Conspirators
The room smelled of old plastic, incense, and stale coffee. VHS towers leaned against the walls like forgotten obelisks. A paper talisman fluttered lazily in the breeze of an overworked fan.
Once again they were meeting in that cramped backroom of Morigana Video.
The floor had been cleared just enough for a chalk circle — five lines crossing at odd angles, half talisman, half geometry problem.
Rin crouched near the center, sleeves rolled up, muttering in irritation. “Okay, listen carefully this time. The circle represents the boundary between the Five Phases. Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water. You let the flow run in balance, you don’t brute-force it.”
Itsuro sat cross-legged a few feet away, watching her work with a neutral, faintly amused expression. “Right. And if the balance breaks, we get spontaneous combustion or something?”
Rin shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through incense smoke. “No, genius. It just fails. Which still matters, because I’m trying to teach you something real here.”
Itsuro, meanwhile, tilted his head, calmly studying the setup. “So… if the fire feeds earth, and earth stabilizes metal, then this pattern—”
He reached forward and rotated one of the talismans slightly.
“—should let the flow stabilize across all five points.”
Rin froze. “Don’t—!”
Too late. The candles flickered — then steadied. The circle pulsed faintly, lines glowing with a dull, ember-red hue.
Kenji blinked. “...Wait. Did that actually work?”
Rin stared at the floor, mouth half open. “It’s… correct,” she admitted. “How did you—”
"If it makes sense it's only normal to learn and understand it."
Kenji snorted. “Yeah, Rin, face it — he’s that kid in class who studies the night before and still beats your score.”
“I hate that type,” Rin muttered under her breath.
“Tragic,” Itsuro said, standing and brushing dust off his knees. “Anyway, what’s next? Summoning? Divination?”
"Nothing, I don't feel like doing this anymore."
After a while the chalk lines had dulled to white again. The last candle sputtered and died in a hiss of wax.
Kenji flipped the light switch twice, as if to reset the scene. The buzzing bulb came back to life, yellow and grainy.
“Cut to aftermath,” he muttered. “Three survivors, one haunted storeroom. No jump scare. Boring.”
"I was just learning the basics, I'm not going to try anything risky just yet."
Rin sat back on her heels, exhausted more by frustration than exertion. “You two treat this like a game.”
"Oh yeah, Rin, I was wondering if you could help me get some stuff. You're good at that, right?" said Itsuro.
Rin blinked, uncertain whether he meant it as a compliment or a setup. “Getting… what?”
Itsuro smiled faintly, polite and unthreatening, the way someone smiles before revealing they already have what they want. He reached into his bag and placed something on the table between them with a soft metallic clack.
A handgun.
The sound pulled the oxygen out of the room.
Kenji went still, eyes narrowing behind his bangs. “...That’s not a prop, is it?”
Itsuro turned it slightly so the dim light caught the barrel. “No. I got fifteen rounds, by the way. Oh, and Kentarō has one too.”
Rin stared.
Rin’s fingers twitched on her skirt hem, a nervous tic she tried to hide. “You shouldn’t… even have that here. If someone finds out—”
“They won’t.” Itsuro turned the pistol over once, studying it like a jeweler would a rare coin. “But I have a practical problem. Ammunition’s limited. Fifteen rounds. And the recoil makes training with it inconvenient.”
He looked up, tone unchanged. “I want more bullets. And something similar — an airsoft replica, same model. I can practice handling without drawing attention.”
Rin swallowed. “You— you think I can get that?”
“I think,” Itsuro said, “you could. If you wanted to.”
Kenji exhaled through his nose, leaning back. “Wow, talk about pressuring her.”
Itsuro’s smile didn’t move, but his eyes flicked toward Kenji. “You’d prefer I call it a request?”
“I’d prefer you don’t drag us into gun-running, actually.”
“It’s not running,” Itsuro said. “It’s preparation.”
Rin looked between them, heart thudding. She gathered up the used talismans, stacking them neatly beside her. She kept her eyes on the papers, ocassionally glancing at the gun.
“…Where did you even get that?”
Itsuro didn’t answer. He looked past her, gaze distant — somewhere behind the walls.
A vague image flickered through his mind, disjointed and colorless:
An alleyway.
Concrete slick with rain.
A man slumped against a wall, breathing wet and shallow, a stain spreading from under his ribs.
The smell of iron.
The way the weapon had felt, warm when he picked it up.
“Let’s say it was… providence.” He dusted off his palms and stood, brushing his knees. “In any case, there’s work ahead. Preparations to make. Pieces to move.”
“Pieces,” Kenji echoed, a bitter little chuckle in his throat. “Right, of course you'd talk like this.”
"Hey, I like what I like."
“Most people don’t like treating others like pieces,” Rin murmured.
“Most people don’t have ambition,” Itsuro countered lightly. Then, tilting his head, his tone turned almost teasing. “Speaking of ambition, Rin… tell me. You don’t happen to know any spell for mind control, do you?”
Rin looked up, startled. “…What?”
He smiled, the polite kind that didn’t reach the eyes. “A charm, hypnosis, anything that gets inside the head. You’re the expert on this sort of thing.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “You’re joking.”
“Half,” he said. “Only half.”
Kenji leaned back in his chair, smirking faintly. “You planning to start a cult, or just making preparations for the next student council elections?”
Rin, flustered, tried to explain. “Even if I did know something like that— it wouldn’t work on the Awakened. Or the council. They’re… reinforced. Their minds don’t bend the same way.”
