Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yumeko wakes up before the alarm, but she doesn’t move.

She lies still in the soft blue haze of early morning, half-wrapped in the sheets, eyes fixed on the crack in the ceiling. The radiator hums faintly beside her. Birds chirp outside. Somewhere, someone’s already yelling at a house pet to carry their bags.

But inside her room, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

This is the fourth morning she’s woken up like this, not rested, not ready, just… awake. A body pulled into motion by habit and obligation rather than desire. And every morning since they returned, she’s had the same thought pressing into her skull like a thumb against a bruise.

I don’t want to see her.

The idea of it makes her stomach turn.

But the wanting? That’s worse.

She sits up eventually, slow and reluctant. Her dorm room is dimly lit and undecorated — bare walls, sterile bedding, not much personality. Mary says it looks like she’s squatting here instead of living here. She’s not wrong. Yumeko never bothered to settle in when she came back. Everything still feels temporary.

The ache in her chest flares when she catches sight of her blazer hanging neatly on the door. The council patch glints gold under the weak morning light. Number ten. Student Council. She’s officially earned her seat at the table.

The same table she’s refused to sit at lunch all week.

It’s funny, in a cruel sort of way.

Just a few weeks ago, over break, Yumeko had curled up in Kira’s bed in Russia — luxury woven into every thread, snowstorm raging outside, their hands tangled under a velvet blanket — and imagined what it might be like to sit beside her when school resumed.

They weren’t a couple. Not officially.

No declarations, no promises. But there was something between them. Something sharp and fragile and sacred. Something that existed in glances, in half-smiles, in fingers brushing a little too long against teacups and collarbones. Something Yumeko had let herself believe in — just a little.

She used to imagine the cafeteria like a stage. Kira sitting at the head of the council table, composed and untouchable. And Yumeko, finally beside her — not across the hall, not playing games, not challenging her. Just with her. Close enough to brush her foot against Kira’s under the table and watch her struggle to keep that mask in place. Maybe Yumeko would say something awful and intimate at the same time. Maybe she’d even make Kira laugh.

She wanted that.

God, how she craved that.

She never said it out loud.

And now? That dream feels obscene. Like something stolen from someone else’s life.

So instead, she eats lunch with Ryan.

Ryan, who looks at her like she’s the sun wrapped in blood and glitter. Ryan, who doesn’t touch her but wants to. Ryan, who makes things feel simpler, even if she doesn’t feel anything back.

He doesn’t ask why she always sits facing away from the council table.

He doesn’t comment on how she smiles too easily when people are watching, and too rarely when they aren’t.

Everyone knows he’s in love with her.

She pretends she doesn’t notice.

It’s easier than sitting next to Kira like a stranger. 

Easier than pretending she doesn’t remember the way Kira leaned into her warmth when they slept, even when she pretended not to, even when her back was turned and her shoulders stiff, like closeness was weakness and she was still trying to win something.

The way her lips tasted in the morning, faintly bitter from black coffee and winter air, always parted like she was on the edge of a thought she’d never say out loud.

The sound of her laugh — the real one, the one that broke through when she forgot to hold it back. Low, quiet, almost shy. Nothing like the sharp, strategic chuckles she used in public. That laugh was hers. Only Yumeko ever got it.

But more than that, she pretends she doesn’t remember the things no one else even knows to ask about.

Like how Kira loved aquatic life.

Not in a childish, whimsical way — but with reverence. With obsession. She once spent an hour tracing the blue lines on a jellyfish diagram, saying it reminded her of control. That in the water, everything obeys its nature. That the ocean made sense, even when it was violent. That it was proof the world could be beautiful and contained.

She pretends she doesn’t know the stories about her childhood — like how Kira learned how to smile from her governess, not her parents. How she used to line up her toys by color, and how if one was missing, she’d tear the room apart until everything was right again. That her father never praised her wins, only pointed out the flaws. That her little sister Riri didn’t have to do anything at all to be loved.

Yumeko knows it all. She’s seen the cracks under the porcelain. She’s kissed them.

And now, every day, she has to act like she’s never even touched the surface.

That’s the game, isn’t it?

In this school, in this life — you lie through your teeth and smile. You laugh too loud. You flirt with boys you don’t care about and lock your real feelings away behind your ribs like a secret you hope even you forget.

Because remembering?

Remembering would break her.

She avoids the gambling hall too — or rather, she moves through it like a ghost.

Never looking up.

Never glancing at the banister.

Because Kira’s always there. She knows it. Can feel her gaze like a silk noose around her neck. Always watching, silent and unreadable. Kira was born to look down on people. That’s how St. Dominic's raised her — shoulders back, chin high, eyes colder than the air in her father’s winter estate.

Yumeko used to love that about her.

Now, she can’t bear it.

She times her hallway walks so she won’t see Kira coming out of the Student Council Wing. Leaves class later than everyone else. Studies in their dorm even though she hates how much time Mary and Riri spend flirting on their doorway. She even started skipping breakfast, just to limit the number of possible encounters.

It's cowardly, maybe.

But it keeps her from breaking open.

And Kira’s avoiding her, too. Somehow, she’s not sure whether that’s better or worse.

They have no classes together this semester. None. A perfect schedule split, as if orchestrated deliberately. Four days in and not even an accidental hallway collision. Not a glance. Not a word.

But silence like that? It doesn’t go unnoticed at St. Dominic’s.

Students have started whispering.

“They haven’t fought once since school started.”

“Maybe Kira’s planning something.”

“Or maybe Yumeko finally gave up.”

Because the narrative here has always been simple. 

Kira, the cold heir.

Yumeko, the unhinged transfer.

Enemies by design. Fire and frost. Chaos versus order.

People expect blood. They always have. But this isn’t war. Not really.

This is what comes after something beautiful breaks, and neither side knows how to carry the pieces without cutting themselves open.

No one knows the truth. No one suspects.

And honestly? That’s what makes it worse.

Because hatred would be easier.

Hatred makes sense. Hatred is expected. Hatred doesn’t haunt you in the quiet moments, in the scent of borrowed shirts, in the taste of a tea you once shared, in the unspoken knowledge that love was never the problem.

Yumeko swings her legs off the bed and sits there for a long moment, letting the weight of the morning press down on her chest like a stone she can’t lift. She feels the dull ache behind her eyes, the kind that doesn’t go away with sleep or distraction. Today, the meeting is unavoidable. She can’t skip again — not after the whispers, not after the curious, hungry eyes waiting for her to break, to explode, to give them what they expect. Kira wouldn’t allow it. Kira never gives anyone the satisfaction of weakness. And Yumeko, for all her unpredictability, can’t afford to be anyone’s spectacle — not now.

Slowly, she moves to her suitcase. Everything is packed and unpacked and packed again, but today she pulls out a small pair of white socks. Plain, soft, with a tiny, almost insignificant ‘T’ embroidered on the side of one. No one would look closely enough to notice, or care. No one would ever know what those socks meant to her. She slides them on with careful fingers, smoothing the fabric over her ankles, feeling the faint imprint of the stitches beneath her skin like a whispered secret.

Those socks belonged to Kira.

