Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tomi hated when her hands shook while soldering.

Not out of nerves—no, she didn’t do nerves—but from holding her breath too long while concentrating. She flexed her fingers once, setting the iron down gently against the stand before grabbing the wire braid from the corner of the bench. She didn’t look up.

“I told you the central support beam would torque under pressure,” she said calmly. “It’s aluminum. You could sneeze and warp it.”

Across from her, Senku didn’t glance away from the blueprint. He was slouched over it with a mechanical pencil between his fingers and a lollipop shoved in the corner of his mouth like a peace treaty he didn’t plan to honor.

“Aluminum’s lighter,” he replied, voice flat. “The wheels don’t need to support it if we fix the axle issue.”

Tomi pressed her knuckle to her mouth and exhaled—raspy and quiet, like she could argue but didn’t want to waste the energy. Instead, she reached across the table, nudged the drive motor into place, and tapped the side of the gear system.

“Fine. But if this thing folds like a wet napkin in front of the judges, you’re doing the presentation.”

Senku smirked. “Deal. I’ll just distract them with how devastatingly charismatic I am.”

Tomi blinked once, then grabbed a wrench and pointed it at his face.

“Don’t test me.”

He chuckled under his breath. They’d been paired up for the robotics competition after their teacher claimed they were “too similar not to work together.” Tomi didn’t know what that meant—she barely spoke in class, and Senku never shut up—but in the workshop, it made a weird kind of sense.

She understood gears and tension the way other kids understood TikTok. He understood data flow and physics like it was common sense. Their combined projects were messy, overly complicated, and usually brilliant.

She didn’t talk much. He didn’t need her to.

They built like people trying to outrun something invisible.

Tonight, the lab was quiet except for the occasional hum of circuitry and the rain against the windows. Senku leaned closer to the prototype, pencil tapping the metal frame as his eyes flicked between the blueprint and the half-built rover in front of them.

Tomi sat cross-legged on the floor, organizing screws by size and muttering measurements under her breath like prayers.

“Hey,” he said suddenly. “How stable do you think this would be on rocky terrain?”

She looked up slowly.

“Depends on how much weight we’re adding to the payload,” she said. “And how fast you want it moving.”

“I want it efficient,” Senku said, tapping the rover’s side. “We’re not building a toy. I want them to think we could launch this thing on Mars if we wanted to.”

Tomi stared at him for a long second, then lowered her gaze back to the screws.

“...Okay,” she muttered.

There was a pause.

“You know,” Senku added, voice softer now—curious, almost—“You never talk about why you’re even in robotics.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “You never shut up about why you are. Isn’t that enough?”

He grinned. “Aw, you like me.”

Tomi’s head jerked up. “Shut up before I clock your jaw.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Scientific observation, not a hypothesis. Calm down.”

Tomi didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed the motor mount, eyes focused, jaw tight. She didn’t like the heat in her face. She especially didn’t like the way her heart always did that stupid, fluttery thing when he looked too long or got too close or acted like her silence was a language he actually spoke.

She didn’t have the words for it, and she hated that.

But she kept showing up. And so did he.

Maybe that was enough.

Senku adjusted the wiring with practiced ease, his fingers moving fast, deliberate. He didn’t look up when he passed Tomi the soldering pen—just held it in her direction, like he already knew she’d be ready.

She took it wordlessly, thumb brushing against his hand for a second too long.

Her eyes stayed on the circuitry. But her mind... didn't.

It had rained the first week she transferred. That kind of grey, misty drizzle that made everything look a little sleepier, a little quieter. She didn’t mind—rain gave her an excuse not to talk during break.

They sat her near the back. Didn’t ask her to introduce herself. She didn’t think the teacher even remembered her name until she’d been there for three days.

Then came the science unit.

She was working alone. Quiet. Quick. Didn’t ask for help, didn’t offer any. A kid across the room kept saying she looked “scary,” like silence was a threat. She didn’t respond to that either.

But one afternoon, the teacher paired her up with someone new—because “he needs a challenge” and “you could probably keep up.”

The kid sat across from her, white hair, red eyes, chewing on a lollipop with the most punchable confidence she’d ever seen.

He looked her over like she was a data sheet.

“Transfer student, huh?” he said, voice flat and curious. “You don’t talk?”

She shook her head.

He nodded once. “Cool. Less wasted air.”

She blinked.

Then he shoved the worksheet aside and dumped out a tray of wires and parts between them. “Wanna build something instead?”

She’d stared at him for a long moment. He didn’t seem to care if she answered. Just started working like they already had an agreement.

So she sat forward.

Picked up a screwdriver.

Said nothing.

That was the first time someone met her silence with function instead of fear.

“You’re quiet,” Senku said.

Tomi blinked, returning to the present.

She didn’t answer. Just handed him the tightened motor and returned to aligning the frame supports.

He looked up from the rover. Not suspicious. Just curious.

“You get like that when you’re overthinking,” he said casually, like it was just another line in his data.

She signed, “I’m allowed.”

He smirked. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

He leaned back, stretched his arms overhead, cracking his back audibly before glancing at her sideways.

“You remember that time in elementary school you tried to fix the teacher’s broken projector just because it annoyed you?”

Tomi raised an eyebrow. Then signed: “It made a high-pitched buzzing sound. No one else seemed to care.”

Senku laughed. “Yeah. You nearly electrocuted yourself, but it did stop buzzing.”

She glanced down at the rover.

Then, very softly—barely audible:

“You asked if I wanted to build something instead.”

Senku paused.

Just for a moment.

Then—voice a little softer, a little more serious:

“Still the best question I’ve ever asked.”

The final bolt clicked into place with a sharp ting. Tomi wiped her hands against the rag on her lap, barely glancing at the grease streaks that smudged her fingers. Her heartbeat was still trying to slow down from the soldering moment earlier—but now that the rover sat stable, wires tucked, frame balanced, it almost felt like relief.

Until Senku checked the clock.

“…Shit.”

Tomi looked up.

He stood frozen, one hand still on the frame, eyes locked on the wall clock like he could slow it by glaring.

“We were supposed to be setting up fifteen minutes ago.”

Tomi blinked. Slowly turned to look at the clock.

5:39 PM.

Judging started at 6:15. Sign-in by 6:00.

She signed: “Traffic?”

Senku already had his phone out. Swiping through bus schedules. His lips twisted, sharp and frustrated. “It’s rush hour. The bus is packed. And we’re hauling forty pounds of precision electronics and exposed wiring.”

A pause.

“Also I definitely forgot to tell Dad.”

