The lock clicked shut, cutting her off from the outside world. The small sound stood out in the silent dorm room, like a dividing line separating two entirely different worlds.
Kushida Kikyo stood rigidly in the middle of Dorm 129, as if nailed to the spot. Her gaze darted over the unfamiliar space in panic: a desk so tidy it was almost cold, bedding arranged with crisp corners, suitcases neatly lined up in the corner. The air was permeated with a faint, sharp scent like cedar—the scent of Fūki Ran. Unlike the messy boys' dormitory she had imagined, everything here was orderly, exuding a sense of aloofness that seemed to keep people at arm's length and made her already taut nerves even more uneasy. Her fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of her thin clothes, her knuckles whitening with the force.
Fūki didn't rush to speak. He walked steadily over to the desk, picked up an expensive-looking electric kettle, filled it with bottled water, and pressed the switch. The faint hum of the kettle was the only sound in the room. While he waited for the water to boil, he took a plain white porcelain cup from the cabinet and unhurriedly placed a small packet of genmaicha in it. He went through the whole process calmly, as if Kushida's sudden arrival had already been on his schedule.
Hot water poured into the cup, sending up white steam that carried the scent of rice. He gently pushed the tea to an empty spot on the desk, then sat down in an ergonomic-looking swivel chair that seemed quite comfortable. Leaning back slightly, he finally let his calm gaze settle on her.
"There's no one else here," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it was like a stone dropped into a still lake, its ripples clear in the enclosed space. "The door's locked, and the curtains are drawn. You can... be yourself now, Kikyo."
The name "Kikyo" from his lips had a strange cadence to it, making her body shudder violently against her will. It wasn't the distant "Kushida," nor the "little Kikyo" a friend might use. He had dropped her surname and kept only her given name. There was no affection in it, only a heart-stirring calm, as if he had already laid claim to her. It was like a precisely cut key, trying to pry open the door to her tightly locked heart.
"I..." She opened her mouth, but her throat was so dry and tight that her voice came out hoarse and grating, as if scraped with sandpaper. Her mind went blank. Every prepared excuse, every possible thing she might say to justify herself or preserve her dignity in an extreme situation, crumbled to dust beneath his all-seeing gaze.
"You don't have to force yourself to say or do anything right away." Fūki seemed to see how uncomfortable she was. His eyes passed over her trembling legs and clenched fists. "If standing is uncomfortable, you can sit on the edge of the bed or on the carpet. Of course, if you want to do something else... like pour out everything you've been holding inside for so long... this is a good place for that, too."
His tone was flat, neither encouraging nor commanding, yet it was like a finger gently toppling the first domino. Her long-suppressed, twisted negative emotions, which had nearly burst her soul apart, found a fragile outlet in this moment, in this completely secure, enclosed space.
"Why..." she finally managed to say, her voice so low and hoarse it was like a murmur in a dream. She stared blankly at the floor. "Why... did it have to be you..."
Fūki didn't answer. He didn't even change his posture. He simply kept watching her with those deep eyes, as if they could swallow all light, and waited patiently.
"Why did you have to see me like that!" Her voice suddenly rose, breaking into a sob that sounded like something tearing apart and shattering the room's feigned calm. She jerked her head up. Her once sweet, pretty face twisted with agitation, and tears instantly spilled down her cheeks, smearing her carefully drawn eyeliner into messy black streaks. "I... I worked so hard to hide it! Everyone believed me, liked me, depended on me! Why did it have to be you... who found out?! Why?!"
She began pacing uncontrollably across the small open space in the middle of the room. Her steps were hurried and erratic, like a desperate beast trapped in an invisible cage. Restlessness and anguish radiated from her.
"Do you know how exhausting it is?! Huh?!" She suddenly turned toward him, her eyes bloodshot, and all but roared. "Every day! Every single day! I have to smile from the moment I open my eyes! I have to remember the boring preferences and birthdays of dozens of people in the class, even the names of their pets! I have to pretend I care about everyone and listen to them complain about their trivial problems! I have to keep up that perfect, cheerful, understanding act at all times! Even when I'm so disgusted I want to throw up!"
She panted rapidly, her chest heaving as if she couldn't get enough air.
