'Hi my younger self. Bring your drawing tablet to school today, someone important has opinions to share- don't seek them, they'll come to you. And make sure to pack an emergency protein bar! There's something that's coming up today and you'll need it, I trust you'll know what to do!'
Kaho was getting sick and tired of her Future Self. She seemed to be recalling the most ridiculous things as of late- of course she was sharing her blatant accusation of Kurosaki Katsuo, which proved to be completely justified, but she kept telling her to bring emergency snacks. Half the time Kaho was just dumping them on the table at lunch and watching her friends snatch them up. How is that helping? For crying out loud.
She was knackered and even her two cups of coffee while she'd been getting ready hadn't been enough of a slap in the face. She felt dead on her feet. She'd been drawing for half the night, capturing the shades of blues and purples of the darkening evening sky as her brother bared his soul on the basketball court. Kaho had been shading on her tablet all night, and yet, as she stared at the tablet the next morning, she knew something was missing. She stuffed her tablet in her school bag, as instructed, and got ready.
It would be Makoto's first as a local celebrity and crime buster. But she knew he had an accomplice in his vigilanteism. She wished she could text someone and share her thoughts aloud, but the only person she knew who didn't know Naseru was Tatsuya, who had been hounding her all night for a Facetime while Kaho was drawing. He'd gotten fed up of seeing her forehead and signed off after an hour of her grunting at him.
After keeping her out so late Taiga had promised her a ride to school. She could hear the whirring of the blender downstairs as she swept her liquid eyeliner over her lash line. Maybe it was silly to think a coat of eyeliner would help sway Naseru to pay her some attention, especially since surely everyone would want to hear from Makoto. Then again, he was clearly avoiding talking to him when other people were about. Like he was embarrassed to have friends. It was pathetic.
She scowled in the mirror and made her way downstairs. Mum and Himiko were long gone, and Taiga was draining his green smoothie.
"Feeling better this morning?" Kaho asked.
Taiga nodded, "Ready to get Hanagawa High School the best shooting guard ever."
"I'm sure our last shooting guard would be offended at that," Kaho said with a shrug, shouldering her bag, grabbing a protein bar and heading to the car.
She sat in the front, drumming her fingers on her knees, wondering whos opinion was so important her Future Self remembered it so far into the future. Was it a teacher? A friend? Kaho sighed, turning up the radio. Taiga sang to the Top 40, playing the drums on the steering wheel and wielding an invisible microphone, gesturing to her to offer the obligatory air guitar solos, since he needed at least one hand to drive the car.
She was early. Tsumugi and Kikiyo were only on their way into school when Kaho joined them. She slipped her outside shoes off and opened her locker to retrieve her school shoes. A few lockers down, Tsumugi was showing Kikiyo a piece of paper.
"See! Again! Another message."
Kikiyo frowned, her brows furrowed, "Compliments. That's really sweet."
Tsumugi grinned, "Nothing weird or romantic or secret admirer-y. Just nice things. Last week they said they loved my haircut. Two days ago, they wished me luck on my piano recital over the weekend. And today this! They said congratulations on getting top scores in the last maths exam. It's just nice, you know!"
Kikiyo nodded, opening her shoe locker. An envelope fell out by her feet. She opened the sealed flap and clenched her fist, "Excuse me, Tsumugi."
Kikiyo stormed past Tsumugi and didn't even look at Kaho. She didn't even bother to lock her outside shoes up. Kaho shut the door to Kikiyo's shoe locker, shoved her own school shoes on and ran after her. Not even saying a word to Tsumugi. She swore to herself, taking the stairs two at a time, barely seeing Kikiyo stride into Class 2A. Kaho skittered along the corridor after her, skidding into the classroom just as Kikiyo threw the envelope in Mamoru's face, individual notes came flying out of the envelope. Individual ten thousand yen notes, were scattered across the floor, carpeting the otherwise vacant room.
Mamoru rubbed his face, an angry red mark on his forehead from where the envelope collided with his skin, "You can take that and stick it where the sun doesn't shine, you pompous, vain, high and mighty piece of-"
"Kikiyo," Kaho said cutting in, "What's up?"
Kikiyo spun on her heel and snatched Kaho's hand in her own, marching from the classroom and to the stairs. They walked together up to the roof. Kikiyo stormed ahead and ran her hands through her hair.
"What is his problem!" Kikiyo shouted, "He just keeps throwing money at me like some kind of creep! I can't deal with this anymore. I told him to stop throwing money at me the other week! It's demoralizing."
