Kamikawa High – Class 1-B.
Math was brutal.
Their new homeroom teacher, Lee Seok-won, was young and loud, passionate about equations nobody cared about. When he called on Souta to read a question aloud, she stumbled. Her Seoul pronunciation made her stand out.
"Try again," he said kindly.
Souta flushed red. She mumbled the formula again.
From the back row, someone whispered, "Tokyo girl can't even count."
Ryouma heard it.
Did nothing.
Just wrote harder into his notebook, carving deep enough that the pen tip cracked.
Lunch.
Souta sat with Hyejin again. This time they shared bread. Laughed.
Hyejin taught her the Kamikawa dialect for "You're funny" –
"너 참 웃기다~"
It almost felt like high school was normal.
Until the P.E. teacher asked for emergency contact forms.
Souta froze.
"What do I write?" she whispered.
Ryouma looked down at his. The blank where "부모님 (Parent)" should've gone.
Instead, he scrawled:
Katarina. Aunt. No number. No address.
It felt like a lie. But safer than the truth.
Evening.
Katarina stood in the doorway of their new home, watching the forest.
She felt it.
A chill in the wind. A stillness in the trees.
Something was coming.
Seoul. Back at the Underground.
A wall was covered in maps and string.
Kairi's hand hovered over the east coast. Kamikawa circled in red ink.
Her crew was silent.
She turned to them, her voice a whisper:
"No more searching. We know where they are."
"We prepare to move. No more mistakes. Next time I see my children…"
"They'll understand why I had to kill the rest."
Ryouma woke up from a dream of fire.
Sweat clung to his chest. His hand reached under his pillow, instinctively clutching the metal bar he'd hidden there—a broken crowbar from the shed.
Across the room, Souta stirred.
"I saw her," he whispered. "Again."
Souta didn't ask what he meant.
She already knew.
Because she had too.
Kamikawa High – Class 1-B.
Math was brutal.
Their new homeroom teacher, Lee Seok-won, was young and loud, passionate about equations nobody cared about. When he called on Souta to read a question aloud, she stumbled. Her Seoul pronunciation made her stand out.
"Try again," he said kindly.
Souta flushed red. She mumbled the formula again.
From the back row, someone whispered, "Tokyo girl can't even count."
Ryouma heard it.
Did nothing.
Just wrote harder into his notebook, carving deep enough that the pen tip cracked.
Lunch.
Souta sat with Hyejin again. This time they shared bread. Laughed.
Hyejin taught her the Kamikawa dialect for "You're funny" –
"너 참 웃기다~"
It almost felt like high school was normal.
Until the P.E. teacher asked for emergency contact forms.
Souta froze.
"What do I write?" she whispered.
Ryouma looked down at his. The blank where "부모님 (Parent)" should've gone.
Instead, he scrawled:
Katarina. Aunt. No number. No address.
It felt like a lie. But safer than the truth.
Evening.
Katarina stood in the doorway of their new home, watching the forest.
She felt it.
A chill in the wind. A stillness in the trees.
Something was coming.
Seoul. Back at the Underground.
A wall was covered in maps and string.
Kairi's hand hovered over the east coast. Kamikawa circled in red ink.
Her crew was silent.
She turned to them, her voice a whisper:
"No more searching. We know where they are."
"We prepare to move. No more mistakes. Next time I see my children…"
"They'll understand why I had to kill the rest."
Ryouma woke up from a dream of fire.
Sweat clung to his chest. His hand reached under his pillow, instinctively clutching the metal bar he'd hidden there—a broken crowbar from the shed.
Across the room, Souta stirred.
"I saw her," he whispered. "Again."
Souta didn't ask what he meant.
She already knew.
Because she had too.