Saturday. The halls of the school were silent, the wide corridors emptied of chatter and footsteps. But Reina was here, as always—her own world never stopped moving just because everyone else decided to rest. She had ANIER's constant voice in her mind, the quiet hum of machinery in her lab, and now… Shiro.
Shiro had become part of her weekend company, her small presence curled into pillows, or wandering curiously between cables and wires. If Reina wanted more noise, she could always walk to the Independence Research Society. Ren, Arisa, Mei, and Sei practically lived in their club room. She knew that without even checking. But today, she didn't feel like it.
Instead, she hunched over her work table, goggles over her eyes, sparks flickering as she soldered together microscopic circuits. Her hands moved with slow precision, the heat of the iron making a thin trail of smoke rise. What she was building wasn't for herself this time. It was a tiny contact lens—shaped, modified, safe for a cat's biology. ANIER had confirmed her hypothesis: safe, efficient, non-invasive. The idea was simple.
If she had lenses, then Shiro could have them too.
Her movements slowed when a sudden shadow fell across the desk. Shiro leapt up onto the table with light, graceful steps. She padded closer, her soft paws barely making a sound as she sat down directly in front of Reina's project. Large eyes, curious, staring at the delicate work.
Reina didn't move her away. Instead, she rested her chin lightly on Shiro's small head while adjusting the circuit alignment. "Don't move," she murmured. "You'll ruin the balance."
But Shiro didn't move. She just kept her eyes on the lens, her tail flicking back and forth in rhythm.
After long minutes of adjustment, calibration, and syncing, Reina finally leaned back in her chair. "Synchronize, ANIER."
"Synchronization complete. System green. Testing initialized."
The lens glowed faintly under the light of the work table, pulsing once before settling. Reina's lips curved slightly. First try, and it worked. Of course, it did. She had ANIER's backups. She had her own experience. Still, the satisfaction was there.
Shiro tilted her head when Reina picked the lens up with delicate tweezers. "Calm down," Reina whispered, her voice unexpectedly soft. "It won't hurt. Just stay still."
The cat blinked as Reina gently applied the lens to one eye, then the other. Smooth, painless. For a moment, Shiro froze, blinking again and again, her tail swishing. Reina watched closely, prepared to remove it if there was discomfort.
But instead, Shiro looked around—eyes widening, her gaze shifting sharply toward the light fixtures, the walls, then back to Reina. She wasn't confused. She was… aware. Shiro lifted her paw and tapped the table, almost as if acknowledging the difference.
Reina blinked. "…You understand?"
Shiro's ears twitched. Reina sat back slowly. Even she hadn't expected this much awareness.
"Test sequence," Reina said at last.
"Confirmed," ANIER's voice responded. A soft overlay lit up across Shiro's vision, one only she could see. A single command blinked into existence: Bring canned food.
For a moment, Shiro tilted her head. Then, without hesitation, she jumped from the table, landed softly, and padded across the lab. She stopped by the small storage cabinet, nudging it open with her paw. Her mouth caught the edge of a can, tugging it free before she carried it back carefully, tail raised high.
She dropped it neatly at Reina's feet and looked up with her intelligent eyes.
Reina stared. Then she patted Shiro's head, faint amusement breaking through her usual stillness. "…Smart."
She opened the can, sliding it onto the floor. Shiro eagerly dug in, rewarded for her obedience.
As the sound of eating filled the room, Reina leaned back in her chair, her fingers resting on her chin. She wasn't smiling fully, but there was something softer in her gaze. A cat with lenses. Her companion now shared a piece of her technology.
For the first time, the lab didn't just feel like hers anymore.
The sound of Shiro eating filled the lab—soft crunches and eager licks. Reina's gaze lingered on the little cat, almost absentminded, until the sharp knock at her door broke her focus. She blinked once. "Himari?" she muttered under her breath, standing to unlock it.
But when the door slid open, it wasn't Himari.
It was Shion.
He stepped in, his hand tucked around a familiar microphone case. His eyes immediately landed on the sight—Reina sitting with her arms folded, calmly staring at a small white cat enjoying canned food on the floor. For a moment, he froze. The corners of his mouth tugged upward before he quickly pressed it down. "...Cute," he murmured almost instinctively. Then he cleared his throat and straightened, trying to look composed.
"I just came to thank you," Shion said as he lifted the case a little. "The microphone… it worked like a dream. Better than anything I've ever bought."
Reina exhaled a quiet sigh, rolling her eyes slightly. "...Shion can keep the microphone. Consider it a reward."
He blinked. "Reward?"
"For letting me test the quality. And I don't use it much anyway. So—" she waved her hand, dismissing him, "—Shion can have it."
His chest tightened just slightly at how easily she said his name. It used to be all clipped responses, avoiding even looking at him directly. Now she was letting the syllables of his name pass her lips like it was the most natural thing. He smiled without realizing. "...Thanks, Reina. I'll treasure it."
She gave a small hum in response, but her eyes softened.
Shion sat down beside her, close enough to see Shiro licking the last of the canned food. "So… you have a cat now?"
Reina's lips curved faintly. "...Yes. Shiro. Found her abandoned." She tilted her head toward the cat, then back to him. "I gave her the same lens technology. It makes it easier to take care of her."
"Seriously?" Shion leaned forward, his eyes catching the faint shimmer of holographic data in Shiro's vision. He let out a soft laugh. "So even your cat has better tech than me."
Reina blinked, caught off guard by the comparison. When he chuckled again and added, "Actually, you two kind of look alike. White hair, sharp eyes… maybe Shiro is your mini version," she froze.
A tiny flush rose to her cheeks before she quickly muttered, "...Idiot." Her voice wasn't sharp though. Softer. Flustered.
Shion only grinned. "Guess that's a yes."
Reina shook her head but didn't argue further. Instead, she let the silence fall into something more comfortable. Shion stayed.
Before long, they were side by side at her workbench. Reina adjusted wiring while Shion handed her tools. She would point, and he would reach. It wasn't perfect teamwork—he often leaned too close, curious about the faint projections dancing in midair.
"Shion, pass me that cable," she said without looking, her tone steady.
He placed it carefully in her hand.
"Shion, don't touch that switch," she added as his fingers lingered near a blinking button.
"Right, right."
Reina sighed, brushing her bangs aside, then glanced at him. He was watching her again, not the equipment. Her cheeks heated slightly. "…Shion, stop staring."
His grin widened. "You're the one who keeps saying my name."
Reina turned back to her project, muttering a quiet, "Idiot," but her hands trembled just faintly, betraying how much she noticed it.
Shiro shifted then, curling into a soft ball on Reina's lap. Her purring filled the lab, a steady rhythm that somehow calmed the air around them. Without thinking, Reina adjusted her position to let Shiro rest more comfortably. Shion watched, his smile gentler now.
And then—like Shiro herself—Reina seemed to lean ever so slightly closer. Not much. Just enough that when she spoke again, her shoulder brushed his.
"...Shion can stay if he wants," she murmured.
For her, saying his name aloud had become as natural as breathing. Each time she spoke it, it slipped past her walls. And for Shion, hearing it was enough to make his chest feel full.
The lab, once so cold and sterile, now felt warmer. Cuddly even—because Reina herself, despite the serious mask she always wore, was beginning to act like Shiro. A little softer, a little more honest.