By midweek, the campus felt… off.
The west gate guard who always asked about color theory was gone. So was the older woman who smuggled warm tea into evening labs. In their place stood two new hires with blank faces and brand-new shoes, reading clipboards like they were shields. Rumors ran under everything—someone had complained, someone had pulled strings, someone's "friend of a friend" had made calls. Aiko didn't chase the whispers. She logged the pattern and adjusted.
She walked with others after dusk. She stuck to lit routes. She kept her phone on the home screen where SOS lived one button away.
Thursday evening she left early, tote on her shoulder, to buy saline and elastics from the shop across the avenue. The sky had that thin silver light that made reflections look like second doors. A delivery scooter rattled past. Somewhere, a stray cat knocked a bottle.
She was halfway across the pocket park when a voice slid in behind her.
"Aiko."
She turned. Li Yanyue stepped out from behind a hedge like she'd been stitched to the shadow. Coat. Scarf. No hurry.
Aiko stopped four meters away. "Campus is closed to visitors after six," she said, steady. "You need to leave."
"No campus here," Yanyue said, glancing at the park sign. "You picked a quiet path." She closed the distance in three quick strides and seized Aiko's forearm just above the wrist, grip hard enough to bruise.
"Break up with Javier Varela," Yanyue said, voice low and flat. "I'm leaving Japan soon. I won't say it again."
Aiko's heart kicked, then settled into the cadence Sayuri's drills had trained in. She didn't yank back. She angled her body, took the pressure off her elbow, and got her other hand to her tote.
Three quick presses on the side button. SOS sent. Location shared to the group chat labeled Beacon. The phone vibrated once against her palm—delivered.
"Let go," Aiko said. "You're hurting me."
Yanyue leaned closer, fingers tightening. "Do you want your hair gone?" she murmured. "Scalped so badly you won't leave your room? I can make it happen. I will ruin the thing you worship."
Aiko kept her voice low and even. "You touch my hair again and I will scream. There are cameras on the pharmacy corner. There's a delivery truck behind you about to turn in. And you are being recorded." She showed the lit screen in her hand—voice memos running, red bar steady.
Yanyue's jaw ticked. She let go of the forearm—only to reach up fast and grab a side section of Aiko's hair at the temple, twisting sharply. Pain flashed white.
"Say it," Yanyue hissed. "Say you'll end it."
"No." Aiko slid two fingers between scalp and grip to move the pressure onto bone, then pivoted into the hold like Sayuri had taught—reduce leverage, don't fight the line. With her free hand, she pulled a wide-tooth comb from her tote and brought it up as a simple block, teeth catching the glint of metal Aiko hadn't seen until it was there—shears, small and precise, like a pocket threat.
"Don't," Aiko said, louder. "Assault is a crime."
"Nothing sticks to me here," Yanyue said, voice still flat. "You saw your guards disappear. I get what I want."
A delivery truck turned into the lane and braked, diesel cough loud in the narrow space. The driver leaned out. "Hey! Everything okay?"
Aiko's eyes found his. "No," she said, clear. "Call the police."
For a fraction of a second, Yanyue's grip tightened, the shears' blade cold at the edge of Aiko's hair. Then a voice cut across the lane like a thrown rope.
"YANYUE!"
Mei-Ling, breathless and furious, sprinted from the sidewalk, phone up and filming. "Put. The scissors. Down."
Yanyue's eyes flicked to her cousin, then to the driver, who had his phone up too, already dialing. She released Aiko's hair with a small vicious jerk that hurt more than it needed to.
"This is your last warning," Yanyue said, so softly the truck's idle nearly hid it. "You are small. I am busy. Choose wisely."
"Go away," Aiko said, shoulder pressed to the park fence now, keeping space. "You're recorded. You're done."
A black sedan slid up to the curb as if it had always been there. Yanyue stepped back, shears disappearing into her sleeve like the threat had been a rumor. She didn't run. She didn't apologize. She got into the car.
The sedan's door slammed and Yanyue slid inside, face unreadable, the black car nosing toward the curb cut. Aiko was still catching her breath, fingers ghosting over the sore spot at her temple, when sneakers slapped hard against pavement.
"HEY!"
Yuki streaked in from the corner like a thrown comet—bun crooked, breath sharp. She saw the car turning out and didn't think, just went, sprinting alongside the driver's window, palms open, voice like a flare.
"COME HERE!" she shouted, every syllable ringing down the lane. "FIGHT SOMEBODY THAT'LL FIGHT YOU BACK!"
The driver startled; the sedan jerked, corrected. Yanyue's face flicked that way—one heartbeat of shock—then she looked straight ahead again. The car accelerated, tires humming, Yuki pounding after it for twenty wild meters until a delivery cone forced her to stop. She stood there in the street, chest heaving, small and furious and unafraid, while three phones—Mei-Ling's, the truck driver's, and a bystander's—caught the moment from three angles.
Aiko didn't call her back. Not for that second. Not until Yuki's shoulders dropped and her eyes found Aiko again, registering the pain, the comb clutched in one hand like a talisman. Then Aiko held out her arms and Yuki crashed into them, her voice suddenly small.
"She touched you—"
"I know," Aiko said softly. "You scared her anyway."
Yuki huffed, wiped at her face with the heel of her hand, and forced herself to breathe like Sayuri had drilled into them: in for four, out for six. "Okay. Okay. I'm good. We're good."
They weren't. Not yet. But they would be.
Silence flooded in—then everything at once. The delivery driver hopping down, still on with dispatch. Mei-Ling, hands shaking, tucking her phone into two different pockets like redundancy could keep it safe. Aiko setting the comb back into her tote because she needed to do a normal action before her knees decided to misbehave.
