The neurobiology lab at the end of the hallway in Mizushiro University's medical school building was still lit at nine PM.
Ryota clicked the 'send' button on the screen and let out a soft sigh.
At the neighboring workstation, his senior, Miki Aihara, who was organizing data, heard the noise and turned around, adjusting her glasses. "Finished the translation?"
"Yeah, sent it to your inbox."
His voice was steady, but carried a subtle, almost imperceptible trace of exhaustion. He rubbed his dry, sore eyes, bloodshot from several consecutive nights of freelance work.
"Thanks! You're always so fast and reliable." Aihara smiled and swiftly transferred the payment. "The money's sent, check it. It's a German review article my friend urgently needs for their project. You're a lifesaver."
His phone vibrated, signaling a small deposit. Ryota glanced at the amount, mentally calculating how long it would cover his sister's treatment. His expression remained neutral as he nodded. "Got it. Thanks, Senpai."
"Don't mention it." Aihara watched him pack his things and hesitated before speaking again. "But… Ryota, aren't you pushing yourself too hard lately? You don't look so good. Professor Touma asked me this afternoon about the progress on your part of the cellular electrophysiology data analysis… He seemed… a bit displeased."
Ryota's hand, zipping up his backpack, paused for a fraction of a second before continuing. "Right. I know. I'll catch up in the next couple of days."
"Is it your family…?" Aihara left the question hanging, but the implication was clear. No one in the lab knew the specifics of Ryota's situation, only that his family seemed to be struggling financially. He constantly took on all sorts of side jobs, which sometimes inevitably impacted his main research duties. Professor Touma valued his talent and diligence, but with these recent frequent issues, the advisor's patience was wearing thin.
"It's nothing, Senpai. I can handle it," Ryota cut her off, his tone flat but firm, creating a distinct barrier against further inquiry. He slung his worn black backpack over his shoulder. "I'll process the data and get it to the professor tomorrow. I'm heading out now."
Aihara watched his lean, straight-backed figure hurry down the corridor and disappear around the corner, sighing softly to herself.
The air in the hematology ward of Mizushiro General Hospital was saturated with an antiseptic smell several times stronger than in the lab.
When Ryota pushed open the hospital room door, he saw his mother sitting by the bedside, carefully feeding his sister, Sakura Kohama, small spoonfuls of thoroughly cooked rice porridge.
Sakura leaned against the pillows, her face as pale as paper, her lips lacking color. But seeing her brother enter, her eyes immediately brightened, and she managed a weak, "Brother."
"You're here, Ryota." His mother looked up, her face unable to hide the deep weariness, though she tried to force a smile. "Have you eaten?"
"Yeah, I have." Ryota set down his backpack, walked over to the bed, and naturally took the bowl and spoon from his mother. "I'll take over, Mom. Where's Dad?"
"Your father, he…" Before his mother could finish, Ryota heard hushed, strained, and tired voices from the hallway outside. Through the glass window in the door, he saw his father, Haruto, hunched over, phone pressed to his ear, tucked away at the end of the corridor. His face was creased with an almost servile smile. His voice was barely audible, but phrases like "surgery costs," "just need to tide us over," and "pay you back as soon as possible" drifted in intermittently.
Ryota's heart clenched as if gripped by an invisible fist, but his expression didn't change. He simply scooped up a spoonful of porridge, blew on it gently, and brought it to his sister's lips.
"Brother, you should eat something too," Sakura whispered, her voice faint as a wisp of air.
"I already have." Ryota shook his head, watching her swallow before asking, "How are you feeling today?"
"Okay," Sakura always said this, but the pain and profound weakness in her eyes were impossible to conceal.
Their mother sat on a nearby stool, watching her children, her eyes reddening slightly.
"It's all our fault… if we were more capable, you two wouldn't have to… Ryota, you're so busy with your studies, always running to the hospital… and Sakura should be in her second year of high school by now…" Her voice choked up.
"Mom, don't say that." Ryota interrupted her, his tone still devoid of inflection. "Things will get better."
Sakura gently grasped her mother's hand. "Mom, Brother and I are fine. Please don't worry."
After finishing the meal and spending a little more time talking with his sister—mostly Sakura asking about university life, her eyes full of a longing for the outside world and reliance on her brother—Ryota prepared to leave. He tried to keep the stories light.