Itsuro chuckled quietly, the sound dry and precise. “Who said anything about them?”
That silenced both of them.
He took a step closer, just enough for the light to catch the edge of his expression — calm, curious, too casual for what he was suggesting.
“I meant someone else. Some… random nobody. A stand-in. Brainwash them thoroughly, set the right suggestions, give them the right goal…”
His gaze drifted upward, tracing the ceiling tiles as if envisioning it.
“Have them walk straight into the jaws of the council. Take a few of our problems with them on the way down.”
Kenji whistled low. “So, what, a mystical Manchurian candidate? That’s your play?”
Itsuro’s lips curved faintly. “You make it sound so… political.”
Rin looked genuinely unsettled now. “That’s… creepy.”
“Efficient,” Itsuro corrected softly. “And elegant, if done right.”
“Creepy,” Rin repeated, firmer this time.
Kenji’s tone was dry, almost performative. “You know, I’m not sure what’s worse — the idea, or how normal you sound saying it.”
Itsuro just smiled again, and this time there was a flicker of genuine amusement. “Don’t worry. I’m only thinking aloud. Nothing more.”
Rin stared at him.
“We don’t have the luxury of fair play,” he said, and there was no flourish to it, no dramatic pause — only the fact of the sentence, delivered like a clinical observation. “If we can’t beat them in direct combat, we need to look for other ways.”
"Oh, please, bless us with your grand plans, Satan." said Kenji.
"Well, for starters, not just the president, but that wannabe noble gang leader chick lives in one of the forbidden zones too, right?" Itsuro explained. "We could easily set their houses on fire in the middle of the night, while they slept. Or even go for poison, that could work, I bet Rin could get her hands on some strong stuff."
He listed, one after another, not as plans to be argued over but as facts of a ledger that had already been tallied. He said the words plainly — poison, fire, planted accidents — without rancor, almost bored, as if he were cataloguing weather conditions rather than crimes.
"Wow, that's low." finally responded Rin.
“You can be romantic about it,” he says, “and try to pick apart their defenses in the open with public scrapes, glory fights, the whole cinematic rigmarole. Or you can be honest.” He flicks the ash from the nearby pile with a thumb. “Honest is quieter. More certain.”
Kenji, who’s been trying to treat everything as a scene to be filmed, snorts and lifts an eyebrow. “You mean… less dramatic. Less meaty for the camera.”
Itsurō shrugs like it’s the same thing either way. “Drama is fine if you’re paying the price. I’m talking about making the problem stop being a problem. Not for spectacle, but for effect. No grandstanding. No heroics.” His gaze drifts to the chalk circle, then back to Rin. “You get one clean turn of events. That’s what I mean by ‘surer.’”
Kenji leans forward, still not quite interested, yet not that appalled. “And you’re fine with… collateral?”
“Collateral,” Itsurō repeats, the word like a study in taste. “Bothersome only to those with a taste for moral purity. I’m not arguing for cruelty as a virtue. I’m arguing for outcomes. If someone is a lynchpin that preserves a status quo that buries possibilities, they are a legitimate target. How one removes that pin is a tactical question — and right now we don’t have the luxury of public duels.”
Rin snorts a laugh that’s half anger, half disbelief. “You talk like a bureaucrat. ‘Tactical question.’ God. Do you even hear yourself?”
Itsurō’s eyes don’t flash. “I hear very clearly. And I hear what you feel about it. That’s the thing, feeling doesn’t win wars. Strategy does. But feel free to keep the moral high ground, Rin. As much as you can, anyway, considering we all made that choice.”
They’d already crossed the line — not some theoretical debate, not a one-night lapse. Each of them had made the choice, in their own way, to side with something that would remake the world. It sat between them like a third person in the room: heavy, patient, inevitable.
Itsurō didn’t pretend otherwise. He folded his hands on his knees.
“If we want to make the big stuff happen cleanly,” he said, “you take out the pillar. The president — if he’s gone, a lot of the council’s power falls apart. Everything else gets easier.”
Kenji barked a laugh that was half-fun, half-disbelief. “Wow. You just went all in on the ‘political assassins’ plot in one sentence."
Itsurō folded his hands and let the silence sit for a bea. Then he smiled, easy and conversational, and leaned forward as if telling a story.
“Look,” he said to Kenji first, voice soft. “Picture it. Imagine the Student Council, all those earnest faces—Shu, Madoka, Yae, everyone—standing around you. Calm, reasonable, the kind of people who make bad things sound like proper compromises.” He spoke the last part with a little curl of contempt. “They come to you and they say, ‘Kenji, Tokiwa-chan is gone. We understand, but we also have to move on. There are more people to help than one small loss, and we have to save them.’”
Kenji’s hand tightened on the camera in his lap without him meaning to. Itsurō watched the quick tightening, the only real movement in the room at that moment. He didn’t rush; he kept drawing the picture.
“And then,” Itsurō went on, the tone almost gentle, “they bend that little knife a notch further. They put words in your mind you’d never think to use yourself. ‘She would’ve wanted us to protect others,’ they say. ‘She wouldn’t want us clinging to this—she’d want the film to go on.’ The whole line, rehearsed, tidy, the sort of thing a council says to wrap a grief in a bow. They’ll make it sound noble. Comforting. Even right.”
Kenji’s laugh came out thin, like air being pushed through a small hole. “You sound like you’re describing my nightmares,” he muttered.