Tomi raised an eyebrow.

“You didn’t tell your family?” he shot back.

She stared at him. Then shook her head once.

Senku barked out a dry, mirthless laugh. “Cool. Great. Amazing. I love this. We are so good at being functional minors.”

Tomi stood up abruptly, grabbed her hoodie off the back of the chair, and pulled it on in one motion.

Then, voice low and scratchy: “I brought my bike.”

Senku blinked. “Motorized?”

She nodded. A beat. Then added: “I was going to say something. You were... chewing wires.”

“I was testing voltage.” He threw up his hands, pacing now. “Okay. Okay. So that solves half the problem. You can drive the rover. I’ll—”

He looked down at his standard two-wheeled embarrassment chained outside the building.

“…ride in shame, I guess.”

Tomi stared at him. Then looked at the rover. Then at her bike. Then at him again.

Senku watched the calculations flicker across her face like gears slotting into place.

Another pause.

“…You’re not going to say it,” he muttered, “but you’re about to suggest something insane.”

She crouched down next to the rover, unfastening one side of the baseplate.

“We can mount it. Rear platform.”

Senku blinked.

“You’re saying—what—strap it to the back of your motorbike? Like a science war chariot?”

Tomi nodded once, serious.

Senku stared.

“…That’s genius.”

Another pause.

“It’s also going to get us arrested.”

Tomi tilted her head, unamused. “We’ll go side streets.”

He groaned, running both hands through his hair. “We’re gonna die.”

She passed him the bungee cords from her bag.

They worked fast. Tighter than ever. No jokes. No extra commentary. Just movement, like clockwork on the edge of panic.

Senku secured the side casings while Tomi disassembled the support legs. She didn't have to speak—she just handed him tools mid-motion, already knowing what he'd need. He didn’t question her. Just kept working, jaw tense.

Outside, dusk crept in. The motorbike sat in the alley like it was daring them.

Once they were done, the rover sat—somehow—perfectly balanced on the reinforced rack Tomi had welded herself weeks ago. They double-checked the cords. The wheels. The battery pack.

Senku adjusted his coat and stood next to her.

The moment hit.

Silent.

Heavy.

“If this thing breaks,” he muttered, “we’re never getting into another competition again.”

Tomi glanced at him.

Then at the rover.

Then, calmly, at the street.

“Then we don’t let it break.”

Senku looked at her. That same half-smile tugging at his mouth.

“Alright, rider. Let’s break physics instead.”

The engine kicked awake like it had something to prove.

Tomi didn’t wait for ceremony. She mounted the bike and kicked the stand in one fluid motion, glancing once over her shoulder. Her helmet hung from one handlebar, untouched. She wasn’t wearing it. She didn’t seem to care. Her fingers gripped the throttle like she'd been born holding it.

Senku barely had time to adjust his bag before she jerked the bike forward—and they were moving.

The alley spat them out into dusk like a bullet casing. Tires hissed over wet pavement, the rover on the rack rattling just enough to remind them it was real, it was fragile, it was everything.

Senku didn’t speak. He gripped the side bars behind him, his coat flapping wild in the wind, hair tugged back like the street was trying to steal it from him.

They rounded the first corner sharp—too sharp—Tomi cutting the handlebars with that perfect, reckless confidence. She didn’t slow. She didn’t glance back. She didn’t ask if he was holding on.

Streetlights flickered overhead in pulses. The sun was already sinking behind the roofs, bleeding orange into violet. Senku felt the air slice past them, cool and dense with exhaust and evening. He could taste iron and ozone, burnt rubber and rain.

They swerved around a sedan crawling through an intersection like it had all the time in the world. Tomi cut through a gap between bumpers that couldn’t have been wider than the rover itself, and Senku heard the driver yell something in their wake—but it was already gone.

She took back roads with the precision of a city map burned into her skull. Left, then immediate right. Up a narrow hill. Skimming the curb so close he could see flecks of dried mud peel off the tire.

Senku's heart kicked against his ribs—not from fear. Not exactly.

It was speed and risk and the perfect, manic purity of a machine pushed just to the edge of its limits. It was the violent arithmetic of friction and mass and gravity, rewritten in real time. He was calculating in his head and simultaneously not thinking at all.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t sign.

She just drove.

Tomi’s eyes stayed forward, mouth a hard line. Her ponytail whipped against the collar of her jacket, and her shoulders were tight—not stiff, but focused, like every muscle in her back was tuned for velocity.

A pedestrian stepped too slow at a crosswalk.

Tomi hit the brakes—not a stop, not even a proper yield, but a deceleration just long enough for the person to flinch back, and then they were past.

Senku grinned, wind in his teeth.

He’d never admit it—not out loud, not even under duress—but he felt alive in a way he hadn’t in weeks. Not during prep. Not during late nights soldering wires. Not even when the rover powered on for the first time.

This was different.

This was the pulse in his throat. The clawing thrill that they might fail, might flip, might lose everything—

—and they were doing it anyway.

Because they had to.

Tomi turned again, cutting through the parking lot of a shuttered convenience store, jumping the curb like she meant to be airborne. The rover clattered against the rack, stabilizers groaning—and then settling.

Senku caught his reflection in the glass window as they passed: white-knuckled, windburnt, eyes wide. He looked like someone alive.

Tomi, in front of him, didn’t even blink.

And then they hit the final stretch. One last hill, slick with gravel. She downshifted, leaned in—and the motor roared beneath them like it had caught her urgency.

They surged upward, bike trembling beneath the strain, every sound sharpening into now.

Senku felt it in his bones.

Not fear.

Not panic.

Momentum.

Unstoppable. Unwise. Undeniably theirs.

And as they crested the rise, wind clawing at their lungs, engine humming like something alive, Senku didn’t laugh—but he did smile, full teeth, eyes burning, hands gripping metal like the moment might tear itself open—

And in front of him, Tomi’s head tilted just a fraction to the side.

He knew she felt it too.

Chapter Text

Tomi pulled the bike into the venue lot like she planned to tear the earth open with it. Brakes screeched, tires skidded, and the back wheel hit a patch of gravel that sent the bike slewing half a meter sideways before it stabilized with a guttural, gasping stop. Her hands stayed tight on the bars, her hair whipped wild across her face, eyes locked forward.

Senku swung his leg off the back with the disheveled grace of someone still riding a scientific high. His lab coat had half-flown off during the last turn and was now tangled around one arm like a straitjacket. His hair looked like it had been assaulted by static and open defiance.

