Saint Lycoris Academy — 18:42 hoursRain level: heavy
They said the storm would last all night.Perfect cover.
The campus empties slowly, the echo of bells dragging across the courtyard like a blade against glass.I stay beneath the covered walkway, notebook open on my knees, sketching petals that refuse to behave.It's supposed to be an observation report.But every time the pencil touches paper, the lines twist into faces.Every time I erase, one returns.His.
Diary Segment
[Fragment Log #03 — Subject Kaido, Ren]Observation: kind eyes, deliberate posture, no immediate threat response.Emotion registered: unquantifiable warmth (?) — recommend psychological isolation test.Note: I dislike how his name looks on paper. It feels too loud.
The scent of rain mixes with the iron tang that clings to my gloves.Strange how the smell of storms always reminds me of blood.
Mother Violet once said, "Rain is God cleaning His mistakes."If that's true, He must have made many.
A shadow cuts through the downpour.I don't need to look up to know who it is.
REN: "You'll get sick out here."KANA: "I don't get sick."REN: "Everyone gets sick."KANA: "Then I'll adapt."
He laughs under his breath—quiet, human, a sound too real for this garden of rehearsed devotion.He opens his umbrella and steps closer until the rain no longer touches my notebook.
For a moment, the mission logs, the conditioning, the static in my skull all fade.There is only the hush beneath the umbrella and the thin warmth of shared air.
Internal Echo — Crimson Doll (First Flicker)
[Unknown Voice Detected]"Warmth. Mine.""Smile again. Closer.""Touch him—see what happens."[Static laughter — childlike, melodic.]
REN: "You're always sketching. Can I see?"KANA: "No."REN: "You afraid I'll laugh?"KANA: "Afraid you'll see something you shouldn't."
He tilts his head, puzzled but gentle, and doesn't push.Instead, he kneels beside me. The umbrella shifts; the circle of dryness expands until it covers us both.
Raindrops drum on the fabric overhead—steady, metronomic, alive.Each tap feels like a heartbeat, learning to keep time with another.
He points to a smear of red ink near the edge of my page.
"That looks like a flower," he says.
I answer too quickly.
"It's not."
But it is—a lycoris bloom, six petals, one for each voice that hides beneath my calm.The page wrinkles beneath my fingers as if it wants to bleed.
Diary Fragment (later that night)
[Fragment Log #03-B]Observation: subject proximity tolerance = 0.3 m without hostility.Heart-rate spike = +40 bpm.Eye contact maintained 4.6 s.Interpretation: contamination confirmed.[Note scrawled in red ink:] His smile feels like anesthesia. It numbs the part that kills.
The rain keeps me awake long after curfew.The dorm hums with electricity and whispers—machines breathing prayers.
When I close my eyes, the voices return.
"He looked at us.""He liked it.""We should make him ours.""Shh. Not yet. He'll see the blood."
They hum like lullabies sung in a broken key.The rain outside syncs with my pulse until I can't tell which sound belongs to me.Every drop against the window feels like my name being rewritten.
Sometime near dawn, I drift into half-sleep.In the dream, the world is made of glass.Ren walks beneath a crimson sky, umbrella closed, rain soaking through him as if he doesn't care.He reaches for me.When our fingers touch, the glass fractures.From the cracks, petals bloom—red, endless, alive.
I wake gasping, the taste of metal on my tongue.My pillow smells faintly of roses—the kind that never grows in this academy.
System Report (auto-logged)
LYCORIS-UNIT: NOIRAlert: Emotional Deviation Detected.Designation Update: Crimson Doll — initialized.Command Tag: Protect via attachment response.Observation: Host has learned affection.
Morning comes reluctantly.The storm outside has thinned to mist, but inside me it continues.
I stand by the window, watching light bend through raindrops still clinging to the glass.Students file below in orderly procession, umbrellas color-coded by rank.Ren is among them—his umbrella black, slightly tilted, his stride out of sync.
I should log another observation.Instead, I trace one drop of water with my fingertip until it splits into two.
At breakfast, whispers ripple through the hall.Someone saw me in the storm with him.Mother Violet's gaze lingers as she passes; her perfume cuts like disinfectant.She says nothing. That's worse than punishment.
When the bell rings, Ren looks my way.Just a glance—small, uncalculated.It feels like he pulled the sun through the window.
During afternoon drills, my concentration fractures.Commands blur. Movements repeat too fast, too sharply.The instructor praises efficiency, not noticing the rhythm has changed.Every swing times itself to his heartbeat, even from across the courtyard.
I keep my eyes forward.Inside, the voices whisper again—
"Closer.""Keep him safe.""Or keep him."
I whisper back, "Be quiet."They laugh like children playing in the rain.
Evening.
The garden smells of wet stone and new beginnings it doesn't deserve.I find myself under the same walkway, notebook open again.This time I draw the petals deliberately—six, curling around a shadowed center.No faces. Not yet.
Behind me, footsteps.I don't turn.
REN: "You come here every night."KANA: "Routine."REN: "Or habit?"KANA: "Same thing."
He stands beside me, close enough that our reflections merge in the window's surface.The rain begins again—light, cautious, like it's waiting for permission.
REN: "You know, it's strange."KANA: "What is?"REN: "You talk like you're trying not to be real."
I pause, pencil hovering over paper.
KANA: "Maybe I'm not."
He smiles, and the world tilts.For one irrational moment, I want to believe that if he keeps smiling, the academy will forget we exist.
Night.
The voices hum in harmony now—six tones overlapping like a choir behind glass.They no longer argue. They sing.
"Protect the variable.""Cherish the warmth.""Bloom."
Their sound fills the quiet between heartbeats until I can't tell which one belongs to me.
I press the pillow over my head, but it doesn't stop the rain inside my ears.Somewhere between dreaming and waking, I realize what's happening.The system doesn't call it love.It calls it attachment conditioning.
But love and programming share a shape—both are cages disguised as purpose.
At 02:17, the dorm sensors register an unauthorized surge in emotional output.I feel like fever.The mirror flashes red.
For an instant, my reflection blinks independent of me.Her eyes glow faintly; a petal drifts from her hair and dissolves in the air.
"Command Sequence Complete.Designation: Crimson Doll — Stable.Primary Objective: Protect Subject Ren Kaido."
The light fades. My skin cools.But my pulse does not.
I kneel on the floor until the tremor subsides, whispering the only prayer I still remember.
"Bloom with grace. Bleed in silence."
Outside, thunder murmurs like approval.
By dawn, the rain finally stops.Water clings to every leaf in the courtyard, tiny mirrors catching the first light.The air smells clean, but the ground remembers.
I dress mechanically, hiding the red mark that's bloomed on my wrist—a petal-shaped scar, faint and warm to the touch.
When I open my notebook, the sketch from last night has changed.The petals are still there, but at their center now sits a single word written in my own hand:
Ren.
I don't remember writing it.I don't erase it either.
Somewhere outside, the storm has ended.Inside me, it begins again—softly, beautifully, endlessly—raining only where no one can see.
End of Diary #3 — "Petals in the Rain."