Kaho watched Kikiyo pace the length of the roof. She swore to herself, strands of her hair came flying out from her scalp. Her skin was pale and the bags under her eyes were angry, pronounced and each step she took was less steady.
"I don't understand why he thinks I can just be bought" is that what rich people think? Is he really that self-absorbed and out of touch? He's delusional, Kaho! Absolutely crazy! Did you know he's been sneaking arcade tickets into my school bag? I saw him yesterday! Because I can be bought with boxes of 'Hello Panda' and bragging rights! My God, Kaho, he's lost his mind," Kikiyo stomped along the roof with such force her legs could probably snap in two. She looked gaunt. Had she slept at all? Not that Kaho was one to talk, really, since she hadn't slept much either.
"Kikiyo," Kaho said, "Are you okay?"
"No I'm not okay! He said he was going to help you guys with those weird letters eveyrones talking about and he hasn't,, he's just been hounding me- I can't listen to music-" she snapped, "I'm sick of Mamoru! I'm tired of all of this! I'm exhausted Kaho."
Kaho opened her mouth to speak, and paused. It would be easy to side with Mamoru, say that he was trying to do right by her, and his Future Self was privy to something she wasn't ready to share. But what could she say, what should she say? Kaho swallowed the lump in her throat and sighed.
"I'm sorry," Kaho said quietly, "I'm sorry you're so tired" can we help? Any of us?"
Kikiyo tensed and crossed her arms. She shook her head briskly and returned to pacing.
Kaho frowned, "Maybe you should quit your job and focus on getting some rest, or at least take some time off?"
Kikiyo spun on her heel, raised her eyebrows and laughed, clutching her hips, when she moved, Kaho saw just how much her friend's shirt moved with her arms when she held her body. Her shirt rode up the slightest but, exposing safety pins holding the waistband up, pinching the excess fabric into extra pleats. Kikiyo's gaze flickered from Kaho to the view from the roof. Kaho felt her stomach drop, as if her friend had been ensnared by the thought to scale the chain-link fence and jump. She didn't. Her eyes glossed over as she stared out at the view. Each breath seemed to rip through her.
Sitting next to her in class, and seeing her so haggard must be so hard for Mamoru. Maybe she should have pressed harder, had Mamoru accept her help. Would that have helped? Kaho sighed, gazing through the links in the fence at the town below.
The town of Hanagawa was small and lacked buildings of significant height, sure there was the odd apartment block, but the district was rather smooth-looking from this height. From the roof, it looked like if Kikiyo wanted to, she could just step off and walk along the roofs of nearby houses out of sight into the world. Hell, the wind could take her and she could float above town. There really wasn't anything of her anymore. Kaho wondered if she would if she could. Leave, that is.
Something was eating away at her. Kikiyo shivered, the breeze whipping through her hair. She clutched her sides, teeth chattering. How much weight had Kikiyo lost?
"C'mon, let's head inside," Kaho said, holding her hand out to her friend, "It's freezing."
Kikiyo was shivering. She didn't take Kaho's hand but did follow her inside. Kaho was half a flight of stairs ahead of Kikiyo within moments, her brisk downward pace significantly faster than Kikiyo's. She walked like her knees were rusted and needed oiling. Her knees buckled with every downward step. Her knuckles were white as she cling to the bannister. They were almost on the second floor, just metres away from their classrooms when Kaho heard a a bang. She spun on her heel on the steps, scuffing her shoe. Kikiyo had fallen. She was slumped against the wall, heavy eyes fanning closed. Kaho shrieked, heading up the stairs and gently smacking each of Kikiyo's cheeks.
"Help! Help!" Kaho cried.
She hadn't expected the student to see her on her to be Matsuoka Naseru. His mouth opened into a small 'o' parted and he hastily made his way back down the stairs, sounding the alarm that someone had collapsed.
Kaho rummaged into her bag and produced her protein bar had her Future Self remembered that Kikiyo was unwell? She couldn't tell. Kaho opened her friend's hand and put the bar in her palm.
"It's okay Kikiyo," Kaho said, supporting her friend's neck, "Matsuoka is going to get the nurse."
Kikiyo had passed out on the stairs, and despite her protestations after coming to, she was sent home for the day to recover. Kaho had stayed by her side until the nurse managed to get her down the stairs. She stayed in the nurse's office until well into second period, where Kaho spotted the 2A class rep bringing Kikiyo's school bag downstairs.