"Hah! We made it!" he announced, staggering forward, then turning to look at the motorbike like it had just personally helped solve cold fusion. "You—that was—holy crap. That was phenomenal."

Tomi, still mounted, exhaled through her nose like steam. She tapped the engine off and finally looked at him. Her face was flushed, not from embarrassment but from wind and adrenaline and maybe a small spike of fury that he looked that excited when her body was still vibrating from holding the throttle like a lifeline.

Senku reached for the cords holding the rover and immediately yelped as the heat from the bike rack seared his fingers. "Shit—okay, nope, science says wait ten seconds. Maybe fifteen."

Tomi slid off the bike without a word. She pulled her sleeves down, inspected the cords. The rover was still miraculously intact, despite their route, their speed, and the fact that at one point they’d been airborne.

They both crouched down and started unstrapping.

The parking lot smelled like pavement and distant concession food. Teams were already inside the venue, rolling in with their project carts, matching shirts, polished presentations. Senku and Tomi were covered in road dust, sweat, and solder residue. One of Senku's socks had a visible burn mark from the soldering iron he'd dropped two nights ago and refused to acknowledge.

They didn't speak as they worked. Tomi unscrewed the platform bolts; Senku adjusted the stabilizers. She passed him a wrench without looking. He wiped his hands on his coat, immediately regretted it, and did it again anyway.

The rover hit the ground with a small, definitive thud.

They stood there, looking at it.

The motor whirred to life on the first try.

Tomi blinked.

Senku grinned.

"Okay," he said. "We’re late. We’re filthy. I might be concussed from a low-hanging tree branch. But this thing works."

Tomi signed, "Barely."

"Barely is still scientifically valid," he said. "That's what calibrations are for. Come on. Let's go give them a reason to regret scheduling us last."

They each grabbed a side of the rover. Lifted. Moved.

And without another word, they hauled their janky, road-worn, over-engineered dream across the threshold and into the judging floor like it was a weapon.

The entrance buzzed with energy—LED displays, competing color palettes, voices overlapping like static. But the buzz shifted the moment they stepped in.

Senku felt it first. A few students nudging each other. A teacher doing a double take. A whisper that sounded like his name, half-recognized, half-dared.

Tomi stiffened.

Senku didn't slow his stride, but the corner of his mouth pulled tight. “Great,” he muttered. “Forgot we can’t go anywhere without someone thinking I’m going to reinvent electricity on stage.”

He was known—unfortunately. Not school-famous, but STEM-famous. Enough for his name to linger in physics forums and science club Discords. The kid who published a paper before sixteen.

Some lollipop genius.

The reason most kids either wanted to challenge him or avoid him.

Tomi had learned early on to ignore it. She kept her eyes forward, gripping the rover like it was a shield. Her pace never changed. But Senku could feel her tension like static between them.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t have to.

Their booth was near the far wall—modest, marked only with their school code and a time slot that was already ticked past. A clipboard hung uselessly from a hook. The rows beside them were pristine: polished tables, printed diagrams, team logos.

They reached their square. Tomi exhaled sharply through her nose.

Senku set his end of the rover down with a low thunk. Tomi followed.

Dust scattered across the linoleum. Someone nearby sneezed.

Senku straightened, rolled his shoulders, and looked over the prototype like a battlefield general surveying his troops.

"Alright," he said. “Now we rebuild. In five minutes. With no screws left over."

Tomi tapped her knuckles against the rover. Once.

"Let’s begin."

They dropped to their knees on opposite sides of the rover like twin orbiting moons. Their hands moved with purpose: efficient, clean, silent. Tomi reattached the left stabilizer bracket while Senku clicked the sensor casing into place. She passed him the cable loop without looking up; he routed it over the microcontroller with practiced ease.

People were watching.

They didn’t say anything—yet—but Senku could feel it, that quiet pull at the edge of a crowd's attention. The same instinct that made you glance over when someone ran too fast or dropped a glass. And Tomi, despite the nerves she would never admit, kept her expression impassive.

Senku broke the silence first. "Power cell reading?"

Tomi flicked the switch. Checked the gauge. Held up two fingers.

"Stable," he translated aloud, mostly for himself. "Running hot, but acceptable."

Someone whispered nearby: "Is that Senku Ishigami?" Another voice responded, hushed and breathless, like watching a storm form over water: "Yeah, that’s him."

He ignored it. He always did.

Tomi clicked the heat sink into place with a snap. Senku spun the rover slightly, checking alignment. Their movements were sharp, efficient—and not a word passed between them that wasn’t necessary.

It was a kind of intimacy only shared by people who had built under pressure. Who had failed together. Recovered together.

By the time the last panel was fastened, a few teams had stopped pretending they weren’t watching.

Senku stood, brushing his hands against his coat. The rover gleamed like it hadn’t just been strapped to a motorbike and launched over municipal infrastructure.

Tomi remained kneeling, double-checking the wheel alignment, her expression flat.

Senku looked over at her.

"We make a good entrance," he said, smirking.

She didn't look up.

But she signed, quick and dry: "Just wait for the exit."

Movement at the edge of the floor caught their attention. Three judges approached, clipboards in hand, their pace deliberate, heads angled toward the rows. Their expressions were unreadable.

Senku straightened just a bit. Not defensive, but ready.

Tomi stood too. Quiet. Braced.

Their shoulders didn’t touch, but the air between them hummed like live wire.

Senku leaned in just slightly, speaking low and fast.

"You take build specs. I’ll do design logic. Emphasize modularity, not aesthetics. If they ask about the drive system, mention the terrain simulation from earlier trials."

Tomi nodded once. Then signed: "Power source stability last."

"Exactly. Wait for them to ask about weaknesses. We control the pacing."

Footsteps neared. Pens clicked.

Tomi exhaled slowly through her nose.

Senku smirked.

They turned in unison.

And waited for the first question.

One of the judges—an older woman with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses perched too far down her nose—adjusted her clipboard and glanced at their disheveled table, the scorch-marked solder lines on Senku’s coat, the precision-silent rover at their feet.

“...You’re entry 4K?” she asked, blinking.

Senku nodded. “That’s us. We, ah, arrived unconventionally. But the build’s intact.”

The judge beside her—taller, wiry, with a sharp blue pen tapping his clipboard—cut in. “Specs first. Power source?”

Tomi was already signing.

Senku read aloud, “Custom-assembled lithium polymer cell, stabilized with dual capacitors for voltage consistency.”

“Why dual?”

“Redundancy,” Senku replied. “Also kept the motor temp stable when testing on incline terrain. Less lag, smoother torque curve.”