She took them when she left the Timurov estate, a week before the semester break ended. There was no dramatic goodbye, no words left unsaid, only the quiet gathering of clothes and small things that smelled like someone else’s home — someone she’d never really belong to. For seven days after that, Yumeko wandered through towns she’d never meant to see, moving from one dimly lit train station to another, trying to outrun a grief that wasn’t ready to loosen its hold. She gambled with strangers, lost on purpose just to feel the sting of defeat instead of the emptiness inside. She smoked cigarettes she didn’t even like, staring out windows at rain and neon lights, wondering if the ache in her chest would ever dull.

She mourned something that never fully existed.

Not a relationship, not a future, just the flicker of a possibility — one that had felt fragile and real and terrifyingly beautiful in equal measure. 

Yumeko knows all these things. She carries them like invisible scars beneath her skin.

And yet, every day, she acts as if she never did.

It’s a game of survival. A daily performance where she lies to everyone — including herself — and smiles with a cracked heart. She slips her feet into Kira’s socks not because she clings to the past, but because in that small comfort, there’s a thread of something she can still hold onto — something private, something broken, something painfully real.

The last thing she wants is to face the world today, but there’s no escaping it. So she stands, pulls her uniform tight, and braces herself for the meeting — knowing that beneath every step, beneath every breath, she carries the quiet weight of a love that was never allowed to be.

The hallway to the council office is quiet this morning, polished floors echoing under Yumeko’s steps. Every click of her heels feels too sharp, too clean, like it doesn’t belong to someone who spent the last week trying not to remember what Kira’s voice sounds like half-asleep.

She’s late — fashionably, of course. It’s by design. Let them wonder if she’s unreliable. Let them think she’s playing some elaborate game. It’s better than the truth: she’s barely holding herself together.

By the time she swings the wooden door open, the meeting is already in session. Cold fluorescent light, the gentle hum of old money and teenage ambition. Every chair is filled. Except hers.

Eight pairs of eyes lift.

All except one.

Kira sits at the head of the table, immaculate as ever. Back straight. Blazer pressed. Hair coiled into something that looks effortless but takes exactly nineteen minutes and half a bottle of hairspray to secure. She’s not looking at Yumeko. She’s not even pretending to notice.

Which is perfect.

Yumeko beams, all saccharine mischief. Her skirt skirts just beneath regulation, her tie dangles lazily around her collar, and her bangs are freshly chopped — messy, uneven, unapologetically defiant. The picture of nonchalance. She lets the door fall shut behind her with a little too much sound.

She sings, dragging the words out with a sugar-slicked smile. “There was a catfight in the hallway and I simply had to watch. I almost thought about joining.”

Suki lets out a laugh so quick and high it sounds like a bark. He’s already halfway into his third matcha latte of the morning, legs crossed delicately over one another. Rex, his ever-loyal ex-house-pet-now-voluntary-accessory, sits on a low stool beside him, meticulously taking notes. Suki doesn't look up when he speaks, fingers dancing over the screen of his custom rose gold tablet.

“You’re always late.” He coos. “Good thing you’re never boring.”

Mary doesn’t even glance up. She’s thumbing through a file with her usual precision — perfect manicure, perfectly neutral. Her expression is unreadable, the way it always is when the room has too many moving pieces. Friends or not, Yumeko knows better than to assume anything with Mary. Loyalty isn’t currency here — it’s liability.

“Save the theatrics.” Runa mutters from her end of the table, sucking a lollipop that probably costs more than most students’ entire wardrobes. She’s not technically council, but no one questions her seat. “Some of us have real numbers to talk about.”

Yumeko just throws her a playful wink. 

From the far side of the table, Chad White is blinking like he’s still buffering. Shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses on indoors, arms casually draped around the back of his chair — but when his eyes finally settle on Yumeko, something flashes behind them. Recognition. Something sharp and precise and completely at odds with the himbo act he wears like cologne. His eidetic memory means he probably remembers how many seconds late she is down to the breath.

“Yo.” Chad mutters, grinning. “Your hair’s shorter.”

Yumeko offers him a finger-gun and a wink. “So’s my patience, darling.”

A shuffle of folders. A quiet snort from Dori. Rex coughs delicately. Mary flips a page.

But Kira doesn’t move.

Still hasn't looked at her.

Yumeko slides into her seat with theatrical grace, skirt fanning slightly, legs crossed, fingers twirling the edge of her tie. She doesn’t look at Kira either — but she feels her. Like cold water pressing against her skin. Like a scar under clothing.

“You’re late.” Kira says finally. Her voice is so calm it scrapes.

Yumeko leans forward, chin resting in her palm, and smiles wider. Too wide. It aches.

“It’s so early in the morning, Kaichou.” She purrs, letting the title linger like a threat wrapped in silk. “Don’t be such a grump.”

The silence that follows isn’t tense — it’s surgical. Everyone’s watching, but no one moves. Because the thing about Kira and Yumeko is that their fights are never too loud. They’re elegant. Precise. Ice cracking beneath polished shoes.

Riri, silent as always, watches with blank eyes. Her pen glides across her planner, the only sign she’s even alive. Yumeko wonders if she and Kira are still speaking. Wonders if the betrayal that ripped through them that day — the one no one dares to mention — still bruises the air between them.

And even now, sitting in this room full of devils and liars and people who’d smile while stabbing you clean through the ribs, Yumeko keeps smiling too.

Because that’s the rule.

Pretend it never meant anything. Pretend it didn’t destroy you.

Pretend like the socks on your feet don’t belong to the girl who still won’t look at you.

The meeting went on, or so Yumeko assumes.

People spoke. Numbers were discussed. Chad accidentally said something brilliant and tried to play it off. Runa corrected a ledger entry without looking up from her manicure. Suki whispered something to Rex, who giggled behind a clipboard like it was a state secret.

Yumeko heard none of it.

She sat there, legs crossed just so, chin resting on the back of her hand, eyes flicking lazily from speaker to speaker, a half-smile frozen on her lips like a doll painted pretty for display. She didn’t bother pretending to pay attention. No one in this room really expected her to. Most of them would toss her into a river with a smile and a sack full of rocks if it gave them a bump in the rankings.

So she sat through it, the image of perfect disinterest, while the real war waged just a few feet away — quiet and cold and unspoken.

And when the meeting finally ended, when the room started to thin with rustling papers and murmured parting words, Yumeko moved to stand — but didn’t. Not yet.

It would look strange if she left first.

She doesn’t rush . She lingers. That’s her rhythm. Even heartbreak has to play by her rules.

So she stays seated, perfectly still, until most of them have gone. Runa first, escorted by some new boy already too deep in her debt to breathe. Then Chad, who offered a distracted “Bye” on his way out while clearly texting three people at once. Suki trailed after him, Rex at his heels, their giggles echoing down the hall.

Soon, only four were left.

Kira.

Riri.

Mary.

Yumeko.

She straightens her tie slightly — just enough to make a show of it — and flashes Mary a look that’s equal parts invitation and distraction.

“Come to lunch with Ryan and me.” she says. “It’s getting boring just the two of us. You can make fun of his new haircut.”

Mary shrugs, already half out of her seat. “Sure. Beats listening to Chad try to explain how he got the Gomez twins, again.”

