The First Release

The lock clicked shut with a "clack," completely sealing off the outside world. That faint sound rang out with startling clarity in the silent dorm room, like a dividing line splitting the interior and exterior into two utterly distinct worlds.

Kushida Kikyo stood rigidly in the center of Dorm 129, as if nailed to the spot. Her gaze swept quickly and frantically across this unfamiliar space—a desk clean to the point of coldness, sharply folded bedding on the bed, suitcases neatly arranged in the corner, and a faint, cedar-like chill permeating the air, the scent belonging to Fūki Ran. Unlike the messy boys' dorm she had imagined, everything here was orderly, exuding a distant aloofness that only tightened her already frayed nerves. Her fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of her thin clothes, knuckles turning white from the strain.

Fūki Ran didn't rush to speak. He walked steadily to the desk, picked up an electric kettle that looked expensive, poured in mineral water, and pressed the switch. The faint hum of the kettle was the only sound in the room. While waiting for the water to boil, he took a plain white ceramic cup from the cabinet and unhurriedly placed a small bag of Genmaicha inside. The entire process was calm and composed, as if Kushida's sudden visit had already been on his schedule.

Hot water poured into the cup, sending up white steam carrying the aroma of roasted rice. He gently slid the cup of tea to the empty side of the desk, then sat down in the ergonomic chair that looked quite comfortable, leaning back slightly, his gaze finally settling on her with calm composure.

"There's no one else here," he said, his voice not loud but clear as a stone thrown into a still lake, rippling through the sealed space. "The door is locked, and the curtains are drawn. You can... be yourself now, Kikyo."

The name "Kikyo" left his lips with a peculiar rhythm, causing Kushida's body to tremble uncontrollably. Not the distant "Kushida-san," nor the friendly "Kikyo-chan" friends might use, but simply the given name, stripped of the surname. There was no intimacy in this address, only a chilling calm that seemed to assert ownership, like a precise key trying to unlock her tightly sealed heart.

"I..." she opened her mouth, but her throat was dry and tight, her voice rough as if scraped by sandpaper. Her mind went blank. All the pre-planned words, all the excuses she might have used to defend herself or maintain dignity in extreme situations, crumbled to dust under his all-seeing gaze.

"Don't force yourself to say or do anything right away," Fūki said, as if seeing through her distress. His gaze swept over her slightly trembling calves and clenched fists. "If standing is uncomfortable, you can sit on the bed or the carpet. Of course, if you want to do something else... like, pour out all those things you've been piling up inside... this place is suitable too."

His tone was flat, impossible to tell if it was encouragement or a command, but it was like a finger gently pushing over the first domino. The long-suppressed, twisted negative emotions that had nearly burst her soul finally found a fragile breach in this absolutely safe, sealed space.

"Why..." she finally squeezed out the words, hoarse and dreamlike, her eyes hollow as she stared at the floor. "Why... of all people, you..."

Fūki didn't answer, didn't even change his posture. He just continued to watch her with those deep eyes that seemed capable of devouring all light, waiting patiently.

"Why did you have to see me like that!" Her voice suddenly shot up, carrying a tearing sob that shattered the room's feigned calm. She jerked her head up, her once sweet and cute face twisted with emotion, tears instantly breaking through the dam, smearing her carefully applied eyeliner into messy black streaks down her cheeks. "I was... I was pretending so well! Everyone believed me, liked me! Relied on me! Why did it have to be you... who found out! Why!"

She began pacing uncontrollably in the small open space in the center of the room, her steps chaotic and hurried, like a desperate trapped beast, radiating agitation and pain.

"Do you know how exhausting this is?! Huh?!" She suddenly turned to him, her eyes bloodshot and terrifying, almost roaring. "Every day! From the moment I open my eyes, I have to smile! Memorize the boring hobbies, birthdays, even the names of their pets for dozens of people in the class! Pretend to care about everyone, listen to their trivial complaints! Maintain that perfect, cheerful, understanding image at all times! Even when I feel sick to my stomach!"

She gasped for breath, her chest heaving violently as if starved for air.