"Those idiots! Those morons!" Her words grew more and more vicious, as if she wanted to spit out her bile. "Hirata Yousuke! He acts like such a nice guy all day, thinking he's some kind of savior? Just looking at him makes me sick! Horikita Suzune! What's with that stuck-up act? She's just a pathetic loser no one wants! Ken Sudō! A musclehead with nothing but muscles in his brain! Yamauchi Haruki, Kanji Ike... and all the rest of them... Who do they think they are?! Why should I waste my energy dealing with them?! You give them the tiniest bit of recognition and welcome, and they come running over like dogs wagging their tails! It's just... just disgusting!"
Fūki remained silent. He even produced an old-looking leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen from somewhere, then began writing something down. The scratch of his pen across the paper, paired with Kushida's hysterical accusations, formed a strange and unsettling duet. His expression was intent, as if he were recording important experimental data or observing a rare case.
"Go on." When Kushida paused because she was too worked up, he didn't even look up. He simply uttered the words in a flat voice.
Those three words seemed to have some kind of magic—or perhaps they were the last straw. Kushida's reason snapped completely. She began listing, in painstaking detail and with the cruelest, most vicious words she could find, what she truly thought of everyone in the class. From Ayanokoji's utter lack of presence to Yukimura Teruhiko's bookishness, then Karuizawa Kei's seemingly domineering yet hollow vanity... Every name that left her pink-lipsticked lips, now twisted with anger, came wrapped in a deep loathing so intense it was almost tangible. She cursed not only her classmates, but also the class that bound her, the school that forced her to keep performing, and everyone and everything that made her wear this heavy mask!
As she went on, her expression shifted constantly. At times, she sneered with hatred; at others, she clenched her teeth as certain memories came back to her, or wept from overwhelming hurt and fury. Her face, usually as pure and flawless as an angel's, was now filled with the most primal ugliness and struggle of human nature. She was nothing like the sunny angel of Class D.
When the storm of emotion finally passed, it was as if every bone and ounce of strength had been pulled from Kushida's body. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed onto the cold floor with a thump. She gulped down air, her bangs stuck to her forehead with sweat. Her makeup had long since run into a mess, and her expensive dress clung to her in crumpled folds. She looked wretched, like a discarded doll that had been played with until it broke.
Only her ragged breathing and the steady, cruelly calm scratch of Fūki's pen remained in the room.
After a while, the scratching stopped. Fūki closed the notebook and capped his pen with a crisp click.
"Are you finished?" he asked calmly, as if he'd just listened to an unimportant radio broadcast.
Kushida looked up at the man before her, who had remained as calm as an iceberg from beginning to end. A bone-deep chill swept over her. Her utterly unrestrained, hideously ugly performance had not shocked or disgusted him. If anything... it all seemed to have been within his expectations and control. That realization frightened her more than the fact that he had caught her secret.
"You..." Her voice was hoarse, weakened as if she had just survived a disaster, and full of confusion. "Who are you, really? What... what do you want from me?"
Fūki slowly rose to his feet. His silhouette cast a shadow in the lamplight, completely enveloping Kushida where she sat on the floor. He walked over to her and crouched down, meeting her eye to eye. The gesture should have seemed comforting, but the absolute control he radiated made her instinctively want to shrink back.
He didn't answer her question. Instead, he reached out and very gently brushed his fingertip over the tear tracks and smeared mascara on her cheek. The touch was strangely tender, at odds with his nature, but his gaze remained as cool and analytical as if she were a specimen under a microscope, entirely without emotion.
"What I want," he said, his voice low and magnetic, like a devil's whisper, "is the real Kushida Kikyo. Not the universally beloved, flawless 'angel,' and not the hysterical 'demon' sitting on the floor right now."
He pressed his fingertips slightly harder beneath her chin, making her look into his unfathomable eyes.
"Remember, Dorm 129 is the only place where you can take off every disguise. And the real you—whether light or dark—from now on, belongs to me alone."
Kushida stared at him, her pupils contracting slightly with fear and some indescribable shock. In this completely sealed space, before a man who had seen through every disguise and accepted everything unsightly about her, she felt more vulnerable and exposed than ever, as if her soul had been stripped bare. But strangely, in the suffocating intensity of his control, in his words—"belongs to me alone"—the nerves she had kept taut for so long, nearly to the point of snapping, seemed to feel a twisted, unhealthy... relief.
In that moment, she realized clearly that she had fallen completely into the hands of the man named Fūki Ran, with no chance of escape. And more frightening still, a small part of her, deep inside, was trembling faintly because of it, even... looking forward to it.
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