Yumeko stands, careful and fluid, sliding her bag over her shoulder. The weight of eyes — not Kira’s, but someone’s — burns down her spine.

Just before she turns to leave, she hesitates.

Say goodbye. Be her. Be Yumeko.

She pivots on one foot, smile curling into place like a practiced line in a play. “Bye, Kira-san.” She purrs, voice light, teasing. “Bye, Riri.”

But her voice catches — only for a moment.

Because Riri is staring at her.

Not at her face.

At her feet.

At the plain white socks. The ones with a tiny, near-invisible ‘T’ embroidered on the side of the ankle. Riri’s gaze is sharp — pinning, dissecting. She’s masked, as always, but Yumeko sees it in her eyes.

She knows.

Yumeko almost forgets how to breathe.

Kira still doesn’t look. She’s sitting by the fish tank in the corner, one of her house pets kneeling beside her, feeding the koi through glass with precise care. Her posture is regal, perfect, untouched. As if Yumeko doesn’t exist. As if nothing ever happened. As if Russia was a dream neither of them ever had.

But Riri — Riri sees it all.

And then, their eyes meet.

For a heartbeat, Yumeko sees something flicker there. Not judgment. Not pity. Something closer to sorrow. Maybe warning. Maybe understanding. Maybe a truth so heavy Riri can’t let it out.

She almost speaks.

Yumeko sees it in the subtle shift of her jaw. The parting of her lips beneath the mask. But of course, she doesn’t. Riri never does. Not here. Not where words become weapons.

Yumeko blinks, falters just slightly. Her grip on her bag tightens, but the smile stays.

Be her. Be Yumeko.

She lifts two fingers in a mock salute and grins wide — too wide. “Talk later, Riri?” She said with a chuckle.

Then she spins on her heel and walks out before anyone can stop her. Before the weight of Riri’s gaze cracks her open. Before the silence of Kira’s back can pull her under.

Outside, she exhales. Quiet. Controlled.

But her heart is pounding like it wants to break something on the way out.

Chapter Text

The days passed, as days do — smooth and slow and cruel in their indifference.

Meetings blurred together. The hierarchy shifted by decimal points. People whispered, gambled, betrayed each other with perfect etiquette. Yumeko smiled through all of it, a performance honed into muscle memory.

But the worst part wasn’t any of that. It wasn’t the meetings, or the stolen glances, or even the quiet rooms where Kira’s presence coiled like a second atmosphere.

No.

What’s really hard — what no one warns you about — isn’t the silence at night.

People think that’s when heartbreak hits the hardest, when the lights are off, when the room is quiet, when the bed feels too big and too cold. But Yumeko’s not alone, not really. Mary’s there, across the room, bathed in laptop glow and softly muttering about a loophole in the council constitution. There’s the rustle of her sheets, the clink of her tea mug, the quiet sighs of someone perpetually thinking.

It’s lonely — but never alone.

No, the hardest time comes at midday.

When the sun is high enough to warm your skin, but the wind still bites at your fingertips. When you don’t need a blazer but bring one anyway, just in case.

Yumeko walks outside during lunch, arms loose at her sides, path winding along the side of the main building where students sit in clusters under trees and on marble benches. It’s loud, but not overwhelming. The kind of background noise that lets her pretend she’s somewhere else.

And that’s the danger.

Because this weather — this stupid, perfect weather — is the same as it was in the Timurov’s garden in Russia.

She hadn’t packed enough clothes, but Kira lent her that soft gray coat, the one lined with silk. They walked through the pine-lined back garden of the Timurov estate, and Kira had reached for her hand — so gently — as if unsure it was allowed.

Yumeko can still feel it. The warmth of Kira’s gloved fingers slipping between hers. The careful squeeze. The silence they shared, broken only by birds and wind and the soft crunch of frost beneath their boots.

She’d let herself believe that maybe, maybe they could carve out a place in each other’s worlds. Just a sliver.

Now, here in the courtyard, surrounded by other students and the smell of early spring, Yumeko’s fingers twitch like they miss something.

She tucks her hands into her pockets.

She watches a first-year trip over a stone path. Someone calls for a rematch on a card game nearby. A couple kisses against the far railing like they’re the only people in the world.

This was the hardest part, the quiet part of the day.

She doesn’t cry.

She never does during the day.

That’s the worst part.  When there was no excuse to ache.

When it’s too bright to grieve properly, and yet everything aches.

She had just passed the edge of the fountain court when she heard footsteps behind her — measured, certain. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Hey, Yumeko.”

Mary.

She always said her name like that, like she wasn’t asking for her attention so much as already owning it.

Yumeko turned, slow and smiling. The smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Mary stood in the dappled shade of a tree, arms crossed, her uniform pristine. Her signature twin pigtails framed her face — high, neat, a little too symmetrical to be sweet. Everything about her was deliberate. Even the illusion of softness.

“Out stalking me?” Yumeko teased, forcing some melody into her voice. “I didn’t know you were the type.”

Mary didn’t smile. That’s when Yumeko knew something was off.

They started walking together, an easy pace, but the silence between them wasn’t usual. Not the good kind. Not the comfortable kind. It felt… loaded.

Mary kept her hands in her pockets as they walked. Her gaze didn’t waver, not even when they passed a cluster of underclassmen playing a rigged dice game. Yumeko expected a quip. A snort. Something.

Instead, Mary spoke quietly. Too quietly.

“You okay?”

Yumeko blinked up at her. “Now that’s a loaded question.”

“No, it’s not.”

Yumeko raised an eyebrow, but Mary didn’t look at her. She was scanning the school grounds ahead like she was studying patterns — watching people like they were numbers waiting to fall into place.

“You’ve been you.” She said finally. “Loud. Flashy. Flirty. I mean, yesterday you had that poor bastard Frederick down to the brink — one more chip and he’d be your house pet.”

Yumeko tilted her head, smile still blooming. “Mary, if you’re just here to say I’ve lost my sparkle, I might cry.”

“He pissed himself.”

“Not my fault boys can’t hold their bladders.”

“But you didn’t finish the game.”

Yumeko’s smile faltered. Just a little. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying.” Mary said slowly. “You’re performing. Hard. All that chaos? All that shine? It’s a distraction. You’re not chasing the thrill. You’re running from something.”

Yumeko looked away. The wind picked up again, curling around her bare arms like the ghost of a glove she used to wear. A memory of warmth. A snowy garden. Fingers slipping between hers. Kira’s quiet sigh in the cold.

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

Yumeko blinked. That word again. That quiet scalpel.

Mary watched her closely. Her voice dipped lower. “You’re throwing chaos at everyone else so you don’t have to look at yourself. That’s not strategy. That’s distraction.”

Yumeko laughed. Bright. Light. Deflective. “God, I love how you psychoanalyze me in the middle of campus. It’s very ‘femme fatale falling in love with the profiler’ of you.”

“Yumeko.”

The way Mary said her name — like she was pressing a hand over a wound Yumeko hadn’t meant to show.

“I’m fine. ” Yumeko said again, softer this time, and even she could hear how fragile it sounded.

