Ever since that hysterical outburst, Kushida Kikyo had felt as though invisible threads were pulling her along. By day, she was still the sweet-smiling, helpful heart of Class D, playing her "Angel" role to perfection. But whenever night fell and her true self began to stir beneath the mask, her feet would always carry her, almost unconsciously, toward the door on the first floor of the Boys' Dormitory.
At first, her visits were tinged with obvious hesitation and fear. She always came late at night, when the halls were silent and empty, appearing soundlessly outside Dorm 129 like a ghost. Then she would knock in the faint, distinctive rhythm they had agreed on. A part of her still hoped he wouldn't open the door, hoped the whole thing was just a nightmare.
But the door always opened. Fūki Ran seemed to be waiting for her every time, as if he could predict her arrival. His face showed no surprise when he opened the door. He simply stepped aside to let her in, then locked it, the crisp click serving as the overture to each of their secret meetings.
The room was always neat and quiet, carrying his distinctive cedar-like scent. It felt like an observation post cut off from the rest of the world. And Kushida was his only subject.
Little by little, she began to shed more of her disguises in that space. It was no longer just verbal complaints and curses; she began to reveal smaller, more private habits and genuine emotions.
Once, she sprawled on the carpet like a heap of sludge, utterly unconcerned with appearances, her back against the edge of Fūki's bed. Without realizing it, she was viciously tearing at a satin bow printed with cute cartoon characters, the kind used to decorate presents. In a tone utterly at odds with her usual image, thick with irritation and malice, she complained about the hopeless romantic troubles some girl had confided in her that day—troubles she considered unbelievably stupid. As she spoke, she picked at the delicate bow with her nails until it tore into shreds. Colored threads scattered across the carpet like the fragments of her shattered disguise.
"God, she's so annoying... What's there to agonize over? If you don't like him, dump him. Why pretend you're so devoted..." she muttered, her eyes fierce as her hands grew more violent.
Fūki didn't stop her or even look her way. He sat at his desk, facing his laptop as if analyzing some sort of data, occasionally tapping at the keyboard. But his peripheral vision—or perhaps all his senses—remained fixed on her. He remembered every detail of her emotional shifts, every characteristic of the ways she vented. He was recording, analyzing, constructing a complete model of the "real Kushida Kikyo."
On another occasion, she brought a pack of expensive imported cookies in elegant packaging. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, she first nibbled them like a hamster, savoring each bite with almost reverent care. A look of contentment spread across her face—the innocent pleasure of an ordinary girl, something she rarely showed. But as she continued eating, she seemed to remember something unpleasant. Her expression darkened, and suddenly, as if venting her anger, she poured the remaining cookies into her palm and clenched her fist! The expensive cookies let out a mournful crunch in her grip, crumbling into a greasy, sugary mess. She stared at the wreckage in her palm, her face twisted with a mixture of satisfaction and pain.
Fūki held out a wet wipe at just the right moment.
"Wipe it off." His command was brief and clear.
Kushida froze for a moment, then obediently took it and carefully wiped the sticky crumbs from her hand. Her movements gradually grew more precise, the initial violence giving way to care. It seemed as though she was using the action to calm the emotions that had once again gotten out of control. Fūki, meanwhile, coolly observed the entire process, from her losing control to regaining it.
He wasn't merely an observer; he was a guide—or, more accurately, a tamer.
He began assigning her a few simple "tasks."
At first, they were just gathering information. "Keep an eye on the details of Hirata and Karuizawa's interactions lately." "Listen for anyone in class discussing what form the Special Exam might take."
These tasks weren't difficult. To some extent, they involved things she could easily pick up on anyway as the "social hub" of the class. But giving them to her as "tasks" changed their nature entirely. It reinforced the master-servant relationship between them, reminding her that her "value" now depended largely on his "needs."
When she received these tasks, Kushida felt conflicted and humiliated. But another emotion was quietly taking root as well: the strange feeling of being "used," of being "needed." When she reported what she had observed to Fūki, with a hint of eagerness for praise she could barely detect in herself, a mere "Mm" from him left her inexplicably disappointed. Yet if he occasionally said "Not bad" or gave her a thoughtful look, a tiny, shameful thrill would rise in her heart.
Even she was frightened by this emotional shift. She seemed to be growing accustomed to this twisted relationship, even beginning to depend on the secret space that could contain all her darkness—and on the man who saw through her and controlled her.
Fūki kept the rhythm precisely. He never pushed her too hard, but neither did he let her relax. Like a master pianist, he played the complicated strings of Kushida's heart, sometimes stroking them gently, sometimes pressing hard, sounding out the melody he wanted. He knew that fear and dependence were the two pillars of control. And now, those pillars were sinking deeper and deeper into Kushida Kikyo's heart.
Kushida came again that night. Unlike usual, she didn't immediately start complaining or venting. Instead, she stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, her hands behind her back and her gaze wandering.
Fūki put down the book in his hands and looked at her. He said nothing, merely asking a question with his eyes.
"Um..." Kushida took a deep breath, as if gathering her courage, then brought out from behind her back a carefully wrapped little box tied with a ribbon. "Today... was the day that limited-edition cookies went on sale at the shopping street... I... I waited in line for ages to get them..."
Her voice grew softer and softer, and a rare blush appeared on her face—one that wasn't an act. This wasn't a task, and no one had asked her to do it. She had done it of her own accord.
Fūki looked at the box, then at the girl standing before him with her head lowered, as if awaiting judgment. A faint glimmer, like light skimming across an icy plain, passed through his eyes. He didn't reach for it right away.
Kushida's heart sank little by little, and humiliation and self-loathing began to well up inside her. She felt like a complete fool.
Just as she was about to pull her hand back, Fūki finally reached out and took the box. His fingertips brushed her palm by chance, sending a faint shiver through her.
"Thank you," he said calmly, setting the box on his desk without opening it right away.
That alone made a tiny firework explode in Kushida's heart, a mix of bitterness and a trace of twisted sweetness. She quickly lowered her head to hide the complicated emotions churning in her eyes.
Fūki took in every part of her reaction. He knew the spiral of domestication had descended another turn. She was beginning to try, in her own way, to maintain this dangerous and twisted relationship. That was exactly what he wanted to see.
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