drive. But I'm angry."
"Me too," she said. "It got a seat on the bus, not the wheel."
He nodded, a half-smile despite everything. "Our plan stands. We add safety lines. We send Martinez the exhibition list and request private entry. I'll coordinate with my coach in case she tries anything on my side. We build. We don't get pulled into her pattern."
"Agreed," Aiko said. "Drink water."
He lifted a bottle in frame in a little toast. "You too."
They sat like that for a quiet minute, breathing in tandem, letting the ocean of the day settle.
"Tell me one good thing," Javier said.
Aiko thought. "Professor Martinez said the pain is honest. That felt… useful." She glanced at the tiny shell he'd traded to his pocket and realized she'd left her companion piece on the desk. She reached for it, set it beside her lamp like a moon. "And the sky was pretty before it got weird."
He smiled, the kind that made distance feel like a map, not a wall. "I'll be there for the exhibition," he said. "We'll walk in together. We'll walk out together."
"We will," Aiko said.
They ended the call when the eyelids got heavy and the ice pack sweated through its paper towel. Aiko turned off the light and lay on her side, braid soft against her neck, wrist wrap warm against her pulse.
Out in the courtyard, the ivy clicked again in the breeze. Somewhere in Madrid, a gym door thumped closed and a young sweaty man who was not a project and not a prize set down his towel and picked up his plan. Between them, the line held—not because nothing tried to cut it, but because they'd braided it on purpose.
Morning would come with tendon drills and a new bruise and fresh tea and a form to sign and a text from Yuki that said bring the oil. The exhibition would come with lights and judges and a champion who'd mistaken control for strength.
Aiko closed her eyes. When she slept, she dreamed not of being chased, but of section lines parting clean, of hands that didn't shake, of saying no in a voice so clear it didn't need to be loud to be heard.