Mary tilted her head, pigtails swinging slightly. “Look, you don’t owe me anything. Maybe we’re not that kind of friends. But I’ve seen what you look like when you’re burning for something. This?” Her hand gestured vaguely toward Yumeko’s whole body, like she could map the hurt in inches. “This isn’t hunger. It’s grief.”

The word landed so hard Yumeko nearly laughed. Grief. Like something died.

But didn’t it?

Mary studied her for another beat, then nodded. Just once.

That was all.

They turned, walked together again, the silence between them filled with more truth than either of them had the courage to name.

The silence between them stretched as they re-entered the building, the heavy wooden doors groaning open like something out of a cathedral. The temperature dipped the moment they stepped inside — cooler, sterile, the hum of ambition thick in the air. The halls of St. Dominic’s weren’t just corridors; they were veins, each one pulsing with legacy, power, and the endless shuffle of students hungry for more.

Yumeko wasn’t thinking. Not really.

She was walking beside Mary, letting herself feel the rhythm of the school beneath her shoes, the weight of the blazer slung lazily over one shoulder, still half-smiling from nothing in particular. That odd little warmth from earlier hadn’t entirely worn off.

She was mid-laugh — something Mary had said, something snide and meaningless — when her steps slowed.

Her pulse shifted.

Too late.

She looked up and realized exactly where she was.

The west wing corridor. Top floor. The Student Council’s primary domain — an unofficially marked territory, but everyone knew it. Students avoided it unless summoned. Teachers tread lightly here. It was silent, except for the echo of confidence. A hallway of glass and marble and domination.

And Kira Timurov stood right in the middle of it.

She wasn’t moving — of course not. Kira never needed to move. She could command a space with stillness alone.

She was facing a second-year house pet, speaking low and sharp enough to carve marble. Her posture was faultless, jacket crisp, the faint glint of her spade pin catching the sunlight filtering through the high windows. Beside her stood Riri, silent as always, mask drawn and hands loose at her sides like a shadow waiting to be useful.

Kira had her back to them at first.

But then she turned.

Because of course she did.

Her gaze swept lazily down the corridor and landed on them like a hawk locking onto movement — slow, poised, and merciless.

Yumeko froze.

Mary, too aware and unaware at the same time, stepped in.

“Kira.” She said smoothly, nodding in that way she always did — just a touch of deference, enough to stay out of the crosshairs. “You look taller today. New heels?”

It was meant to lighten the air. Or buy time.

But Kira didn’t smile.

Her eyes flicked to Mary, and her expression didn’t even twitch.

“Mary.” She said coolly. “Still talking like you matter.”

The insult wasn’t loud, but it carried — down the hallway, across the walls, through Yumeko’s chest.

Mary raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. She knew better than to challenge Kira in her own dominion.

Yumeko should’ve looked away.

She knew that. She told herself she would, if this ever happened. That she’d walk past with her head high and her gaze elsewhere and the same smile on her face that she gave to everyone else she didn’t care about.

But Kira looked at her.

And Yumeko looked back.

It wasn’t long. Maybe two seconds. Three, at most.

But it felt like something inside her cracked.

Because Kira didn’t look angry.

She looked untouched. Distant. Polished into perfection, like she’d already rewritten whatever story they were in. Like it had never happened.

But her eyes…

Her eyes were a wound.

Yumeko forgot to breathe.

The moment snapped like a stretched rubber band, and then Kira turned, already resuming her conversation, already cutting the air with her voice and that perfect, effortless disdain.

Yumeko blinked and forced herself to keep walking.

Mary didn’t say anything this time. She didn’t have to.

But she walked a little closer than before, her pigtails swinging, sharp as ever.

And Yumeko?

She didn’t look back.

Later on, the cafeteria at St. Dominic’s buzzed like a trading floor — deals brokered over trays of imported sushi, betrayals cemented in glances passed over sparkling water. At the very top of it all sat the Student Council table, gleaming like a throne. But Yumeko?

She was tucked away near the windows, sunlight spilling across her lap, knees bare.

Across from her sat Ryan Adebayo, the school’s most harmless disaster, nervously peeling the label off his bottled water.

“You look— uh. Good. Really good, actually.” He managed, his voice cracking like a middle schooler’s.

She smiled, slow and amused, resting her chin against her hand. “Do I?”

Ryan turned red in the ears. “I mean— not like I was looking, just— people notice things. I mean— I noticed. Just a normal amount. God.”

“You’re adorable.” Yumeko said, stealing a cherry tomato from his tray. “Like a baby deer caught in traffic.”

He made a noise — half-laugh, half-groan — and dropped his eyes to the table.

People were watching. She knew they were. Her laughter rang out like a bell, just sweet enough to be sharp. It was all intentional. Her skirt. Her smirk. Her fingers brushing Ryan’s hand as she leaned forward.

It was all for show.

But not for them.

Yumeko didn’t look at the Student Council table. Not directly.

But she knew exactly where Kira was sitting. She knew Kira’s posture—always straight-backed, never relaxed, like she’d forgotten how. She knew Kira’s way of setting down her teacup too precisely, like anything less would make her unravel. She could feel Kira’s presence across the room like a second sun, colder, sharper.

She told herself she didn’t care.

And then, like always, she slipped.

Maybe she’s watching

Maybe she hates seeing this.

Maybe she’s jealous.

Yumeko wanted her to be.

God, she needed her to be.

Because wasn’t that love, in its ugliest form? Possessiveness. The ache of seeing someone else touch what used to be yours?

But Kira didn’t look.

Or — no. She was looking.

Not at her, but past her. Over the rim of her cup, eyes like ice, expression unreadable. She didn't have to look back to know.

Because Yumeko had known that face up close. She’d traced the worry between her brows with her fingers. Kissed the tension out of her jaw in quiet hours no one knew existed.

She knew when Kira was watching.

And Kira was watching.

Just enough that it hurt.

Yumeko let her fingers graze Ryan’s again, playful. Ryan blinked at her like she’d thrown him a lifeline.

“So— um.” He started, voice barely steady, “I was thinking, maybe… Spring Gala? Like, not as a thing-thing. Unless you wanted it to be. Or even as a joke. A good joke. I’m very funny, according to— my dog.”

She laughed — sweet and loud and performative.

And then the fire struck the back of her neck.

It always happened like this. Heat. Pressure. The sense of being not just seen but known.

She looked up.

Riri.

Silent. Imposing. Still as glass. Standing at the head of their table with her arms loose at her sides and her masked expression unreadable.

Just behind her, the cafeteria had quieted — just slightly. Enough to feel it.

Riri tilted her head toward the Council table. A summons.

Yumeko tilted her own in return, all mock confusion. “What if I don’t want to? What if I’d rather stay here? With Ryan?”

Ryan nearly choked on air.

Riri didn’t flinch. She never did. But her eyes lingered just a moment longer than usual.

That was when one of Kira’s house pets — some sophomore trying too hard to matter — stepped in.

“You really should come.” He said, stiff. “You’re part of Student Council now. It’s about appearances.”

Yumeko smiled at him like he was something sticky on the bottom of her shoe.

Then, finally, she stood.

She felt the pull of Kira’s attention like a tide even before she looked. But when she did — just briefly, just enough to see if what she thought was true — Kira’s gaze met hers.

Just once.

For a second.