The third judge, younger, curious, leaned in toward the rover. “This chassis. You designed it to articulate under load?”

Tomi nodded once. Then gestured, swift and pointed: “Modular suspension. Recalibrates based on weight distribution. The brackets pivot.”

Senku rotated the rover slightly to show the mechanism. “It adapts dynamically. Not AI, obviously—it’s hardware-timed—but it adjusts its angle based on pre-coded thresholds.”

The wiry one scribbled. “And the obstacle simulation?”

Tomi crouched. Flicked the rover’s main switch. It hummed to life—wheels lifting slightly, stabilizers adjusting.

Senku smiled faintly. “We modeled after a varied-terrain test run. Incline, gravel, uneven flooring. If it crosses your judging mat like it’s floating, that’s why.”

The older judge raised an eyebrow. “And aesthetic?”

Tomi’s eye twitched. She didn’t answer.

Senku didn’t miss a beat. “Function over form. It’s not pretty. It doesn’t need to be. It works.”

The younger one smiled, like they appreciated the bluntness.

Last question. The wiry judge again.

“If this were scaled up to full size—let’s say exploration, rescue—what would fail first?”

Tomi didn’t flinch.

“Battery capacity,” she smiled. “Heat sink ratio would collapse under pressure without external cooling.”

Senku nodded, then added, “It could survive terrain. But not time. We’d need liquid cooling or passive convection panels.”

The judges stepped back.

Made a few final notes.

The woman with the glasses looked up, just briefly, and said: “That was… efficient.”

Senku gave a shallow nod. “We aim for results.”

Tomi said nothing—but her posture relaxed. Just slightly.

They stood in the aftermath like two ghosts who’d finally proven they were real.

The judges had moved on, clipboards tucked under arms, murmuring to each other in the usual bureaucratic murmur of academic assessment. Other teams refocused on their own presentations, though more than a few glances still trailed toward booth 4K.

Senku let out a breath, long and slow. “Alright,” he said. “We survived.”

Tomi nodded, arms crossed, her gaze still on the rover. She tapped the top of it once. A silent thank-you.

Senku glanced sideways and raised a hand.

Tomi stared at it for a beat.

Then gave him the lightest, driest high five imaginable. Their palms met with the quietest smack known to man. No sound, just acknowledgment.

“Peak athleticism,” Senku deadpanned. “We should go pro.”

Tomi signed, “I hope you trip on a wire.”

“Love you too,” he said.

She gave him a flat look that didn’t quite mask her smirk.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his call log, then lifted it to his ear. “Alright, let’s notify the parental unit.”

By the time Byakuya picked up, Senku was already pacing near the edge of the booth.

“Yo. We’re alive. Mostly intact. Need extraction after the event—Tomi brought us here on a rocket bike, and I don’t feel like risking my teeth on a return trip.”

Tomi flipped him off halfheartedly, already tugging her hoodie sleeves down.

“Mhm. Yes, we’re fed. Yes, we drank water. No, we didn’t die. Yes, I’m wearing a helmet next time. Chill.”

He hung up, then turned to her. “He says congrats. And that we’re idiots. In that order.”

Tomi signed, “Fair.”

She stepped back from the booth, scanning the crowd.

“I’m getting water,” she muttered. Voice quiet, but rough-edged from disuse.

Senku nodded, already turning back to inspect the rover for stress damage he’d definitely imagined.

“Don’t vanish. You’re still on cleanup crew.”

She rolled her eyes and walked off.

The noise in the venue shifted the farther she moved from their table. Brighter booths. More excited voices. Lights strung haphazardly over STEM slogans and hopeful branding.

Tomi exhaled. Her shoulders began to lower. Her brain slowed. Her fingers flexed at her sides.

Just water. Ten minutes. Then she’d return. Easy.

But she’d barely reached the corner of the refreshment area when—

“Oh my god, wait—are you with Senku Ishigami?”

She froze.

Two boys, maybe a year younger, definitely not part of any presenting team, were staring at her like she’d just walked out of a physics meme page.

“He’s here, right?” one whispered to the other. “I thought I saw him. That’s definitely him. That hair? He’s like... famous.”

Tomi blinked. Didn’t answer.

The bolder of the two stepped closer. “You’re his partner, right? Like, you built that with him? That thing’s insane.”

His friend grinned. “Do you think we could get a photo with him? Or like, just a quote? For our blog?”

Tomi slowly reached for the water bottle she hadn’t picked up yet.

The first boy leaned in. “Does he talk like that all the time? Like, in real life? Is he really like... you know. Senku?”

She stared.

Debated just turning around and walking back.

Instead, she opened the water. Took a sip.

And said, voice dry and low:

“He’s worse.”

The boys gasped.

Tomi walked away. Very quickly.

Tomi took a longer route back from the water station, skirting booths and dodging lingering glances. She was not in the mood to be intercepted again. Her face still burned faintly from whatever that “STEM fan blog” nonsense had been.

She adjusted the strap on her sleeve, cradling the water bottle like a buffer between her and the world. Almost made it back.

Almost.

Until—

“You handled yourself well in front of the judges.”

Tomi stopped.

The voice was quiet, smooth, accented—but not unkind. It came from a man in a dark coat, far too formal for the venue, standing near a column with his arms loosely crossed. He was tall, narrow-eyed, with silver hair sculpted into a slick, exaggerated pompadour that arched high above his head. Definitely not another Highschooler. 

She blinked. Her grip on the water bottle tightened slightly.

“I’m not here to interfere,” he added quickly. “Just observing.”

She stared. Not out of fear—but evaluation.

He waited.

“…Thanks,” she said flatly.

Then, realizing the word had come out sharper than intended, she cleared her throat and tilted her hands forward, fingers beginning to sign— "Do you—?”

He caught the motion instantly and signed back, “Japanese Sign. I’m fluent.”

She blinked. Twice.

He gave the faintest curve of a smile. Not mocking. Just watching.

“I saw your wiring hand-off. You don’t look at your tools.”

Tomi stared, then slowly signed back, “Didn’t need to. I know where they are.”

“Muscle memory?”

She shrugged, expression unreadable. “Preparation.”

The man nodded.

For a moment, she waited—for the question. The obvious one. The one about Senku.

But he didn’t ask.

Instead, he signed: “Are you always partnered with him?”

Tomi hesitated.

Then signed, “When I can tolerate him.”

His eyes narrowed—not in judgment. Assessment.

“Do you want to work in robotics?”

Tomi looked away. Briefly. Then back. “I like building things that survive.”

“That’s not the same as wanting to innovate.”