In the hallway outside, he ran into his father, who had just finished his call. Haruto quickly wiped his face and mustered a tired smile. "Heading back, Ryota? Be careful on your way."
"Yeah. Don't overwork yourself, Dad." Looking at the new white hairs at his father's temples and the deep wrinkles on his forehead, Ryota felt something lodge in his throat. In the end, he just nodded.
The Kohama family had rented a single room in an old apartment building near the hospital to be close to Sakura. It was cramped and oppressive.
Ryota opened the door, dropped his backpack, and didn't even bother turning on the light before collapsing onto the creaky old sofa.
Physical exhaustion washed over him like a tide, but his mind was unnervingly clear.
Fragments swirled in his head: his sister's astronomical medical bills, payment reminders, his father's humiliating pleas for loans, his mother's suppressed tears, Sakura's pallid face, the piled-up data in the lab, Professor Touma's dissatisfied gaze…
It all pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe.
He needed money. A lot of it. Fast money.
Regular part-time translation work was too slow. Those riskier "side jobs" from the gray areas were too dangerous, and… still far from enough.
A feeling of desperate, frantic anxiety spread through him, yet his face remained an impassive mask. Only his eyes seemed unusually sharp in the darkness.
He was like a wolf trapped in a dead end, coldly calculating every possible move, even if the cost was…
Just then, his phone rang sharply, shattering the room's stagnant silence. The screen flashed with "Professor Touma."
Ryota stiffened slightly and sat up straight. He took a moment to steady his breathing before answering, his voice instantly reverting to its usual calm and collected tone. "Professor."
He heard Touma's stern, displeased voice on the other end. "Ryota, what is going on with your data? The preliminary analysis report you were supposed to give me this afternoon? Do you realize how many people's work is held up because your part is stalled?"
"I'm sorry, Professor, I—"
"I don't want apologies!" Touma's tone intensified. "Ryota, I've always thought highly of you. Your talent, your hard work… but your recent performance is completely unacceptable! If financial troubles and taking on too many odd jobs are interfering with your primary work, then you've got your priorities backwards! If this continues, I'll have no choice but to consider reassigning your core analysis responsibilities!"
Ryota's nails dug into his palm, but his voice remained even. "Professor, give me one more day. I'll send you the report and all the data by tomorrow night. I won't delay the project any further."
There was a brief silence on the line before Touma's voice softened slightly. "Ryota, are you facing some difficulties? If you're in trouble, you must speak up. Your teachers and seniors can help you find a solution."
"No, Professor. It was my own inefficiency earlier. I'll correct it. Please trust me one more time." Not a single ripple of emotion could be detected in Ryota's voice.
"…Alright. Tomorrow night, I'll expect your update." Touma sighed and hung up.
The dial tone sounded especially harsh in the silent room.
Ryota held the phone, his arm slowly dropping as he slumped back into the sofa.
His advisor's final, concerned words felt like a tiny needle, pricking the tense, hard shell he'd maintained, exposing the deep-seated powerlessness and fatigue beneath.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the sofa, his Adam's apple bobbing with difficulty.
What do I do?
What else can I possibly do?
His gaze drifted aimlessly across the coffee table in the dark.
Amid the clutter of books and printouts sat an object.
It was the strange compass he'd picked up a few nights ago by the path on the university's back hill.
The wind had been fierce that night; he was rushing to the hospital after finishing a translation and had nearly tripped over it.
It felt metallic but was unnaturally cold to the touch, covered in intricate, unfamiliar patterns.
It was ancient-looking and exquisite, clearly something of significant value.
He'd waited in the cold for over half an hour, but no one came looking for it. Eventually, almost as if compelled, he'd picked it up and tossed it onto the coffee table, where it had sat since.
Now, in the faint moonlight filtering through the window, the edges of the compass seemed to gleam with a faint, eerie, cold light.
Ryota stared at it, his mind a complete blank. Almost purely on instinct, driven by utter exhaustion, he reached out a hand towards the compass.
A sharp, stinging pain shot through his fingertip!
He jerked his hand back. In the dim light, he saw a thin cut on his index finger where the compass's edge had nicked him. A bead of blood welled up instantly.
And at that exact moment, the previously inert, cold compass seemed to jolt to life.
The strange patterns on its surface lit up one by one, emitting an ethereal, unsettling azure glow that instantly swallowed his entire field of vision.