And in that second, Yumeko could almost feel it: the ice cracking, slow and dangerous under pressure. Kira’s jaw tight. Her grip on the cup just a fraction too hard.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough.

She let her smile sharpen, just slightly. A private thing. A message.

Then she turned, and made the long walk to the Council table.

Mary looked up as she sat beside her, giving her a sideways smirk but saying nothing. Business as usual.

Kira didn’t speak immediately.

She was watching her house pet refill her teacup, the way someone might stare at a fire they refuse to admit is warm.

Then, calmly, she said. “We should be seen together. It’s important to project unity.”

Yumeko laced her fingers together in her lap, her voice sugar-sweet.

“Funny, I don’t remember ‘public affection’ being in our job description.”

Kira didn’t react.

But Riri did.

Yumeko could feel her watching. And not her face.

Her feet.

The socks she’s wearing. Again.

Plain white. One small embroidered ‘T’

And suddenly, Yumeko felt her stomach drop.

Riri’s eyes met hers. Questioning. Quiet. Almost mournful.

Yumeko looked away.

She hadn’t worn them for this. She just hadn’t had the heart to leave them behind.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

She heard nothing during the last period, not the drone of a professor talking ethics with the conviction of a limp lettuce, not the rustle of paper, not even the whisper of students making side bets over who’d be a house pet by Monday. She floated through the hallways like a ghost in pressed uniform, just real enough to be seen, just hollow enough to avoid being touched.

She made it back to her dorm before Mary. The sky was shifting into dusk, that gentle lilac hour when everything looks softer than it really is. The room was quiet — too quiet — and Yumeko was grateful for the silence, even if it felt like it might devour her.

She peeled off her jacket, kicked off her shoes, and sat at the edge of her bed. Her eyes lingered on the socks folded neatly beside her pillow. Plain white. Just fabric. Just thread.

But the tiny ‘T’ stitched at the side?

That was a brand. A bruise. A quiet kind of proof.

She hadn’t meant to keep them, not really. She’d shoved them into her bag on the morning she left the Timurov estate, too early, too sad, too undone. 

And now they sat there, quiet and loyal, the only piece of Kira she had left.

That was when the knock came.

She was startled.

Slipping off the bed, she padded barefoot to the door and pulled it open.

Only to come face-to-face with Riri Timurov.

Yumeko blinked once. “Mary’s not here yet.” She said automatically, with a lazy smile. “She’ll be back later, unless she got herself locked in a match. Come flirt with her another time.”

She started to shut the door — but Riri stepped in, silent as a shadow.

Yumeko frowned, her hand still on the knob. “Okay, wow, strong silent type. Sexy, but a little rude, Riri.”

Riri didn’t say a word. She turned her head, eyes sweeping over the room — then landed on the socks.

Folded neatly.

Beside the bed.

Yumeko followed her gaze, then looked back at Riri with practiced confusion. “What, you want them? I think you can them anywhere. It's just white cotton.”

Riri took a single step forward, arms at her sides.

“You know what that is.” She said, voice flat. Soft, but unshakeable.

Yumeko crossed her arms. “It’s laundry.”

“That’s the Timurov family crest.” Riri replied. “Hand-stitched. Only relatives have those.”

Yumeko paused. Then she tried again.

“Maybe it’s yours.” She said, more lightly this time. “You probably have fifty pairs. Lost track of one?”

“I don’t have those.” Riri said, quiet. “Only Kira does. She’s the only… legitimate child.”

Yumeko’s throat tightened.

It wasn’t like Riri was accusing her of anything. She wasn’t angry. There was no judgment in her voice.

That made it worse.

She sat down on the bed, legs crossed, voice full of mock sweetness. “Okay. Fine. You want the big reveal? I took them. From the laundry room. Back when I had laundry detail when I became a house pet?”

Riri stared.

“I was going to mess with her.” Yumeko said, tone sharper now, a little bitter. “Wear them down the hall. Parade it around. Let her see. Let her react for once.”

Still nothing from Riri.

“Or maybe I just like the way they feel, it’s very soft, you know?” She added. “But if you feel that strongly about it, go ahead. Take them. Deliver them back to Kira. Tell her I sniffed them first, though. That’ll really make her day.”

Riri walked over, picked them up without ceremony. She didn’t speak again. Didn’t demand more. Just held them in her fingers like they were something fragile and looked at Yumeko like she wanted to say something she couldn’t.

And then she left.

The door clicked softly behind her.

Yumeko sat still.

The silence was louder now.

She rubbed at her arms, even though she wasn’t cold. Looked at the empty spot beside her pillow. Told herself it was just a pair of socks. Just cotton and thread and some useless embroidery.

But it was more.

It was the only real thing she had left. A mark that Kira had once let her close. A trace of the life that had lived — briefly, impossibly — in the quiet hours of someone else’s estate.

And now it was gone.

And all she had left was the ache.

The next day dawned slow and painfully quiet.

It wasn’t a silence of peace. It was the kind that hovered just beneath the skin — too still, too clean, like a bandage over a wound that still bled. Yumeko drifted through her morning like a ghost with nowhere left to haunt. She was all idle hands and empty thoughts, too many vacant periods stacked one after the other. Time became something loose and slippery, like a trick coin in someone else’s hand.

She wandered.

Past the South Hall where the newest student council house pets whispered about power. Past the old library where laughter never meant kindness. Her feet carried her across campus without direction, until the noise of the school dimmed behind her and she found herself somewhere new.

A garden.

Private. Tucked behind a crumbling arch draped in ivy. Soft with early blooms. It wasn’t large — just a curve of path, a cluster of benches, and the kind of green space that had no right existing in a place like St. Dominic’s.

She stepped in cautiously, unsure if she was trespassing on something sacred.

And then she saw her.

Kira Timurov, sitting on a bench like something carved from porcelain and old grief. Her back was straight. Her legs crossed neatly at the ankle. She wore the school uniform like armor, perfect down to the last fold. A book rested in her lap, one finger tucked between pages. She was alone.

Yumeko stopped breathing.

It hit her all at once — the curve of Kira’s wrist, the set of her mouth, the way a single lock of hair had slipped free from her clip and curled against her cheek. It had only been weeks since she last saw her like this. Really saw her. But it already felt like a memory too delicate to hold.

She lingered.

Not because she forgot Kira’s face. No, she remembered everything. The freckle under her left collarbone. The scar on her knee from when she fell off a horse at thirteen and refused to cry. The way her fingers always curled into Yumeko’s sweater while she slept, like she was holding on to something she wasn’t allowed to keep.

But Yumeko still needed an excuse to look.

Just a few seconds more.

Just to remember.

And then Kira looked up.

Their eyes met.

Yumeko’s body jolted like she’d been caught stealing something — which, in a way, she had. Time. Memory. The chance to look at Kira like she was still hers.

She turned to leave.

But Kira’s voice stopped her.

“I don’t have those kind of socks here.”

Yumeko froze.

The words slid across her like silk and wire.

Slowly, deliberately, she turned back around.

Kira hadn’t moved. Her gaze was fixed on her — calm, unreadable, dangerous.

Yumeko’s heart kicked against her ribs. “Strange. Must’ve been someone else’s, then.”