She paused.

Then: “I don’t care if it’s new. I care if it works.”

The man seemed genuinely intrigued by that. He gave a small nod. “Interesting answer.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t compliment her. Didn’t ask for details.

He just stood there—reading her like a data sheet.

Finally, he signed: “Tell your partner that Dr. X says his field strategy could use refinement.”

Tomi didn’t react.

Just sipped her water, eyes sharp. “You tell him.”

And walked away.

Tomi returned with her water just as Senku stepped away from the rover, stretching his arms overhead like he’d just survived a natural disaster. He glanced over at her—noticing the slightly furrowed brow, the lingering flush on her ears, the way she drank too casually to be relaxed.

But he didn’t comment.

Just jerked his head toward the announcement stage.

“Come on. Let’s go see how rigged this is.”

Tomi followed.

The crowd had thickened near the far end of the venue, where a small podium stood beneath a flickering overhead screen. The regional science board director was adjusting a mic, squinting at their clipboard as rows of sleep-deprived competitors leaned in like it was a holy decree.

Senku and Tomi didn’t push to the front. They stood just to the side—Tomi with her hands in her sleeves, Senku with his arms crossed, mouth twisted somewhere between amusement and expectation.

The announcer began listing commendations.

Team numbers. Sponsors. Buzzwords.

Senku’s eyes glazed halfway through the fourth mention of “interdisciplinary STEM synergy.”

Then:

“…And we’d like to acknowledge Team 4K, who demonstrated strong field adaptability and technical cohesion. Their presentation lacked some, ah, refinement—but their raw functionality and field strategy were exceptional.”

A few polite claps.

Tomi blinked once. That was… generous, actually.

Senku muttered, “That’s award-committee-speak for ‘they almost killed themselves, but the machine survived.’”

She huffed through her nose. Almost a laugh.

Then—

“And this year’s regional winner is… Team 1D from Nada High School!”

The crowd erupted. Confetti cannons misfired overhead. A team in matching neon polos jumped up and down while one kid cried into their wooden clipboard.

Senku and Tomi didn’t flinch.

They clapped.

Tomi’s was dry. Minimalist.

Senku’s was sarcastically enthusiastic.

“Gotta hand it to ‘em,” he said. “They remembered to bring a poster and didn’t arrive via illegal motorbike.”

Tomi signed, “They also had matching lanyards.”

“Disgusting.”

The lights dimmed. The crowd began to disperse. Tomi rolled her shoulders once, muscles finally releasing. Senku crouched beside the rover and disconnected the power cell.

Neither of them said, we should’ve won.

They didn’t have to.

They knew what they’d built.

Chapter Text

The ramen shop was tucked beneath a flickering sign and a rust-stained awning, barely big enough to fit three people and a countertop. It was the kind of place that smelled like broth before you stepped through the door, where the floors stuck slightly and the stools were never level—but the food made up for everything else.

Tomi sat between Byakuya and Senku, legs curled onto her stool, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. She didn’t say much. She didn’t need to.

Steam drifted off the surface of her bowl, curling upward like a soft exhale. She stirred the noodles with chopsticks and listened.

Byakuya slurped his ramen with the kind of enthusiasm only someone who worked around astronauts could manage without embarrassment.

“Honestly,” he said between bites, “I wish my lab had half the focus you two managed under pressure. That reassembly? Clinical. You looked like you were performing surgery.”

Senku rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”

Tomi signed, “We had five minutes.”

Byakuya nodded solemnly. “Exactly my point.”

Tomi glanced sideways at him. Her fingers tapped against her chopsticks briefly before she signed, “How’s work?”

“Oh, you know,” Byakuya said. “More paperwork than science. We’re prepping for another material exposure test next month. Long hours. Too many safety protocols. We’re trying to simulate lunar radiation conditions again, and the lead shielding alone is a nightmare.”

Senku perked up. “Wait, what base configuration are you using?”

Byakuya grinned. “Modified tri-chamber. Oxygen sensors in all three, low yield photon source. It’s overkill, but the grant wanted something flashy.”

“Overkill is half the fun,” Senku said, already reaching for the paper napkin to sketch something.

Tomi watched them with quiet interest. It wasn’t like watching teacher and student. It was more like watching a slow volley between people who built things in their bones. She took a sip of broth and let the warmth settle.

Byakuya nudged her with his elbow gently. “You keeping him humble?”

Tomi nodded once. Then signed, “Barely.”

Senku didn’t look up from the napkin. “You say that like you don’t enjoy having front-row seats to greatness.”

Tomi signed, “It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. But with equations.”

Byakuya laughed so hard he had to wipe his glasses.

The warmth in the ramen shop wasn’t just from the soup. It was in the soft familiarity of movement—the clatter of bowls, the unspoken rhythm of conversation, the comfort of knowing someone well enough to speak without words.

Senku slurped a noodle, paused, then said without looking at either of them:

“Next year, we win.”

Tomi didn’t respond immediately.

Then she tapped the side of her bowl.

“Then we’ll need better heat sinks.”

“Already designing them,” he replied.

Byakuya watched the two of them and smiled.

He didn’t say it out loud.

But he thought:

They’ll build the future, those two. And it’ll probably be held together with wires and willpower.

The last of the broth disappeared with a hollow scrape of chopsticks against ceramic.

Byakuya set his empty bowl aside with a small, contented exhale, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin that had already lost most of its structure.

Across the table, Senku leaned back, balancing precariously on the back legs of his stool, arms crossed over his chest in a way that said I’m full but not satisfied.

Tomi finished last. Not because she ate slowly—she didn’t—but because she lingered. She dragged her spoon once through the last swirl of broth like she didn’t want to admit she wanted more, even if it wasn’t noodles.

Byakuya patted his stomach. “Well,” he said, voice still light with lingering amusement, “victory ramen is complete. Dessert?”

Tomi stilled.

Her chopsticks clicked against the rim of her bowl as she set them down neatly. She rubbed her thumb along her sleeve, thinking, then signed without looking up:

“Unnecessary. Gratitude enough. Full.”

It was formal. Too formal. A clumsy shield.

Byakuya caught it immediately but didn’t press. He just gave her a small, understanding smile.

Senku, though.

Senku watched her.

Saw the tiny twitch of her eyes toward the dessert menu taped askew on the wall. Saw the way she tugged her sleeves back down, like she could physically shove want away.

He sighed. Long. Loud.

Dragged a hand through his hair with performative exhaustion.

Then said, dry as desert sand:

“I want matcha ice cream.”