Itsurō shrugged as if that were the point. “Nightmares are useful. They teach you what to look out for.” He let the words hang there. “If you can imagine that conversation in your head, then I hope I also helped steel your resolve to not let it become real."
Kenji swallowed.
“You see how easy it is to rationalize,” Itsurō said, amused. “The council will sell you the necessity. They’ll make your grief tidy. You’ll go home thinking you did the right thing because someone soft and principled told you so. Or you can act before they sanitize everything.”
Kenji looked down at his hands, long fingers curled around plastic and metal. For a moment he saw Tokiwa-chan’s lens clusters reflecting his face back at him.
Rin rubbed at her palms, the chalk dust smearing under her nails. “So what, that justifies anything?” she asked.
Itsurō shrugged, as if that clarified everything. “I don’t take pleasure in suffering for its own sake,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “That’s sloppy and sentimental. I take pleasure in results. The world is full of waste and distractions. Our problem is not just exposure, but magnitude: the Student Council is not just a public relations machine, but also a much larger group, with connections and strong fighters.” He tapped the side of his mouth with a fingertip. “Collateral is… inconvenient. Acceptable when necessary. I won’t manufacture it just to feel like a god.”
Rin’s laugh came out without humour. “Beautiful phrasing. ‘Collateral is inconvenient.’”
Kenji eyed him for a beat, then let the other thought out: “Wouldn’t you be glad if Shu, or anyone else you hate for that matter, died in the process?”
Itsurō’s face gave the faintest twitch—almost nothing, easily missed if you weren’t looking for it. He folded his hands neatly in front of him. “Would I throw a party? No.” He said it in the dry, precise way of a man stating an inconvenient truth. “Would I be secretly pleased that a variable that always screws my plans had been neutralized? Possibly.” He added the last word almost apologetically, as if it required an explanation. “Not because I crave someone’s end. Because someone like Shu is a persistent, living impossibility on everything I ever try to make. That kind of interference? It’s exhausting.”
Rin’s eyes narrowed. “You’re admitting it like it’s a tax deductible expense.”
“It’s honesty,” Itsurō answered simply. “I don’t pretend to be noble. I’m efficient. That doesn’t make me unfeeling—just practical.” He leaned forward. “If he were removed, without dying if you will, and nothing changed, I’d be indifferent in the long run. If his death somehow made our situation worse and chaotic, then I’d be angry at the outcome. I react to leverage and consequence, not melodrama.”
Kenji snorted. “So you’re not exactly the type to mourn a narrative inconvenience more than a tragedy.”
“Correct.”
The room felt colder after that. Rin was the first to break the silence, rubbing at the back of her neck. “You make it sound so rational.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Itsurō pushed off the counter and stretched, casual to the end. “You’re allowed to moralize, you know. It’s healthier than scheming all the time. Or you can study the mechanics and accept the trade-offs. I’m fine either way.”
Rin folded her arms, chin up, masking the way her stomach knotted. “Morals aside, you’re basically saying we should be ruthless because it’s easier and more effective.”
“I’m saying we should be realistic,” Itsurō corrected.
she let out an incredulous whistle and then, softer, “You’d be okay if Shu-kun lived, as long as he stopped being… whatever he is?”
“If he stopped being the axis everyone bends around?” Itsurō said. “Sure. I’m not a vendetta-driven man. I’d prefer methods that leave less carnage, less attention. Removal doesn’t have to mean death. It can mean absence, discredit, distraction. Remove the pedestal, and the idol’s power dulls.”
Kenji turned the camera over in his hands, staring at the lens as if it might give him an emblem of truth. “You really believe the end justifies the means, huh. That's some classic villain trope right there.”
“I believe the means are part of the end,” Itsurō said. “You can compartmentalize the feeling of guilt."
Kenji kicked one leg over the armrest of a battered office chair, leaving the camera balanced on his chest like a pet cat. “Alright, yeah, enough of the grand villain mastermind discourse,” he said, squinting at him. “Be honest — you just hate the guy, right? The president. Shu Jinkō. Whole ‘sunshine hero’ thing drives you insane.”
Itsurō chuckled. “Hate’s a strong word.”
Rin raised an eyebrow.
“Fine,” Itsurō admitted, shrugging. “Yeah, I hate him a little. He messes things up just by existing. It’s like the universe keeps rearranging itself to make him look good.”
Kenji grinned. “You’re jealous.”
Itsurō looked at him flatly. “No, I’m logical. He’s a walking statistical anomaly. You’d think someone that disgustingly perfect would’ve drawn a bullet by now — jealous boyfriend, psycho rival, someone with more testosterone than sense. But no.” He tapped his fingers on the counter. “Nothing ever sticks. Even the people who should want him dead end up shaking his hand. He’s that lucky. He’s overdue for some misfortune."
Kenji let out a low whistle. “Man, you really can’t stand losing to a guy who smiles too much.”
Itsurō laughed under his breath. “He doesn’t even try. That’s what gets me. He just walks into a room and the air bends around him. It’s like the world decided he’s the protagonist and we’re just background extras.”
Rin tried not to smile, but she couldn’t help it. “You sound like a jealous ex.”
“Jealous? No.” Itsurō tilted his head, smirking faintly. “Just aware. The universe has bad taste in favorites.”
Kenji propped the camera up and zoomed in on him like he was shooting a documentary. “So what’s the plan then, Mister Aware? You take out the golden boy and what? Expect applause?”