“They aren’t.” Kira said quietly.

Yumeko didn’t say anything.

She walked over.

She sat down.

Not close. Not far.

Just enough distance that their bodies wouldn’t touch — but their shadows might.

She didn’t say anything at first. Neither did Kira.

The silence between them was heavy with the knowledge they’d both carried all along.

It was never going to last.

From the very first night in that cold Russian villa, pressed under thick quilts and thicker lies, they had known the truth. A Timurov and a Jabami were never meant to be anything but enemies. One was born of empire. The other, of the blood spilled beneath it. Their families’ fate had written the ending long before they’d ever touched.

And still, they touched.

Still, they chose to have something , knowing it could never become everything.

Yumeko looked straight ahead, eyes glazed with sunlight. “This garden’s pretty. You’ve been keeping it a secret?”

“No one else comes here.” Kira said. “They don’t look for things they can’t use.”

“You do.”

“I don’t use everything I find.”

Yumeko let a smile play at the edge of her lips. “No? Not even people?”

Kira didn’t answer.

Yumeko’s fingers twitched in her lap. “Do you remember the last morning?” she asked, her voice too soft to be casual. “At the house. Before I left.”

Kira’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

"You never called."

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

“You didn’t either.”

"How was I supposed to know you were leaving?"

Yumeko looked at her then — really looked.

Kira’s expression hadn’t changed. But her fingers had curled tight around the edge of her book. Her knuckles were pale.

“I didn’t want to say something I couldn’t take back.” Yumeko whispered. “And I knew if I looked at you, if I saw your face, I wouldn’t leave.”

Kira exhaled, shaky and quiet.

“We agreed.” She said after a long pause. “No illusions. Just the break. Just us. Just then.”

“I know.” Yumeko murmured. “I’m not trying to rewrite it.”

But she was.

In her head, every night.

Again and again.

A version where Kira called her. Where she turned back. Where they met in the dark and said fuck them. A version where their love was louder than history.

Yumeko stared down at the dirt between her shoes.

“You still sleep with the window open?” she asked suddenly.

Kira glanced at her, wary. “Yes.”

“Even when it’s cold?”

Kira nodded.

Yumeko smiled, barely. “You said it helped you breathe.”

Kira didn’t speak.

Yumeko leaned back. “Sometimes, I wake up freezing. And I think of you. Of how you curled into me when the wind snuck in. How you used to rest your forehead on my collarbone like you were trying to hear my heartbeat.”

“I remember.” Kira said.

Yumeko turned to her.

Kira was staring forward again. But something in her throat moved — a swallow, a tightening.

“I remember...” She said again, softer. “More than I should.”

They didn’t speak after that. Not for a long time.

The breeze stirred.

Somewhere beyond the wall, a bell rang.

Kira stood. “I have class.”

Of course she did. Kira always had something. Some duty. Some rule. Some reason to stay distant.

Yumeko nodded without looking up.

“Don’t be late, Kaichou. Wouldn’t want to ruin the Timurov reputation.”

Kira didn’t laugh.

But as she turned, she reached into her coat pocket.

She placed something on the bench where she had sat.

White socks. Folded neatly. The small ‘T’ embroidered at the side.

She didn’t say a word.

Then she left.

Yumeko sat very still, staring at them.

The last proof that they had ever happened — two plain pieces of fabric holding everything she couldn’t say aloud.

And Kira had given them back.

Not out of cruelty.

Not to erase her.

But as a quiet mercy.

A way of saying it mattered.

Chapter Text

It was a slow kind of morning, the kind where sunlight didn’t spill in — it sauntered, lazy and soft, pooling at the edge of Yumeko’s sheets like it knew it wasn’t invited in just yet. She was still wrapped in sleep when the knock came, one eye barely open, strands falling in her face, mouth dry from dreaming.

Mary was out, showering with half the dorm block, and Yumeko had only shuffled halfway down her bed when someone knocked. “Come in, it’s open.”

The door creaked and Riri stepped in like a ghost with perfect posture.

Yumeko barely registered who it was at first. She reached up to swipe the hair from her face, then squinted toward the foot of her bed. “She’s not done yet.” She murmured, voice honey-thick with sleep. “If you’re here to catch her mid-towel-slip, I suggest ten more minutes and a lot more charm.”

Still no response. But that wasn’t new — Riri never had much use for words. Yumeko grinned to herself, twisting to reach her water bottle from the cluttered desk right at the end of her bed. It was an explosion of papers, dice, a half-eaten candy bar, and several punishment slips she’d made a very conscious decision to ignore.

When she turned back, Riri was still staring. Except… not at her.

At her feet.

Yumeko blinked.

Then looked down.

Oh.

Oh no.

The socks.

Kira’s socks. Still on her. She hadn't even thought about it when she rolled out of bed. She never wore them out, not anymore — too risky. But at night? At night they were everything. 

She wore them every night now. Always in secret.

She didn’t let herself think about what that meant. Only that they made sleep easier. That when she curled her legs beneath her, the familiar texture grounded her. In some ridiculous, pathetic way, they were Kira. A piece of her, borrowed from a past neither of them had the right to miss.

The fabric still held warmth that wasn’t hers. It wasn’t about scent or memory — it was about pretending Kira was something she could still hold close.

And now they were visible.

Well, shit.

She didn’t let it show. Not in her face, not in her posture. She just shifted a bit on the bed and fluttered her lashes lazily.

“I know, it’s a mess.” She said, nodding toward the desk like she truly thought that was what Riri had been judging. “It’s the chaos corner. I call it character-building. Mary calls it a cry for help.”

Riri didn’t move.

Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke. “You have them again.”

There was no accusation in her tone. But there didn’t have to be. Yumeko felt her stomach drop anyway.

She tilted her head like she hadn’t heard right. “Have what?”

Riri’s eyes dropped again, to the small white socks, soft and worn and edged with the faintest embroidery — a T, nearly invisible unless you were looking. Which Riri clearly was.

“I gave them back.” Riri said. “To Kira.”

Yumeko smiled — the kind of smile that sparkled, a bit too bright, like it wanted to distract. “Oh, these? They’re just socks, Riri. You really have a thing for feet, don’t you? It’s always the silent ones.”

But Riri didn’t rise to the bait.

Yumeko swung her feet gently, as if that might somehow make this moment less awkward, more innocent. She stretched like a cat, arms above her head, then dropped them with a sigh. “Maybe they’re not the same ones. I mean, Kira isn’t exactly hurting for laundry, is she? You think she personally hand-labels her socks?”

“They’re the same.”

That was firmer. More sure.

Yumeko shrugged. “Or maybe someone donated them. Lost and found gets weird sometimes. Or maybe I’ve always had them. Do you really keep track of every pair of socks on campus?”

Silence.

Riri was still staring. Still not buying it. Yumeko didn’t flinch. She’d learned how to wear masks before she ever learned how to lose gracefully.

She leaned forward just slightly, voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Don’t tell me you take spying for your sister that seriously?”

Riri’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Then, as always, she said nothing.

And just like that, the tension broke — not with an answer, but with the wet slap of bathroom slippers.

Mary returned with her towel still around her head, humming something off-key and flipping through her phone with water-slick fingers.

