The late afternoon breeze drifted gently through the courtyard, rustling leaves against warm stone steps. Students were scattering home or toward clubrooms, but under the old sycamore tree, five figures lingered.
It had become a habit.
Not that they said it out loud.
Rei's expression was unreadable—thoughtful yet detached. Mila leaned back against the tree trunk, her hair tied lazily with a red band. Yuen was half-lying across the bench, chewing gummy snacks, and Leo held a slim file on his lap.
Only Annika remained quiet and contemplative.
Rei was the one who finally broke the silence.
"So," she said softly, eyes scanning their circle, "did anyone sleep well after yesterday?"
The others didn't need clarification.
Yuen sat up, chew-paused mid-snack. "You mean 'Kai stares three idiots into submission' yesterday?"
"That's an oversimplification," Leo said, flipping open the file at his side. "But accurate."
Mila nodded lightly. "People don't usually back down from him. I've seen Nolan bark at worse."
"I'll say this," Yuen added, gesturing dramatically. "If Kai ever opens a meditation class, I'll join."
Rei gave him a flat look. "He's a breathing threat, not a yoga guru."
Annika's gaze finally lifted. She spoke quietly but firmly.
"He knew the exact amount of pressure to use. No more."
The others nodded. It wasn't the fight that impressed them—there had been none. It was Kai's restraint that stuck with them.
Leo placed the file on the table. "About that."
Suddenly, the air around them shifted.
This was why they'd gathered. This moment.
Rei opened the file. Five heads leaned in.
"Basic intel," she said. "Pieced together from public records. Nothing invasive."
She pulled out a rough profile sheet.
"Kai Ardent. Transferred from two schools. Birth record from Kalden region. Father unlisted. Mother — Emi Ardent — deceased."
The group stilled.
"Cause of death?" Mila asked quietly.
Rei slid over a news clipping. An old car photo, crumpled against a median.
"Accident. Three years ago. His mother and younger sister."
Yuen blinked. "Sister?"
"Mei Ardent. Nine," Leo confirmed.
Yuen leaned back, brow furrowed.
"That means when he was… what, thirteen? Fourteen? That happened?"
Annika closed her eyes for a moment — something pained, heavy. She didn't know what losing a sibling felt like, but she knew loss.
Leo tapped the report softly. "After that, his school records get quiet. No behavior flags, no academic notes. Clean."
"Too clean," Rei murmured. "Scrubbed intentionally."
Mila folded her arms. "Who would run that kind of cover?"
Leo answered, without hesitation, "Only someone with reach. Or someone protecting something."
Yuen took a deep breath and looked at Annika. "You think… he's from a world like ours?"
Annika weighed her words.
"He could be."
Rei nodded slightly. "And if he is, he's doing everything right. Staying small. Staying silent."
Leo returned the papers to their sleeve. "We shouldn't dig further. That's his right."
"No rumors," Mila agreed. "No pity."
Yuen raised his hand. "Seconded," he said with a small smile. "But… we should ask him one day. When he's ready."
Rei looked at them all, her voice level.
"And until then? We let him be."
There was no argument. Only quiet agreement.
Annika said nothing more, but her eyes lingered on the space where Kai usually walked at this hour — already gone.
Something heavy settled in her chest.
Not worry.
Not fear.
Just… curiosity. And something slower.
---
Kai didn't know anything about their conversation.
He walked home as he always did — quietly, deliberately. He didn't count the blocks. He didn't listen for pursuers. Old habits lived in his reflexes, not his conscious mind.
The sun threw soft gold across the rooftops of the Sato neighborhood as he entered the gate.
"Kai?" Yuto called out, bright and beaming.
"Yes," Kai answered.
"You're five minutes early today!!" the boy grinned.
Kai ruffled his hair gently — the smallest gesture of affection he ever allowed.
"School ended on time."
Inside, his grandmother Akiko poked her head out of the kitchen window.
"Ah — dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes."
Kai's shoulders eased as he removed his shoes.
"Thank you."
He moved with familiarity, quietly setting his schoolbag down, washing his hands just as she liked.
Grandfather Hikaru sat where he always did in the evening — by the sliding screen, book in hand, posture straight.
"Kai," he said without lifting his eyes from the page.
Kai approached and stood still.
Hikaru closed the book gently. His voice was calm and firm.
"Something weighed on you today."
It wasn't a question.
Kai didn't try to hide it.
"…People looked differently," he said softly.
"Ah," Hikaru replied. "You were observed."
Kai didn't flinch — but something shifted in his gaze. "I didn't want attention," he said.
"Few who are cut to survive do," Hikaru murmured.
They stood in silence for a moment longer than most men could tolerate.
Finally, Hikaru spoke again, nearly a whisper:
"You carry the memory well, Kai. But it must not be your only companion."
Then he turned back to his book.
Kai didn't answer.
He returned to his room, sat quietly, and took out the only photo he kept.
A mother's bright smile.
A little sister's wild hair and playful grin.
A rare, warm mirror of his own face beside them.
He stared just long enough to remember.
Then gently set it back in the drawer.
He wasn't ready to expose those memories.
Not yet.