“Applause is optional,” Itsurō said dryly. “Peace and quiet would be enough.”
Rin rolled her eyes. “You’d be bored within a week.”
He looked over at her, sly, almost teasing. “Maybe. But at least I wouldn’t have to hear you sigh every time he walks past.”
Rin froze. “I—what?”
Kenji cackled. “Oh my god, you do have a crush.”
“Shut up,” Rin hissed, cheeks going pink.
Itsurō grinned, satisfied. “See? He infects everything. Even you.” He straightened up. “All I’m saying is, if luck keeps protecting him, maybe it’s time someone tested how thick that shield really is.”
Rin stared at him. “You make it sound like you’re doing a public service.”
“Maybe I am,” Itsurō said easily, heading for the door. “Everyone needs a little balance in their life. Even Mr. Perfect.”
Kenji raised his camera like a toast. “That’s one way to justify attempted murder.”
Itsurō’s smirk didn’t fade.
Kenji scoffed a little, though not meanly. “You always sell the boring and scummy route like it’s romance. ‘Boring and effective.’ That’s your brand. You'd suck as a director, you know that?”
“Efficiency is romantic if you like being alive tomorrow,” Itsurō answered. “I’m not asking you to be devils. I’m asking you to be pragmatic about what you want. If you want Tokiwa-chan to keep existing, we need to make choices that preserve that. If you want to keep being someone, having the chance to learn more about the Idea World, we find the ways to do it that don’t burn the ground we’re standing on.”
“You say that like you’re protecting us,” she said. The accusation didn’t carry heat; it carried curiosity.
“I am,” Itsurō said simply. “In my way. I don’t enjoy the cruelty of it, but I enjoy competence. Competence keeps people alive. And you guys are competent.” He folded his palms together. “If you don’t want to play the dirty games, I won’t force you. But let me at least minimize the damage. Let me find ways to get you through. Maybe that means I do things you don’t like. Maybe it means I keep secrets. That’s the bargain.”
“Anyway, you've suffered through enough of my ramblings for today, so let me treat you to dinner."
“So, Kenji,” he said, stretching out his legs. “I’ve been meaning to ask you since we met, but never got the chance.”
Kenji looked up from adjusting his camera's lens with the patience of a jeweler. “Hm? What, my blood type? My tragic backstory?”
“No,” Itsurō said, shaking his head. “Movies. Recommendations. You’re always talking about films, but I’ve never asked what I should actually watch. Something good. Or at least, something you think I wouldn’t fall asleep through.”
For a moment, Kenji just blinked, caught off guard. Then his face lit up like a theater marquee. “Oh, you have no idea what you’ve unleashed.”
Rin sighed. “Oh no,” she muttered under her breath.
Kenji sat up straight, already rummaging through the mess of tapes and DVDs on the shelf. “Okay, okay, start simple but effective: Electric Dragon 80.000V. Japanese cyberpunk, black-and-white, ninety minutes of pure noise and attitude. Then there’s God Told Me To, Larry Cohen, ‘76—crazy low budget theological sci-fi murder mystery. Genius stuff. Oh! Maniac Cop trilogy, the first one’s rough but the second’s practically Shakespeare for grindhouse—”
Rin buried her face in her hands. “Why do you know so many movies where cops go insane?”
“Because it’s art, Rin!” Kenji snapped, almost offended. “It’s social commentary wrapped in exploitation! Like—like—okay, The Stuff! Consumerism satire meets body horror. Brilliant. The goo eats people. You’d love it.”
“I’m good,” she said flatly.
Itsurō was smiling faintly, almost indulgently. He nodded thoughtfully, as if Kenji were describing profound philosophy rather than pulp cinema. “And which of these,” he asked, tone mild, “would you say best captures the essence of the human condition?”
Kenji pointed at him with a cigarette that wasn’t lit. “Street Trash, obviously.”
“...Of course,” Rin muttered.
Itsurō chuckled, a small, genuine sound that didn’t often escape him. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Kenji leaned back, satisfied, twirling the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “You’d actually like The Killing of a Chinese Bookie. Cassavetes. It’s got that... slow burn moral decay thing you seem to like.”
“That so?” Itsurō asked. “Then I’ll start there.”
Rin was watching him. Her instincts told her it was fake—because with Itsurō, it always was—but the warmth in his voice made it easy to forget that. He looked relaxed for once.
Kenji, meanwhile, was still rambling about editing techniques and “honest cinematography” as if he were defending a religion. The air had lightened, laughter coming easier. For a while, they looked less like conspirators and more like friends killing time in a forgotten corner of the city.
Itsurō took it all in silently, letting Kenji’s enthusiasm fill the space. It was perfect. This was what he wanted. Trust wasn’t something you demanded; it was something you let grow in silence, watered by small talk and shared jokes. He watched them—Rin trying not to laugh, Kenji gesturing wildly as he explained the artistic merit of a film about melting hobos—and thought, It won’t take much longer.
They’d come around. They were young, idealistic, still trying to draw lines between what they were and weren't willing to do for the sake of their mission, real and unreal. But time and necessity had a way of smudging those lines.
He didn’t need to convince them of anything right now. He just needed them comfortable enough to stop thinking of morality as something that applied to them.
They’d get there.
One joke, one late-night conversation at a time.
Because fighting monsters in another world was one thing.
But learning to become one, here, in the ordinary light of the real world—
that took familiarity.
And he was very good at making people comfortable before he led them somewhere they could never come back from.