Tomi shot him a look that would have felled lesser men.

Senku met it with a dead-eyed stare, mouthing exaggeratedly: You’re welcome.

Byakuya chuckled, folding his arms behind his head like he’d just sat back to watch fireworks. “Matcha ice cream, huh? Two scoops?”

“Yeah. Fine. Two,” Senku grumbled, glaring at nothing.

“And one for you too, Tomi?” Byakuya added, playing along like it wasn’t even a question.

Tomi made a small movement like she might refuse—but she knew better. She signed, minimal:

“Fine.”

The old man behind the counter smiled and slid two green-tinged bowls their way, each with a tiny wooden spoon stabbed into the surface like a flag of surrender.

Tomi accepted hers with the solemnity of receiving marching orders.

Senku took his with a groan so pointed you could practically hear him drafting a lawsuit against human emotion.

They ate.

Quietly at first.

The clink of spoons against porcelain.

The low murmur of street traffic outside.

The smell of broth and soy still clinging to the walls.

Tomi nibbled at the corner of her ice cream, eyes half-lidded, pretending not to enjoy it. Senku shoveled a spoonful into his mouth like a man demanding to suffer for a higher cause.

“You owe me,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Tomi’s reply was slow, deliberate signing: “Not how favor debt works.”

Senku huffed. “It is now. I’m writing a scientific amendment.”

Byakuya just watched them.

Smiling. Quietly.

Like a man lucky enough to witness something stubborn and beautiful growing in the wild.

He wasn’t stupid.

He saw it—the way they clicked into each other without noticing. The way Tomi’s silences were never awkward with Senku around. The way Senku’s sharpness dulled into something almost fond when he teased her.

Neither of them would admit it yet, he thought. They’re too young. Too busy surviving.

But it was there.

And it was steady.

They finished their bowls at the same pace, synchronized without meaning to.

Senku licked the last smear of matcha from his spoon and set it down with a clink.

Tomi tapped the rim of her bowl twice, a small satisfied gesture, before sliding it toward the center of the table.

Byakuya stood first, grabbing the bill off the counter with the same ease he handled last-minute mission paperwork. “Stay put. I’m paying. No arguing.”

Senku leaned heavily onto the counter, exhausted but smug. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tomi raised two fingers in a lazy salute.

Byakuya shook his head fondly and wandered off to the register.

For a moment, the shop was warm and still.

The kind of stillness that made you think maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

By the time Byakuya returned from paying, the shop lights had begun to dim. A few late passersby lingered near the far booths, but the heavy rhythm of the evening rush had drained out into the street.

Senku stood, stretching with a groan that cracked every vertebra in his back. Tomi slid off her stool with much less noise, pulling her sleeves down as she shouldered her small bag.

They stepped outside together into the cool night air. The pavement still held the warmth of the day, radiating faintly under their feet. Above them, a battered streetlamp buzzed half-heartedly, casting uneven light.

Tomi wandered a few steps down the sidewalk, stopping where her bike was still chained to a lamppost—scraped, a little battered, but intact. She crouched, pulling the lock free with one practiced motion.

Senku and Byakuya watched her, standing side by side.

“You sure you don’t want a ride back?” Byakuya called lightly, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “We’ve got space. No illegal bike balancing necessary this time.”

Tomi straightened up, resting one hand lightly on the handlebars. Her other hand moved:

“Close. Faster.”

Senku huffed. “Only because you drive like you’re trying to violate traffic laws that don’t exist yet.”

Tomi gave a half-shrug, half-nod that somehow managed to say yeah, and?

Byakuya chuckled, stepping forward a little. “Alright, alright. Just don’t go launching into orbit, okay?”

Tomi dipped her chin—an almost bow—and gave a small, careful smile. Quick. Gone in a flash, but there.

She swung one leg over the bike, adjusted the strap of her bag once.

Paused.

Looked at them both.

Senku tilted his head a fraction, reading something in the way she tightened her grip on the handlebars.

He didn’t say anything like be careful or good job or see you tomorrow.

He just raised his hand in a slow half-wave.

Tomi lifted two fingers off the handlebar in response.

Then, without another word, she kicked off and pedaled down the street, slipping into the soft halo of streetlights, tires whispering against the asphalt.

Byakuya watched her go, the smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.

“You know,” he said, quiet, almost to himself, “she reminds me of you.”

Senku, hands shoved into his pockets, just watched the shrinking shape of her in the distance.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I know.”

Byakuya clapped a hand onto Senku’s shoulder as they started walking toward the parking lot, feet scuffing lightly against the sidewalk.

“Well,” Byakuya said, voice just a little too casual, “you taking the loss okay, or should I be worried about an existential crisis in the backseat?”

Senku snorted, rolling his eyes.

“Be quiet, old man.”

Byakuya laughed—a warm, belly-deep sound—and fished his keys out of his pocket, twirling them once around his finger. “You did good. Both of you. You know that, right?”

Senku didn’t answer immediately. He shoved his hands into his pockets, the streetlights making long shadows across the cracked pavement.

They reached the car, Byakuya unlocking it with a lazy beep of the fob.

Before Senku could yank the door open, Byakuya leaned against the roof of the car, looking at him sideways.

“And Tomi?” he said, voice quieter now. “You two... you make a good team.”

Senku paused.

Not stiff. Not defensive.

Just paused.

He shrugged once—sharp, efficient. Like a bird ruffling its feathers against a chill.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s fine.”

Byakuya smiled, small and knowing, but didn’t push.

Senku slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door with a little more force than necessary.

Byakuya got behind the wheel, started the engine, and they pulled away from the curb, the ramen shop shrinking behind them like a paper lantern left flickering in the dark.

The city hummed quietly around them.

Neither spoke.

Neither needed to.

Chapter Text

The call connected with a low ping and a moment of fuzzed-out digital static before the screen settled. On Senku’s end, the camera wobbled slightly before refocusing, catching the soft yellow glow of the high school science clubroom—cluttered with wire nests, makeshift shelving, and tools that should have been retired years ago.

On the other end: Tomi.

She didn’t bother saying hello. She never did. Just looked at him through the screen with that same even expression and signed without flourish:

“You’re late.”

Senku grinned immediately. “You say that like you didn’t mute my call for ten minutes just so you could be the one to say that.”

Tomi didn’t answer. Just tilted the camera slightly, revealing the cluttered background of her internship workspace—benches lined with circuit trays, soldering equipment, spools of copper wire, and a whiteboard scrawled with voltage measurements behind her. The lighting was too harsh, flickering faintly overhead. She looked exhausted, but upright. Dressed in a fraying hoodie over her lab gear, her hair pinned up with a mechanical pencil tucked behind one ear.

