It didn't take much convincing to leave the train station.
Araragi wasn't dead—just caught in that in-between space, body limp but not lifeless. He was light enough for me to carry, though I had to stop every so often to shift his weight. It felt wrong somehow. Like I was carrying the protagonist's body while walking off-script.
Kiss-shot followed behind me, barefoot and unimpressed.
"You're certain it's empty?" she asked.
"The cram school?"
She nodded, side-eyeing a pigeon on the sidewalk like she was trying to decide if she should eat it.
"Yeah," I said. "Abandoned a while ago. I remember—uh, I saw it once. Online."
"'Online,'" she repeated like it was a foreign term for disease. "You speak in circles."
"You walk in them," I muttered under my breath.
She caught it. Smirked. "Is that insolence?"
"No," I said. "Just exhaustion flavored with honesty."
We kept walking. Her small feet made no sound, like she wasn't really touching the ground. I still hadn't gotten used to seeing her like this—this tiny, elegant child-shaped thing with eyes like a sunrise caught in a hurricane.
"You don't ask many questions," she said.
"I already know too many answers."
"That should make you more curious, not less."
"Or maybe it makes me cautious."
She hummed softly. "How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
"Too old to be stupid. Too young to pretend to be wise."
"And you?"
"Too old to care."
Her voice drifted like fog, half amused, half hollow.
Another pause.
Then:
"Why a cram school?"
"It's quiet," I said. "Out of the way. No one goes there. And it's built like a tomb, which seems fitting."
"You have a flair for dramatics."
"You're a vampire in a child's body," I said. "We're both kind of embarrassing if you think about it too long."
That earned a real laugh. Short. Sharp. "I like you," she said. "In the way one likes a strange smell they keep sniffing just to be sure it's bad."
"Comforting."
The streets narrowed as we entered the older part of town. Everything here looked forgotten. Rusted vending machines, signs with peeling paint, windows that reflected nothing but dust and time.
The cram school came into view.
Three stories tall, square and silent. The paint was fading. Some windows were cracked. Grass and vines curled around the foundation like it was being slowly swallowed by the earth.
"Home sweet home," I said, shifting Araragi's weight.
Kiss-shot stared up at it. "This is acceptable."
"I thought you might say that."
We slipped inside. The air was stale, like books left too long in the sun. Broken desks were pushed into the corners of classrooms. A dry erase board was still scrawled with equations from a lesson no one finished.
We found an old staff room on the second floor. The couch cushions were ugly but intact. I set Araragi down gently.
Kiss-shot sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, her golden hair pooling around her like a blanket. She didn't say anything for a long time.
Neither did I.
Until she broke the silence with a question that felt like a punch in a soft place.
"Do you think it was cowardice or mercy that kept you from offering your blood?"
I looked at her.
She wasn't accusing. Just... asking.
"Both," I said. "Maybe neither."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the best I've got."
She seemed to accept that. Or at least shelved it for later.
"You said you saw this place online," she said.
"Yeah."
"Was it real?"
"Depends on your definition of real."
She turned her gaze on me fully now. "You are not like Araragi Koyomi."
"Thanks."
"That wasn't praise."
"I didn't say it sounded like praise."
Another long moment passed.
Then:
"I wonder," she said, almost to herself, "if you're here to change my story."
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe I'm just here to watch it unfold the same way with different shadows."
She looked at me for a long time. Then smiled—not the cruel kind, not the sad kind. Something in between.
"Be careful, human," she said. "Witnesses have a habit of becoming participants."
"Only if the story asks for them," I said.
Her smile widened.
"Then tell me—what will you do if I ask?"