Higan. Rin stood up from her desk slowly, her lunchbox tucked under one arm, already planning the logistics of invisibility. She’d mastered it, vanishing between periods, slipping past crowds, eating wherever no one would bother to bother her. The back of the library, the far stairwell behind the gym, once even the old equipment shed.
She glanced toward the window. The sun was bright but cold, slanting down at that early noon angle that made everything look like it had a thin film over it.
She was halfway to the back stairs when she spotted him.
Itsurō. Leaning against the railing by the vending machines, posture loose and sharp at once, as if he’d just wandered there and also planned it an hour in advance. Around him: a small cluster of girls, the sort who owned the rooftop by sheer force of social gravity, with their tidy hair, glittered nails, laughter like glass wind chimes. Rin paused mid-step, half-hidden behind a column.
He looked… polite. That was the word. Not flirty, not particularly interested, just there. Nodding occasionally, faint smile, speaking in that calm tone that could mean anything. The girls laughed at something, too loud, too performative, and one of them reached toward his sleeve. He shifted subtly, sidestepping the touch without making it obvious.
Then he saw her.
It was just a flicker. A glance that met her eyes through the narrow gap between two girls. She froze. He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Just looked at her, then looked at the girls again, and then back at her. A small, almost imperceptible nod.
Then he started talking again.
Rin blinked. It was fast, subtle enough to make her wonder if she’d imagined it. But no, he was doing something, engaging them, drawing their focus. She could see it in the shift in their postures, the way they leaned in, bright eyes aimed at him like moths to a steady flame. They weren’t leaving any time soon.
She hesitated only a second before moving past, toward the stairwell. Her pace picked up, quiet, quick steps, until she reached the heavy rooftop door.
Rin’s hand was already on the doorknob when it swung inward, nearly smacking her in the face.
A boy stepped out, taller than her, lab coat over his uniform, sleeves rolled up. His hair was a mess of dark tufts, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and faint chemical irritation. Even up close he smelled faintly of ethanol.
“Oh. Good,” he said flatly. “You’ve got hands. Perfect.”
“…Excuse me?” Rin managed.
Kazu Morino, she recognized him now, the chemistry freak who practically lived in the lab, waved her off, already half-turned toward the stairs. “I need to run to the prep room and grab some stuff. Just... watch him for me.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Rin blinked, following the motion of his thumb.
Sitting neatly on the far bench, facing the sky, was another student. Their uniform was immaculate, posture perfect. And their head was covered completely by a plain brown paper bag.
“…What the hell is that?” Rin whispered.
Kazu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s my lab assistant for today. We were testing a compound. Should’ve known better than to use those weird Chinese ointments as a substitute reagent. Reaction was… pretty absurd.” He squinted, muttering more to himself than to her. “Anyway, the bag is stuck to his face, don't bother asking how it got there, because I can't even begin to describe it... Anyway, that's that, and I need some things to get it off of him.”
Rin blinked. “Wait—what reaction?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Kazu said briskly, already heading down the stairs. “I just need to pick up a neutralizing gel before it sets permanently. If he starts twitching, don’t panic—just don’t touch the bag. Or anything near it. Or, uh, him.”
“Wait—wait, what?”
But the stairwell door had already slammed shut behind him.
She was still processing what the boy in the lab coat had said when the bag rustled faintly and the person beneath it spoke.
“Ah! Sorry about that,” a voice said, clear but slightly muffled through the paper. “He probably didn’t explain anything, did he?”
Rin nearly dropped her lunchbox. “You—you can talk?”
“Yeah. Kind of.” The bagged figure gave a small, self-effacing laugh. “Sorry you got dragged into this. He said he just needed a hand for a minute, right?”
“...Something like that,” Rin muttered, still keeping a cautious distance.
"He just... left you here after getting that back stuck to your head..."
“That sounds like him.” The paper crinkled as he adjusted the bag slightly. “It’s not that bad, really. Just… sticky. Like glue. He didn’t test the ratio properly.”
There was a beat of silence before he added, more lightly, “Guess that’s what I get for helping out.”
Rin stared. His tone was almost cheerful—normal, even. “You’re helping him? Voluntarily?”
“Yeah. He’s a bit eccentric, but he means well.”
Another soft laugh, that warm sort of sound that somehow didn’t fit the absurdity of the situation.
“Anyway, I really am sorry he roped you into watching me. You can go, if you want. I won’t move, promise.”
“No, uh… it’s fine,” she said, sitting awkwardly on the far end of the bench. “It’s… not like I had plans.”
“Then we’re both trapped by circumstance,” the voice said, lightly. “Guess that makes us coworkers for the next ten minutes.”
Rin tried not to smile. It was weirdly disarming, talking to someone whose face she couldn’t see.
She picked at her rice and risked a question. “So… are you in the science club too?”
He hummed, thinking. “Sort of. More like… honorary labor. I end up helping with a lot of things around the school.”
“Ah.” She wasn’t sure how to follow up. “That sounds… busy.”
“It’s fun, most days. Gets me moving. Better than sitting still, you know?”
Rin nodded faintly. “I guess.”
For a while, there was only the sound of the wind. The bag shifted toward her again, and the voice spoke—gentle, curious.
“What about you? You sound like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
She flushed. “Uh?! N-no... I don't...”
He chuckled again. “All good, everyone would dream of having the rooftop to themselves for lunch break.”