During breaks between her classes, Kaho's attention drifted from Kikiyo to her drawing tablet. She scowled at the screen, adding swirls of black and white around the canvas as if it would add more dimension, before furiously pressing 'undo'. She put her head in her hands and sighed. Her Future Self had insisted she didn't need to seek feedback, but Sayuri and Hikaru, keen artists of their own right, were still absent. Makoto was being mobbed by admirers. Who was it that was supposed to say something about her work?
During Lunch — Art Room
The art room was empty, still and echoing faintly with the smell of turpentine and old canvases. The morning sun pushed through the tall windows, painting lines of light across the tables and easels.
Naseru sat near the back, sketchpad open, though his pencil barely moved. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were distant, as if weighing things far heavier than paper.
The door clicked softly. Makoto stepped in, carrying his bag slung over one shoulder. His other arm was bandaged from the previous night—wounds treated at the hospital after the ambulance had taken him there. He paused when he noticed Naseru, then let the strap drop and closed the door behind him.
"…I didn't think anyone would be here," Makoto said, voice low.
Naseru glanced up briefly. "Neither did I."
A pause stretched between them. Makoto shifted his weight, then walked over, setting his bag down on a desk. His tone softened.
"Sayori's recovering," he said. "The doctors said she'll be alright. She… she kept asking about who helped her. I didn't tell her anything, but…" His eyes flicked to Naseru. "…thank you. For saving her."
Naseru's pencil paused in midair. He didn't answer right away. Finally, he set it down and folded his arms.
"You don't need to thank me," he said quietly. "She's safe. That's enough."
Makoto studied him for a moment, then asked, "The mask. The one Katsuo gave you. What did you do with it?"
Naseru's gaze drifted toward the window, where a breeze tugged faintly at the curtain. "It's gone. Burned. No one will ever find it."
Makoto hesitated, then pressed further. "And what now? Katsuo… do you think he'll go to the police? Try to pin this on someone else?"
A dry sound left Naseru's throat, not quite a laugh. "Katsuo? Work with the police? No. Thugs like him don't cooperate. Not with officers. Not with anyone in uniform. That isn't how they survive."
"Then what?" Makoto asked. "It can't just end there."
Naseru leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing with thought. "It doesn't. There are other networks. People behind the scenes who won't be pleased with his failure. Police who lean one way, journalists who lean another. Some independent reporters will catalog this as another event in a pattern. They'll use it to remind the public of what's really happening. That's how precision spreads—not from the mouths of thugs, but from those who document what the networks try to bury."
Makoto frowned. "And you? Where do you stand in all that?"
Naseru's answer came without hesitation. "I don't. I'm alert to it, yes. I know it's happening. But I don't want to be part of their games. Not the police, not the journalists, not the networks. My part ends where my hands already acted. Someone else can take it from here. As for me…" His eyes hardened. "…I walk my side alone."
The words hung heavy in the room. Makoto shifted, then asked carefully, "So… outside of the art club, you don't want me to talk to you?"
"That's right." Naseru's tone was calm, final. "It's better that way. Keep your distance. Don't drag yourself into what follows."
Makoto let out a small breath, half a laugh, half resignation. "…You're a mystery, you know that? The transfer student from Tokyo who shows up in Hanagawa, and no one really knows what's in his head."
Naseru didn't reply.
Makoto walked over to the supply shelf, picked up a green apple from his bag, and tossed it across the room. Naseru's hand shot up smoothly, catching it without effort. He turned it in his palm once before taking a deliberate bite, the crisp crunch echoing in the empty space.
Makoto set his canvas on the easel, pulled out his brushes, and began preparing his paints with his good hand. His voice was quiet, but steady.
"Alright. If you say Katsuo won't talk, then I'll take your word for it."
Makoto adjusted his bandaged hand carefully, painting with one hand while steadying the canvas with his injured arm. After a moment, he glanced over at Naseru.
"How do you know how to fight the way you were fighting? That isn't normal fighting."
Naseru's gaze remained fixed on the window. "My hands were forced. I had to demonstrate. It's just something I picked up from one of the mentors I had—ex-military, nothing much."
"Ex-military?..."
For the first time, Naseru's gaze softened slightly. He didn't elaborate further, only turned toward the window. The sunlight caught in his hair, the breeze stirring faintly against the glass. His eyes seemed to look beyond the school grounds, beyond Hanagawa itself, to a horizon only he could see.
The apple's pale flesh gleamed where he had bitten it.
The room filled with the soft scratch of Makoto's brush against canvas. Silence lingered between them—not hostile, not strained, but the silence of two people who knew they stood on different paths, yet shared a fleeting moment in the same room.
And then Naseru's gaze returned to the world outside, steady, unreadable.