She raised a brow at the two of them. “Is it murder or silent brooding this time?”

Yumeko stretched her arms up again and yawned. “We’re bonding. In our own weird way.”

“As long as no one’s dead.” Mary shrugged, then tossed her phone on her bed. “Someone make tea.”

Riri gave Yumeko one last unreadable glance, then turned and left without a word. The door clicked shut behind her like a punctuation mark Yumeko wasn’t ready for.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

But it wasn’t light, either.

Yumeko looked down at the socks on her feet. She didn’t move to take them off.

Not yet.

Because despite everything — despite the risk, despite the eyes, despite Riri — it was still warm in them.

Still soft.

Still a little bit Kira.

And for now, that was enough.

The day had dragged on with the soft lull of something unfinished. Yumeko had floated through her classes with the usual flicker of interest, barely registering the droning lectures or the way Mary passed her folded notes filled with gossip and biting commentary. She smiled when it was expected, played coy when she was watched, and giggled at Ryan’s flustered attempts at charm like she always did.

To everyone else, she was fine. Effervescent. Untouched.

But beneath the mask, something pulled at her. Slow and low and painful.

So when her last class ended and she realized she had nearly a full hour before the student council meeting, she didn’t head for the gambling hall. She didn’t seek out Mary or wander through the cafeteria to let herself be seen.

She walked — without fully meaning to — toward the council office.

It was a strange sort of pull, instinctive and weak enough to deny but strong enough to obey. Part of her told herself it would be funny to arrive early, to see their faces twist when she, of all people, was the first to show up.

Another part told her the truth — that maybe Kira would be there. That maybe, just maybe, she’d have her for five uninterrupted minutes.

But someone beat her to it.

As she turned the hallway corner, she saw the door slightly ajar. It would’ve been so easy to push it open. Make a scene. Crash the moment. But her name — clear and sudden and sharp — stopped her cold.

“What’s going on with you and Yumeko?”

Riri. Soft, flat. Too calm to be casual.

Yumeko stilled, her hand just inches from the doorknob.

Her heart picked up its pace.

She didn't mean to eavesdrop — not really. But she didn’t walk away either. She stood still, back pressed to the wall just beside the door, as though the quiet would protect her from what was coming.

“Nothing’s going on.” Came Kira’s voice, measured and cool as always.

Yumeko felt something twist low in her stomach.

“I saw the socks again.” Riri said.

Her tone hadn’t changed, but it didn’t need to. Riri never raised her voice — it made what she did say feel like razors wrapped in velvet.

Yumeko’s breath caught.

“I returned them to you. You folded them and put them in your drawer.” Riri continued.

“I did.” Kira said.

“So why was she wearing them again?”

Another pause.

Long.

“I don’t know.” Kira said.

Liar, Yumeko thought. But she said it with something like affection and something sharper than grief.

Because Kira gave them back. Left them, folded, on that stone bench in the garden without saying a word. A silent gesture, a message without a sender. Kira didn’t need to say take them — the action had already spoken.

But Riri didn’t know that. Couldn’t know that.

And Yumeko had no intention of confirming her suspicions.

“Did she take them again?” Riri asked, quieter now.

Kira let out a breath — exasperation or exhaustion, Yumeko couldn’t tell.

“Maybe. It’s not like she doesn’t enjoy getting under people’s skin.”

Yumeko flinched, even though she knew that line was for Riri’s benefit. She recognized the performance. She did it everyday. But maybe it doesn't feel as good when you're not the one doing it.

“But why those socks?” Riri pressed.

Another pause. And then:

“Because they were mine.” Kira said, her voice colder than before. “And Yumeko have always liked playing with things she’s not supposed to. Especially when it comes to me.”

Yumeko’s hands curled into fists at her sides. That one — that line — hurt more than she expected.

Riri didn’t respond.

And Yumeko couldn’t see their faces, but she could feel the weight of something unspoken still sitting thick in the air between them.

A beat passed.

Then Kira’s voice again, this time tight and brittle at the edges. “Let it go, Riri. She’s not important.”

Yumeko nearly laughed. Not important.

Right. Just a phase. Just a girl who spent a winter watching Kira sleep, learning her rhythms, holding her when the pressure became too much and whispering little lies about forever they both knew weren’t true.

Just someone who still slept in the socks she left behind like a teenager who didn’t know how to move on.

Not important at all.

Inside, a chair scraped. Someone stood.

Yumeko stepped back, quick and silent, before either of them reached the door.

She couldn’t bear the idea of them finding her like this — pressed against a wall, heart bleeding into her ribcage, listening like a ghost desperate to haunt something still living.

By the time she entered the council room twenty minutes later, her lips were curved in a sugar-sweet smile the same one she used everyday.

And Kira didn’t look up.

Just like always.

But Yumeko noticed the tension in her jaw. The way her nails tapped the table twice, just twice, a habit she had when she didn’t know what to say.

And Yumeko sat down. No words exchanged between them.

But she still felt them. Still felt her.

Later, when the campus was enveloped by the dark sky and everyone drifted off to sleep. Yumeko lay still in the dark, the quiet of her dorm room pressing in like a weight she couldn’t shrug off. The shadows around her blurred and twisted, but one phrase echoed sharp and relentless inside her chest. 

"She’s not important."

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard those words from Kira. Maybe it was a defense — a shield Kira had raised to keep Riri from digging deeper, to maintain the fragile peace in their fractured family. Yumeko knew that much. But lies taste just as bitter when swallowed.

"She’s not important."

Her mind spiraled into the moments behind those words, the way Kira’s voice had been clipped, almost cold, like she was trying not to feel it herself. But Yumeko felt it. Every syllable like a slash across her ribs. As if everything they had — those stolen touches, whispered nights, the secret that burned between them like a flame — meant nothing to the one person she cared about most.

"She’s not important."

She traced her fingers over the socks at her feet — still Kira’s socks — the last tangible thing left from that brief, impossible time together. They should have been nothing, just a piece of cloth, but to Yumeko, they were a lifeline to a warmth she could no longer reach. The ache in her heart stretched, raw and pulsing, like an open wound that refused to heal.

"She’s not important."

She remembered how Kira would lean in close when they slept, how her breath would catch when Yumeko’s fingers brushed her skin. The way her laugh — soft and rare — had sounded only for her. 

"She’s not important."

All memories now tainted by the cold truth that Kira needed to push her away, to pretend Yumeko didn’t matter.

"She’s not important."

The cruel irony was that Yumeko had never needed to be ‘important’ in the usual sense. She just wanted to be seen — not as a pawn in some family game, not as a rival or a threat, but as someone real, someone who could hold a place in Kira’s fractured world. And yet, here she was, pushed back into the shadows, forced to pretend the fire that once burned between them was just smoke and mirrors.

"She’s not important."

Tears threatened to spill, but Yumeko swallowed them down. She had to. She always had to. Because no one could ever know how much this cut her open, how much she still wanted Kira despite every reason not to.

"She’s not important."

The silence wrapped around her again, colder than before. 

"She’s not important."

And in that lonely darkness, Yumeko thought to herself, Maybe I really was never important at all.