Rin blinked, momentarily thrown. The fact that he hit the nail on the head about her intentions aside, there was something familiar about the way he said it even.
But before she could say anything, the rooftop door clattered open again, Kazu’s return announced by the rattle of glass vials in a box.
“Alright, you didn’t move. Great,” Kazu said briskly, brushing past her. He pulled the bag-headed boy to his feet and started muttering something about neutralizing solutions.
"I'm on your hands, doc!" said the paperbag boy.
“Alright, crisis containment, phase two,” he said, setting the tray down on the concrete. “Try not to move too much. If this splashes on something it’ll eat through it, so lets aim for the paper.”
“Comforting,” the muffled voice answered with dry humor.
Kazu ignored the comment and began mixing the contents of two vials, the liquid turning an odd shade of pale blue. He pulled a spray bottle from his coat pocket, muttering about ratios before spritzing the paper bag liberally.
Rin took a step back, half expecting an explosion or a melting face.
Instead, there was just a soft hiss, followed by the sound of paper fibers dissolving.
Rin’s breath stopped.
It was him.
The same face that lit up half the school every day with that impossible warmth.
Shu Jinkō. The Student Council President.
Rin just stood there, paralyzed, every neuron firing in disbelief. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the light, then caught her staring.
“Oh—hey!” he said, voice as effortlessly friendly as ever. “You're, uhm... Satoru Rin, right?”
She almost dropped her lunchbox again. “Y–you—know my name?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing lightly. “Of course I do! Why wouldn't I?"
Before she could answer, Kazu grabbed Shu by the sleeve. “C’mon, celebrity. Back to the lab. I need to make sure your skin doesn’t start oxidizing again.”
“Right, right.” Shu gave Rin a little wave as he followed him toward the door. “See you around, Rin!”
She stood there long after they were gone, staring at the empty bench where he’d been sitting.
Back at the backroom of Morinaga Video after school.
The fluorescents buzzed above like dying insects, throwing light across shelves stacked with film reels, camera parts, and stacks of half-labeled tapes.
Kenji was crouched in front of the CRT on the far table, balancing his camera on a tripod with the kind of reverence most people reserved for altars.
Itsurō sat at the counter, legs crossed, the usual battered paperback open in one hand. He didn’t look up when the door opened. “How’d you enjoy your lunch, Rin?”
Rin stopped in the doorway, holding the strap of her bag tight. “...You knew?”
He looked up now, one brow arched, mouth tipping in that infuriating calm smile. “Of course!”
“You—” she sputtered, taking a step forward. “You set that up?”
“‘Set up’ is generous,” Itsurō said, closing the book with a soft thunk. “I simply chose not to interfere. Call it… giving fate a small nudge.”
Rin stared, half in disbelief, half in irritation. “You just—played along? For what?”
“Because you looked like you could use a break,” he said mildly. “You never take them, and everyone deserves one scene where they get to be the protagonist.” He smirked faintly. “Even you.”
Rin opened her mouth, ready to fire back, but Kenji’s voice cut through, loud and manic from behind the camera. “Ahh, the rooftop lunch scene! Classic framing—quiet emotional contrast against the beautiful blue sky. That’s cinema, Rin. You got the good lighting too. I’d have killed for that kind of natural diffused sunlight.”
Rin turned on him. “You—you filmed it?!”
Kenji looked up from the viewfinder with absolute innocence. “No, no! I would have filmed it. If I’d known you were gonna pull off the whole tragic-loner-meets-masked-stranger motif, I’d have been rolling. The mise-en-scène was perfect—two lonely souls, one brown paper bag—”
“Stop,” Rin groaned, dragging her hands over her face.
Itsurō chuckled under his breath. “Relax. He’s speaking in metaphor. Mostly.”
Kenji clicked his tongue. “You wound me. I’m an artist. I just recognize narrative symmetry when I see it.” He spun around in his chair to face Rin, pointing a finger like a director giving notes. “You, gray-girl, finally had a character moment. Mysterious stranger, rooftop isolation, twist reveal—chef’s kiss! All you need now is the inciting incident.”
Rin glared at him, cheeks hot. “You two are impossible.”
“Anyway,” Itsurō said dryly. He leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on his knuckles. “Time to go back to work.”
Rin perched on the edge of an old film canister box, still glaring at Itsurō.
The hum of the CRT filled the backroom, Kenji crouched nearby, fiddling with cables like a man defusing a bomb.
“So,” Rin said, narrowing her eyes. “What about those girls you were talking to during lunch? You just left them there?”
Itsurō smirked faintly over his cup. “They were… persistent. I was about to be dragged off for coffee, actually.”
Kenji snorted from the floor. “He means they invited him for coffee and gossip. That’s code for ‘please let me waste your time.’”
Itsurō tilted his head in concession. “They were a bother, yes. But thanks to our resident auteur here—” he nodded toward Kenji, “—I escaped. He burst into the hall saying I had prior plans, camera in hand, like a man on a mission.”
Rin looked at Kenji in disbelief. “You rescued him?”
Kenji grinned, still untangling the cords. “Rescue is a strong word. Think of it as redirecting the plot. Every good ensemble needs pacing."
Plus, just as Itsurō had planned, Kenji just couldn't wait to hear what he thought of his movie recommendations form last time. A buddy to share your passions with can be addictive.
“Aaaaand... Bam,” Kenji said, twisting the final cable into place. The CRT flickered to life, static briefly painting their faces. “Here we go, field footage of the Prez versus the new guy.”