"Those idiots! Those morons!" Her words grew increasingly venomous, as if she were vomiting bile. "Hirata Yousuke! Always acting like a goody-two-shoes, thinking he's some savior? Just looking at him makes me sick! Horikita Suzune! Playing all high and mighty! She's just a pitiful nobody! Sudo Ken! A muscle-brained fool! Yamauchi Haruki, Ike Kanji... and the rest of them! What gives them the right! To make me waste my energy on them! They just need a little recognition and welcome from me, and they come running like dogs wagging their tails! It's... it's absolutely disgusting!"

Fūki remained silent. He even took out what looked like an old leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen from somewhere, starting to jot things down. The scratching of the pen on paper formed a strange, unsettling duet with Kushida's hysterical accusations. His expression was focused, as if recording important experimental data or observing a rare case.

"Go on," he said without looking up, just uttering three words when Kushida paused from emotional exhaustion.

Those three words seemed to carry a magic, or perhaps they were the last straw. Kushida's sanity snapped completely. She began to detail, in the most caustic and venomous language, her true opinions of everyone in the class. From Ayanokoji's utter lack of presence, to Yukimura Teruhiko's bookishness, to Karuizawa Kei's seemingly strong but hollow vanity... every name that left her lips, coated in pink lipstick now twisted with rage, carried thick, almost tangible disgust. She didn't just curse her classmates; she cursed the class that bound her, the school that forced her to keep performing, and everyone and everything that compelled her to wear this heavy mask!

Throughout this process, her expression shifted unpredictably—sometimes sneering with hatred, sometimes gritting her teeth at certain memories, sometimes crying from extreme grievance and anger. That face, usually as pure and flawless as an angel's, was now etched with humanity's most primal ugliness and struggle, a far cry from Class D's sunshine angel.

When this storm of catharsis finally subsided, Kushida seemed drained of all strength. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed onto the cold floor with a thud. She gasped heavily, her bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat, her makeup a complete mess, her expensive dress wrinkled around her. She looked utterly disheveled, like a discarded doll.

The room was left with only the sound of her heavy breathing and the continuous, coldly calm scratching of Fūki's pen.

After a while, the scratching stopped. Fūki closed the notebook and capped the pen with a crisp click.

"Finished?" he asked calmly, as if he had just listened to some irrelevant broadcast.

Kushida looked up, her tear-blurred eyes fixed on the man who had remained as cold as an iceberg throughout. A bone-deep chill swept over her. Her unrestrained, ugly performance hadn't shocked or disgusted him; instead, it seemed entirely within his expectations and control. This realization frightened her more than being caught in the first place.

"You..." her voice was hoarse, carrying a post-storm weakness and deep confusion. "What kind of person are you? What... what do you want from me?"

Fūki slowly stood up, his shadow cast by the light completely enveloping Kushida on the floor. He walked over to her, crouched down, and met her eyes at the same level. The gesture should have seemed friendly, but the absolute control radiating from him made Kushida instinctively want to shrink back.

He didn't answer her question. Instead, he reached out, using his fingertip to gently wipe away the tear stains and smeared mascara on her cheek. The motion carried a strange tenderness, incongruous with his demeanor, but his gaze at her remained like that of a scientist observing a specimen under a microscope—calm, analytical, devoid of emotion.

"What I want," he said, his voice low and magnetic, like a devil's whisper, "is the real Kushida Kikyo. Not the universally loved, flawless 'angel,' nor the hysterical 'devil' sitting on the floor right now."

His fingertip applied slight pressure, lifting her chin, forcing her to meet his unfathomable eyes.

"Remember, Dorm 129 is the only place where you can drop all your masks. And your true self—whether light or dark—from now on, belongs only to me."

Kushida stared at him blankly, her pupils contracting slightly from fear and an indescribable shock. In this completely sealed space, before this man who had seen through all her disguises and accepted all her ugliness, she felt more vulnerable and transparent than ever, as if her very soul had been laid bare. But strangely, within this suffocating sense of control, within those words "belongs only to me," her long-strained, nearly snapping nerves felt a twisted, morbid sense of... relief.

At that moment, she clearly realized she had completely fallen into the hands of this man named Fūki Ran, with no chance of escape. And what was even more terrifying was that a small part of her heart was trembling in anticipation of it.

(I've kind of forgotten the original work, feel free to remind me of the plot, I'll keep writing.)