Her fingers moved again: “It’s loud today. Someone broke the reflow oven.”

Senku groaned. “Amateurs. Did they at least use a hot air station to salvage it?”

Tomi blinked slowly.

“They used a heat gun.”

Senku visibly recoiled. “I hope you spat in their coffee.”

She gave the faintest twitch of a smirk before returning her focus to the tiny motor unit in her palm. Her movements were precise, detached, like she’d done the same disassembly fifty times already today. The motor casing gleamed under the lab light, catching on her ring of knuckle scars—old burns from countless late nights in high school, back when they both still had time to waste on obsessing over brushless rotation speeds and whether a drive train deserved a nickname.

“I miss our lab,” Senku said after a moment, quieter. “It smelled like singed wires and despair, but at least it was oursing wires and despair.”

Tomi didn’t look up, but her hands slowed. She cleared her throat without glancing at the screen:

“Too quiet here. No one argues.”

Senku leaned back in his chair, bracing one foot on a crate of plastic tubing. “Yeah. You’d think people with this much electrical tape would fight more.”

A pause. He tugged a lollipop from the beaker on his desk, unwrapped it with exaggerated drama, and shoved it into his mouth like punctuation.

Tomi finally set the motor down, the screwdriver clinking faintly against the table. She adjusted the webcam, just a little—enough to center herself again.

Senku watched her carefully. “So. You doing alright?”

She sighed, “Work is boring. I’m not dying.”

A beat.

“You?”

He shrugged, lollipop stick twitching with the motion. “We’re still banned from using the gas line after the flame experiment incident, but otherwise, thriving.”

Tomi stared blankly.

Senku shrugged harder.

“Minor explosion. School overreacted. The fire barely touched the ceiling.”

Her brows raised. “Taiju involved?”

“Of course he was. He screamed like a kettle and knocked over a beaker rack. We called it a draw.”

She looked… unimpressed. But not surprised.

Senku smiled faintly around the candy. “Speaking of that lovable idiot—Dad launched two weeks ago. Everything went smooth. No orbital drama.”

Tomi blinked.

He saw the shift—just the smallest one—in her posture. Not tension exactly. Just… weight. Like something had settled over her ribcage.

She raised an eyebrow. “He cried?”

Senku chuckled under his breath. “A lot. Tried to hide it. Failed miserably. Swore he wasn’t going to get emotional—then told me he was proud like four times in one minute.”

Tomi huffed, “You cry?” with a flat expression.

Senku made a strangled noise of protest and sat up straighter. “Obviously not. I’m a pillar of composure. Pure logic. Full polymer backbone.”

Her hands moved fast: “Your eyes were red in the photo you posted.”

“…Lighting error.”

She gave him a pointed look. Then, slowly, smoothed her hands over the tabletop like she was folding the conversation away.

They sat there, on opposite ends of a signal, with nothing but the hum of fluorescent lights and the digital distance between them. It wasn’t awkward. It never had been. Their silence was the kind that came from familiarity. Tomi existed in space like an object in orbit—quiet, calculating, always present. And Senku, for all his noise, never rushed to fill her silences. He knew better. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, it mattered.

The moment stretched, long and warm.

Then—

From behind Senku, a voice interrupted the stillness:

“HEY, SENKU!! I’M GONNA DO IT—I’M FINALLY GONNA CONFESS TO HER!!”

Senku froze, mid-laugh.

He turned his head slightly, irritation already brewing behind his eyes.

Then looked back at the screen.

“Tomi—yo—hold on a sec—”

Senku didn’t even bother turning around. He kept his eyes on the screen, only half-listening as Taiju came barreling into the lab like a freight train of emotional turmoil and poor impulse control.

“TAIJU,” Senku said dryly, “inside voice.”

“I’M GONNA DO IT,” Taiju yelled louder, throwing his arms up. “I’M GONNA TELL YUZURIHA I LIKE HER!! RIGHT NOW!!”

Senku groaned. “Whatever. Go get 'em, tiger.”

Taiju fist-pumped hard enough to knock a stack of PVC pipe clean off the lab shelf.

Outside in the hallway, voices murmured—some cheers, some mock groans. Someone nearby muttered about starting a bet pool. Senku caught the tail-end of it.

“Five bucks says she turns him down.”

Senku smirked and leaned around the doorway just enough to shout back, “A hundred says she doesn’t.”

There was a gasp. “Yo, is he serious?”

“He never bets unless he’s sure—!”

Senku just popped the lollipop back in his mouth and tapped his fingers idly on the lab bench. “Science favors the bold,” he muttered. “And those who actually pay attention.”

Taiju’s footsteps pounded down the hallway like someone trying to trigger a building collapse.

Senku turned back to his phone, expecting to see Tomi still hunched over her workstation. Maybe bored. Maybe rolling her eyes.

But the screen had lit up.

And everything had changed.

No sound came through—none—but her video feed was still active.

Senku froze.

The first thing he saw was Tomi’s face—not calm, not passive, but twisted in panic. Her mouth was open, shouting something he couldn’t hear. Her hands moved fast, not signing—just waving, directing.

The camera shook. Her screen was moving wildly—blurred flashes of the lab, overturned stools, cables on the floor. The feed flickered as she moved—jerky and unstable.

There were people behind her. Not ones he recognized. One of them was coughing. Another had their hands over their mouth. Red light flickered off a metal wall.

Smoke.

Thick, black plumes beginning to rise like a curtain.

Senku sat up fast, lollipop clattering to the ground.

“Tomi—” he said sharply.

She didn’t hear him.

Onscreen, she pushed someone forward, toward a hallway. Her own workstation was already in flames. Behind her, something sparked—pale white light, then another flare, brighter and closer.

Senku's hand shot out to swipe the screen into video mode.

His voice dropped low, urgent.

“Tomi—pick up. Pick up, come on—”

Her mouth was moving—shouting, probably—but the signal crackled again. Visual-only. The audio wouldn’t come back.

He watched, breath caught in his throat, as she turned—looked directly into the camera for a split second, eyes wide, terrified.

And then she ran.

The signal snapped into motion as soon as Senku switched modes.

The sound cut in rough—warped static and sharp breathing, punctuated by the low roar of fire chewing through insulation and tile.

“Tomi—” Senku leaned forward, voice low and urgent. “Talk to me.”

Her face filled the frame, pale under the flickering overhead lights. Hair falling out of its tie. Sweat already beading at her brow. Somewhere behind her, something collapsed with a hollow metallic clang.