Rin blinked. “Are you for real? We have to watch that?”
“Of course, I filmed it, so you better enjoy it!” Kenji said, affronted. “Do you know how rare it is to capture real kinetic energy? Real unscripted impact? Cinema vérité at its purest.”
He slapped the side of the TV, and the grainy image stabilized, an aerial view from across the street, filmed from the broken window of a building.
Rin stared, transfixed. “wow, that's actually a solid shot.”
“Next building over,” Itsurō said casually, setting his coffee down. “Front-row seats, without the risk of a concussion.”
“Would’ve been a crime not to document it,” Kenji added, eyes glinting. “Look at that choreography! That timing! That’s pure instinct, Rin. He doesn’t even fight—he survives cinematically.”
The CRT crackled as Shu narrowly dodged a punch that cratered a wall. The sound on the tape was mostly wind and distant debris, but the visual energy spoke for itself, with Shu stumbling, slipping, miraculously landing every dodge by the skin of his teeth.
Itsurō leaned forward, elbows on knees. “It’s absurd, isn’t it? He should’ve been dead ten times over, but luck keeps rewriting physics for him.” His tone wasn’t angry this time, just observant, fascinated, maybe even grudgingly impressed. “It’s like watching probability lose an argument.”
Kenji zoomed in on the blurry footage of Shu landing on the passing truck at the end. “And cut! Perfect ending! You couldn’t choreograph that kind of slapstick divine intervention if you tried.”
Rin tore her eyes from the screen. “You both sound… way too happy about this.”
Kenji leaned back on his hands, smiling wide. “What can I say? I appreciate good narrative symmetry. The golden boy gets punched through a wall, but fate hands him a truck-shaped deus ex machina. You can’t predict for that.”
Itsurō chuckled softly. “No, you can’t. But you can test how far it stretches.”
Rin frowned, a little uneasy at the way he said it. “You mean, like, experiment on him?”
Itsurō didn’t answer immediately. He just smiled faintly, eyes still on the flickering TV screen. “Something like that.”
Kenji grinned, clicking his tongue. “Now that’s foreshadowing.”
The door to the backroom creaked open with a heavy metallic clang, and Kentaro stepped in like he owned the place, a lazy swagger, cigarette tucked behind one ear, hands shoved into the pockets of his beat-up jacket.
“Yo,” he said, scanning the room. “You could’ve called me if you didn’t wanna deal with those girls, man.” He pointed a thumb at Itsurō, who didn’t even bother looking up from his seat. “I’d’ve gone in your place. Done you the favor.”
Rin, sitting on a crate near the wall, wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”
Kentaro shot her a look, grinning like he’d just been paid a compliment. “What? Don’t give me that face, runt. You gotta take any chance you can get nowadays. Back in the day, all the girls around my school were after the same guy. Never met him myself, but they wouldn’t shut up about him. He's gone now, so you can even get to pick.”
He gestured lazily with one hand as he talked, then Kentaro blinked, mid-sentence, turned toward the TV. The CRT was still playing the grainy footage Kenji had cued up — the fight between him and Shu.
“...Wait.” His brow furrowed. “Is that—? Is that my fight?”
Kenji, perched on a stool beside the screen, gave him a sideways glance and a grin that could start fires. “In glorious high-definition. Your cinematic debut.”
Kentaro stepped closer, his grin returning. “Damn right. Took that blow like a champ. Look at that form, huh?”
Rin rolled her eyes. “You mean when he literally got away without throwing a punch?”
Kentaro ignored her, leaning in to squint at the screen. “Oi, Kenji. I told you to get my good side. What the hell’s this? I look like a troll in half these shots.”
Kenji didn’t miss a beat. “You don’t have good sides.”
Kentaro turned slowly, giving him a look that was equal parts disbelief and threat. “You wanna run that by me again, Spielberg?”
Kenji just smiled, unbothered, resting his chin on his hand. “I call it verité, man. Naturalism. I’m capturing your essence — which, incidentally, is violence and poor posture.”
Rin snorted before she could stop herself.
Kentaro scowled, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting not to laugh. “Yeah, keep talkin’. One of these days I’m gonna put your ‘essence’ through a wall.”
Itsurō, still seated with his arms folded, finally looked up, tone dry as dust. “Try not to break my friend, Kentaro.”
Kentaro huffed but relented, dropping onto the crate next to Rin with a thud. The air around him smelled faintly of cheap cologne, tobacco, and asphalt.
He jabbed a thumb toward the TV again. “Still, gotta admit — that guy’s something else. I hit him like I was trying to crack concrete, and he just lucked out. You sure he’s human?”
Itsurō smiled thinly. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Kenji muttered, still adjusting the frame. “Hero of the damned, darling of the odds. Our golden boy protagonist. It’s disgusting.”
Rin crossed her arms, muttering under her breath, “You’re all disgusting.”
Kentaro barked out a laugh. “You say that now, but wait till I get my rematch. Then you’ll be cheering for me.”
“Yeah,” Rin said dryly. “Don’t hold your breath.”
The hum of the CRT filled the silence, the screen frozen on the grainy still of Shu mid-sprint, the dust haloing him like divine comedy. Kenji had gone back to fiddling with focus knobs that didn’t need fiddling, while Kentaro had decided the couch’s armrest was a perfectly fine seat despite half-crushing it under his weight.
“So wait,” Rin said suddenly, brow furrowing as she glanced at him. “You’re actually enrolled here? At Higan?”