"Are you okay?" Mei-Ling said, voice breaking. "Did she cut you? Let me see."
Aiko turned her head. The spot at her temple burned, but when Mei-Ling parted the hair with careful fingers, the skin was intact. No blood. Just anger and ache.
"I'm okay," Aiko said. "She grabbed and threatened. That's enough."
Two patrol officers arrived within minutes, lights low, questions crisp. Aiko handed over her phone with the live recording; Mei-Ling offered her video; the driver described what he'd seen. Names. Times. The black sedan's plate. The small detail that mattered to cops: the shears.
"Do you want to press charges?" one officer asked.
"Yes," Aiko said. Her voice didn't shake. "I want a report filed and copies preserved."
Back on campus, Professor Martinez met them at the gate before reception could even buzz her. One look at Aiko's face and the red mark on her arm, and the professor's calm went from measured to engineered.
"Inside," Martinez said. "Mei-Ling, send me the video. Driver's number too. Aiko, ice for ten, then write the incident exactly as it happened."
Ms. Hayashi from Student Affairs arrived within minutes, 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?"
Professor Martinez stepped slightly aside to let the student welfare officer take the lead. "Tender scalp, bruised forearm. 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.
They did the documentation in the staff room, with the fluorescents humming and the kettle clicking.
Evidence: Multiple recordings. They uploaded to two clouds and a thumb drive Martinez locked in her drawer. The delivery driver texted his video. A bystander had posted a blurry clip to a neighborhood chat; they captured that too.
Security: Martinez coordinated with campus security. "We'll add evening patrols and escort protocols," she said.
Communications: No social posts. No statements. No leaks. Keep the focus on work, not on theater.
But as they sat documenting everything, Aiko felt a growing certainty settling in her chest. "There may be a reason she's doing this," she said quietly. "Knowing she can get away with it. But I won't be distracted. And I don't think we need lawyers—it'll just be a waste of time."
Martinez looked up from her notes. "What do you mean?"
"She has connections. Resources. The legal process will get tied up or mediated through her team's people. I'd rather put that energy into preparation for the exhibition."
Ms. Hayashi nodded thoughtfully. "That's a mature perspective. We'll document everything thoroughly, but you're right that some battles aren't worth the energy they consume."
Yuki and Kenta arrived mid-briefing, faces tight and eyes scanning for where to help.
Professor Martinez looked at them. "We're coordinating safety protocols. Would you be willing to help with escort schedules and communication updates?"
"Of course," they said together.
Mei-Ling stared at the table, hands locked. "She thinks this is normal," she said. "She thought the guards vanishing meant she was untouchable."
Ms. Hayashi's expression didn't change. "People confuse influence with immunity," she said. "Reality corrects them. Sometimes slowly."
A week later, a brief administrative notice appeared in the academy files: Legal proceedings delayed pending mediation with involved parties' representatives.
Aiko listened, noted, drank tea. Her shoulder throbbed in measured pulses; her scalp stung when the air hit it wrong. Under both, the steadiness returned. She could feel it in her wrist wrap, warm where her pulse pressed back.
Her phone buzzed.
JAVIER: On break. Call?
She stepped into the empty corridor. Javier's face filled the screen—sweat, gym light, jaw set.
"Tell me everything," he said.
She did, clean and short. The park. The grip. The scissors. The recordings. The driver. Mei-Ling. The police report. Martinez's plan.
Javier closed his eyes once and opened them. "I'm angry," he said, same as last time. "And I'm proud of you. You did every single thing right."
"She thinks nothing touches her," Aiko said. "She thinks hair is the only power I have."
"It's one of your powers," he said. "Not the only one."
"Are you okay?" she asked, because she knew the kind of fury that could chew you from the inside if you let it.
"I'm in the ring in thirty," he said. "I will put it into footwork. I will not let it touch my hands." He paused. "We'll add a private entry and exit for the exhibition. I'll arrive with the security lead. We walk in together. We walk out together. No empty corridors."
"Agreed."
He looked at her a second longer. "Show me the spot."
She turned the camera. He breathed out when he saw it. "Good," he said. "No broken skin. Ice, then oil. Sleep."
"I will."
They hung up. The corridor smelled like lemon cleaner and old paper. Normal. Aiko pressed her wrist to the cool wall for a second and went back in.
They finished the plan. They filed the paperwork. On the way back to the dorm, Yuki and Kenta flanked her like always, walking her to the door without making it a parade.
In her room, she sat at the small desk with Aunt Keiko's cherry-blossom comb under the lamp. She unwound her hair, found the few strands the grab had stretched and roughened, and trimmed them with salon scissors in three calm, even snips. Her hands didn't shake.
"This choice is mine," she said quietly to the empty room, and the words felt like they landed somewhere that would hold them.
Her phone lit up with a text from Mei-Ling.
Mei-Ling: Video backed up. Lawyer 9am. I'm sorry. I'm with you.
Aiko: Thank you. Bring coffee. We'll sign and go train.
Morning would be filing at the courthouse and tendon drills at ten. The exhibition would be brighter and hotter than any classroom light, with more eyes and more angles. And somewhere in that crowd, a champion would walk in convinced that power was the ability to bend other people's lives.
Aiko lay down, the comb where she could see it, the wrap warm at her pulse. She didn't ask for an easy path. She asked for a clear one. She had it now: record, report, reinforce, train.
Outside, the city washed and reset. In Madrid, a bell sounded, and a young man who would not be collected moved around a ring until his breath matched the pace he wanted to live at. Between them, the line held—tighter now, because it had been pulled, and had not snapped.
The pain at her temple dulled. The breath deepened. Sleep came like a clean part line—straight, deliberate, no chatter at the edges.