“I-it was the generator,” she said, voice hoarse. “Sparks. I told them—I told them not to leave it near the solvents—”

“Okay,” Senku cut in. “Okay, listen to me. You need to get low to the ground. Get a cloth—your sleeve, anything. Cover your mouth. You’re inhaling too much—”

“I know,” Tomi snapped. Her hands were already tying her hoodie sleeve into a rough loop, pressing it to her face. “It’s—shit—it’s everywhere, Senku.”

The video jittered. She turned the camera briefly, panning toward the far end of the lab. The flames had spread fast—far too fast. Shelves collapsed one by one. Plastics blistered and dripped like tar. The hallway she'd directed others through now glowed orange, like the mouth of a furnace.

“Check your exits,” Senku said quickly. “Where’s your evacuation point? Which side—?”

“I’m looking,” she panted. “The side hall’s blocked, the ceiling—caved. I can loop back through the tool room, maybe—”

Her breath hitched.

Senku’s pulse spiked.

“Tomi.”

“I’m fine,” she gasped. “It’s—just the smoke—hold on—”

She turned the camera again, sprinting forward, and the world jolted violently. The phone must’ve been in her chest pocket—it bounced with every breath, every footstep. Shouts echoed from the hall. Someone was crying.

She slowed, ducked under a support beam sagging under its own weight.

Senku watched every frame, eyes darting across the screen, calculating routes he couldn’t see.

“Get through the tool room,” he said. “Stay under the smoke line. If you have to crawl, do it.”

“I know,” she whispered again. Quieter this time. She was slowing. “I know.”

“Tomi, I need you to focus. Don’t let your lungs lock up. Control your breath—pace it.”

There was no snark in his voice. No smugness. No lecture. Just fear. Sharp and clamped down hard, but visible at the edges.

The feed flickered as Tomi stumbled once—then steadied herself against the wall.

Senku’s voice dropped.

“Come on, you’ve got this.”

The feed wobbled violently as Tomi ducked through a side hall, her breath coming faster now—ragged, shallow. The cloth sleeve pressed to her mouth was already scorched at the edge. Black marks curled up her fingers like smoke was trying to etch its way in.

The lights above were flickering one by one, dying like stars. Somewhere ahead, a pipe burst, spraying steam across her path. She stumbled, caught herself.

“Tomi, where are you now?” Senku asked, fast. His voice barely masked its edge. “Tell me you’re close to the rear corridor.”

“I’m—I’m almost to the tool room,” she said. “Just have to cut left through the side—”

And then it happened.

The scream.

It wasn’t close. Not at first. Echoed. Muffled. Distant through layers of fire and steel and falling ceiling tile.

“HELP!” someone yelled. “PLEASE—Is anyone—? I’m trapped! It’s caving in!”

Tomi stopped.

Senku saw it. Felt it.

Her whole body just… froze.

She turned her head slightly. Toward the source of the voice. Eyes wide. Jaw clenched.

The camera shifted as she moved—just a fraction—to angle toward the voice. Smoke billowed past her shoulders, curling up the walls.

“Tomi,” Senku said carefully. “No.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She blinked rapidly, her breath hitching in her throat.

“Tomi—listen to me,” he snapped. “You have asthma. You’re already breathing shallow. You can’t go back in there—if your lungs seize, no one’s pulling you out.”

Onscreen, her hand braced against the scorched wall. The scream echoed again.

“Help me—! I can’t get the door open—it’s jammed—!”

Tomi whispered something—just a soft, sharp curse. One of the real ones.

“Tomi, don’t.” Senku’s voice cracked. He didn’t raise it. He didn’t shout. He just spoke with that same calculated speed he used during chemical spills or close calls. “You have to leave. You have to get out. Don’t be a statistic—don’t be stupid—”

Her face came back into the frame.

Eyes on him.

Direct. Steady. Smoke swirling behind her like the frame of a painting.

She didn’t speak right away. Just looked at him.

Then, soft:

“…We’re interning under the same guy.”

Senku’s heart punched the inside of his chest. “Tomi, I swear—”

She pulled the cloth away from her mouth, took one shaky breath, and said—

“…Tell them I wasn’t trying to be a hero.”

Her voice cracked. Just once.

And then, quieter still, almost drowned beneath the static:

“…You’re the most annoying thing I never wanted. I hope you know that.”

Senku’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Tomi stared into the camera for one second longer.

Her expression softened—not with fear. Not with regret.

With resignation.

And something that, in another life, might have been love.

“…Bye, Senku.”

She turned.

Ran back toward the fire.

Senku was already dialing.

His fingers trembled—he couldn’t remember the last time they’d trembled—as he jammed the emergency call shortcut on his screen. The tone rang once, then again, but the signal flickered. Too much interference. Maybe the fire had hit a relay point. Maybe it was just one more cosmic joke stacked on top of everything.

“Tomi, come on, answer—” he muttered, switching back to the call window.

Nothing but static now.

The last frame frozen—Tomi mid-run, hair wild with motion, her sleeve falling down, her arm lifting against the smoke. Behind her, the fire had begun to bloom across the ceiling, red and greedy.

He swore, loud and sharp.

In the corner of the classroom window, outside across the quad, he could barely register Taiju. The idiot was standing under the camphor tree, arms waving like a windmill, shouting something up at Yuzuriha on the stairs.

Senku couldn’t hear it. Didn’t care.

All he could hear was the blood rushing through his ears and the dry, scorched silence coming from the other end of Tomi’s feed.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Come on. You’ve got this. You always pull dumb shit and survive. That’s your thing.”

The screen went black.

His thumb hovered over the redial button.

Outside, the sky flared.

For a second, he thought it was lightning—some freak power surge. The kind that blows a transformer or knocks out a cell tower. But it wasn’t jagged. It wasn’t electric.

It was smooth.

Round.

Rolling in like a wave of glass.

He turned toward the window, brow furrowing. “What the hell—”

And then it hit.

No warning. No sound.

The green light snapped across the sky like a floodlight dropped from orbit. Pure, searing phosphorescence swallowed everything. It passed through glass. Through steel. Through him.

Senku's body seized.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. His phone dropped from his hands, screen still glowing, reflecting the last moment of signal. The echo of Tomi’s voice hung in the room like smoke.

The lab lights blew out. All at once.

The wave continued.

Outside, Taiju froze mid-confession. Yuzuriha reached toward him.

And then—

Stillness.

Absolute.

Like the world had taken a breath.

And forgot how to exhale.