Kentaro grinned around the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “Second year, baby. Proudly.”
Rin stared. “You never go.”
He shrugged. “Attendance is a social construct. They mail me the tests sometimes. Or maybe they don’t. I dunno.”
Kenji snorted. “Truly, the intellectual backbone of the generation.”
Kentaro pointed the cigarette at him like a weapon. “You’d be surprised what you learn outside a classroom, film boy.”
Kenji raised both hands, mock-defensive. “Oh, education through violence. How revolutionary. Let me get my camera.”
Rin sighed. “It’s like babysitting three different species of idiot.”
Itsurō, who had been quiet until then, closed his book with a soft snap. “Speaking of education and learning,” he said mildly, “I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s never good,” Kenji muttered.
Itsurō ignored him. “I’ve been too pushy. Too controlling, maybe. It’s a habit—trying to pull every string myself. But it’s clear you all have your own angles, your own strengths. So, from here on out, I’ll trust you to approach things your own way.”
Kenji blinked, exaggeratedly. “Is this… growth I’m hearing?”
Rin leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Who are you and what have you done with Itsurō?”
Kentaro barked a laugh, clapping him on the back hard enough to make his coffee slosh. “Look at that, the guy found his fun side again! Passion, freedom, and all that jazz.”
Itsurō took the hit with a faint smile, brushing his sleeve. “Call it delegation.”
“Call it a miracle,” Kenji said. “Next thing we know, he’ll start smiling for real.”
“Don’t push it,” Itsurō said, but the edge in his tone had softened. He looked, for once, almost… amused.
Kentaro kicked his feet up onto a crate, still grinning. “Alright then. You trust us to do things our way. Great."
Rin muttered, “He meant strategically, not self-destructively.”
Kenji pointed at her. “Let the man interpret it how he wants.”
“Fine,” Itsurō said at last, smirking faintly. “Have your fun. Just don’t forget why we’re here.”
Kentaro gave him a two-finger salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then, Itsurō went silent, as if inspiration had struck. He leaned back in the cracked leather chair, one arm slung casually along the rest, the other balancing his book.
He didn't speak for a while.
“…You know,” Itsurō finally said, voice low, thoughtful, “I think I’m starting to get it.”
Kenji looked up. “Get what? The meaning of cinema?”
Itsurō ignored him. “The President. His luck.”
Rin frowned, shifting slightly on her seat. “Oh boy, here he goes seething again.”
He smiled faintly, tapping his finger against the table. “for now, it's just a vague idea. I'll see if I can test it.”
Kenji whistled softly, leaning back. “So basically, you’re trying to beat fate.”
“Exactly.” Itsurō set his mug down. “He’s got the universe playing defense for him, sure, but I think there's a way.”
Kentaro snorted. “That all sounds real poetic, man. But while you’re busy thinking about beating God's pet, who’re we supposed to handle in the meantime?”
Itsurō’s smirk sharpened. “Funny you should ask.”
He reached into the mess of notes spread across the counter and slid out a page, covered in scribbled observations and names. One was circled several times.
Zennami Yae.
Rin read the name, her stomach sinking. “You’re kidding.”
Kenji perked up immediately, grinning. “Ah, the Vice Prez. The Ace Detective. Queen of deductions, bane of cheating students everywhere.”
“Consults for the police sometimes,” Itsurō said, almost idly. “Top of every ranking. Beats me on exams — though not by much — and if anyone in this city could piece together what we’re doing before it’s finished…” He tapped the name again. “It’s her.”
Kentaro frowned, picking his teeth with a toothpick. “So what, she’s just another class rep with a brain? I can handle that.”
Rin shook her head. “If the Prez is the heart, she’s the mind of that whole group. She sees things. You can’t hide from her.”
Kenji’s grin only widened. “Sounds like my kind of protagonist. I can already hear the soundtrack: ‘The Girl Who Knew Too Much.’ A slow burn mystery-thriller, directed with passion and paranoia.”
Itsurō shot him a look. “Focus.”
Kenji shrugged, unconcerned. “I am focusing. She’s the kind of problem you can’t brute force. You can’t intimidate her, can’t outsmart her easily. Which means… we get creative.”
Kentaro leaned forward. “Define creative.”
“Distraction,” Itsurō said simply. “Mislead her. Keep her looking the wrong way while we move. She doesn’t have to be convinced of anything — she just needs to be busy.”
Rin crossed her arms. “You sound like you respect her.”
Itsurō smiled, small and cold. “I do. You can only really despise what you respect. She’s the most dangerous piece on the board — not because she’s violent, but because she’s aware.”
Kenji gave a small laugh. “So, the detective gets her own subplot. Noted.”
Itsurō’s eyes flicked toward him — assessing, calculating, already three moves ahead. “Just keep making sure you don’t draw attention to yourselves. The last thing we need is to give her a thread to pull.”
Kenji pointed his camera lazily toward him, the red light blinking again. “What about you? Planning to keep playing the polite honor student angle? Study rival, friendly smile, all that?”
Itsurō’s grin was slight but sharp. “Of course. It’s the easiest mask to wear.”
Rin muttered, “She’ll see through you.”
“Then I’ll let her,” Itsurō said, leaning back again, tone almost amused. “The trick isn’t hiding from people like her. It’s letting them see what you want them to find.”
Kenji chuckled, pressing record. “Man, this is why you’re my favorite villain.”