The morning broke as dull and gray as the mood pressed behind Yumeko’s ribs. Her routine felt mechanical — get up, get dressed, wear a mask that looked like her face. But something had shifted since last night. 

"She’s not important."

The words still echoed like rot in her bones, but even rot could grow something if left long enough.

So she moved with quiet intention.

By the staircase near the East dormitory, she waited, the cool wood against her back grounding her in this reckless decision. Kira’s dorm was three floors up, right corner, view of the courtyard — Yumeko knew every angle, every creak of its door, every scent that clung to its halls. She also knew that Kira never took the stairs. She always glided down in the elevator like the composed monarch she was raised to be.

The moment she heard the doors of the lift hiss open, followed by the echoing steps of heels retreating down the hallway, Yumeko moved. She glanced around quickly — no students, no staff. Still early enough that the corridors yawned with silence. Just like she'd planned.

From her blazer pocket came a small, velvet pouch. Inside were her lockpicks. Something she’d mastered long before she ever walked the halls of St. Dominic’s. The lock gave in with a soft click. Her breath held like a dare as she stepped inside.

Kira’s room smelled like lavender and control. The bed was made to perfection, corners tucked sharp as blades. Everything else was symmetrical, symmetrical like Kira’s entire life — clean, quiet, ruthless in its order.

Yumeko didn’t let herself linger. She didn’t touch the desk, didn’t brush the doorframe. She reached into her bag and pulled out the socks — folded with more care than she’d admit.

She placed them gently on Kira’s bed, the soft fabric contrasting starkly against the deep blue sheets, and for a moment, her fingers brushed the edge of the pillow as if she could imprint a piece of herself there.

If only she looked more closely, searched the room.

She might've seen it — the small glass case resting atop the desk. Crystal gleamed inside it, caged in glass and steel, an artifact from a day etched into both their bodies. A glass that once held poison and possibility, the glass Yumeko had pressed to her lips before kissing Kira like a death sentence. Kira had kept it. Preserved it. Displayed it like a trophy or a scar, depending on how one chose to see it.

But Yumeko’s eyes never met it. Her heart too heavy, her mind too clouded by the ghosts she was trying to hold onto. She closed the door softly behind her and slipped away before Kira’s return, carrying with her the ache of a closeness that was slipping further and further out of reach.

The room stayed silent behind her, holding onto the relics of their story like a secret neither of them knew how to stop retelling.

Chapter Text

The day had dragged like a body underwater — slow and quiet and suffocating. Yumeko had gone through her classes without really hearing a word, offered smiles that felt like cheap fabric, flirted out of habit instead of playfulness. 

The library was a sanctuary of stillness, but Yumeko felt none of its calm. The soft scratch of her pen against paper was a hollow echo beneath the storm inside her. She didn’t really study anymore — not tonight. Her thoughts were tangled around the weight of what Kira’s words had done to her, a cruel echo bouncing in her chest. “She’s not important.” Those words, meant to be cold and dismissive, had lodged themselves deep within her.

She thought about the way Kira had said it — not to hurt her, not really. No, it was meant for Riri, a deflection, a lie to end suspicion. 

She could’ve gone back to her dorm hours ago, but Mary and Riri were there, and Yumeko didn’t want to see Riri’s eyes again. Not after the lingering gaze. The silence. The knowing.

So here she was, hunched over a textbook she didn’t need, surrounded by empty chairs and the smell of old paper. Her highlighter dragged aimlessly across the same paragraph for the third time when she felt a shift in the air — like gravity had just bent around her.

Yumeko didn’t look up. She kept her gaze on the scattered notes, pretending to be absorbed in trivial calculations, fighting the urge to break, to shatter.

Minutes stretched like hours. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

Yumeko clenched her jaw, fingers tightening around her pen until her nails bit into her palm. If only Riri were here. At least with Riri, there would be questions — cold, calculated suspicion that Yumeko could confront, dodge, or even mock. But Kira’s silence was a thousand times worse. It was a quiet accusation that screamed louder than any words.

She had made up her mind. She’d rather be interrogated by Riri, who demanded answers, than linger in this wordless tension with Kira, who was both enemy and something far more complicated.

Slowly, deliberately, Yumeko began to pack. Each movement was measured, trying to appear casual, though her heart thudded in her chest like a drumbeat she couldn’t ignore.

Then — without warning — there was the soft, precise placement of something on the desk beside her bag.

Her breath caught.

The socks.

“What?” Yumeko asked, her tone light but her chest suddenly much too tight.

Kira’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like ice. “You broke into my room.”

Yumeko shrugged one shoulder, slipping back into that too-sweet smile she wore like perfume. “I was only returning what’s rightfully yours. That’s not a crime, is it?”

Kira’s lips twitched — not quite a smile. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just give them back? Why break into my room like some petty thief?” Her tone was edged with something deeper — confusion, irritation, maybe even a touch of hurt.

Yumeko shrugged, still smiling with that dangerous glint. “Oh, you know me. I like to keep things interesting. Besides, I figured sneaking in was more dramatic — more ‘us,’ don’t you think?”

Kira crossed her arms, steady gaze drilling into her. “It’s reckless. And confusing. If you didn’t want the socks, just say so. There’s no need for games.”

Yumeko’s eyes flickered away for a brief moment, the tease fading just enough to reveal the fragile ache beneath. Then she caught Kira’s stare again and leaned in, lowering her voice. “Well, it’s already in your possession, there’s no need to argue.”

Kira’s jaw clenched. “This is not a game, Yumeko.”

“And this is not a conversation.” Yumeko fired back, still too playful, still too flippant.

Kira’s voice was softer but no less fierce. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?” Yumeko whispered. Playful. Like it doesn’t hurt looking at Kira.

Kira’s lips pressed into a thin line, her cold mask slipping for a fleeting second. She almost looked heartbroken. Almost. 

Before the mask slipped back in. “You’re being unreasonable.”

Her eyes locked on Kira’s, the pain raw and exposed beneath the playful veneer. “Why do you care?”  She stood, tossing her bag over her shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “I’m not important, right? You said so yourself.”

With that, she turned and left, the door clicking softly behind her.

The socks remained on the desk, untouched and silent, a quiet monument to the complicated, toxic dance between them.

The rest of the week unfolded with a careful, practiced silence — as if the library confrontation had been nothing more than a shadow passing through a room. At least, that’s how they acted. Pretending. Because pretending was easier than facing the raw truth simmering beneath their skin.

Yumeko slid back into old rhythms but with small, undeniable fractures. She returned to sitting with Ryan during lunch, her presence no longer a challenge to Kira’s domain. The usual sharp summons to the council table, once dispatched by Riri, and Kira’s house pets, stopped entirely. And when Yumeko began skipping council meetings altogether, no one bothered to call her out — not even Mary, who once raised an eyebrow and asked, “Where are you off to this time?” only to be met with Yumeko’s characteristic, carefree banter that dissolved the question before it fully landed.

Yet, beneath the surface, everything was shifting.

Yumeko’s gambling intensified, fueled less by thrill and more by an aching distraction she couldn’t escape. No longer was she the player just hanging on to the top ten’s last spot, weaving through the chaos. Now, her name surged up the leaderboard — firmly in the top five — dominating with an intensity that made even the fiercest competitors wary.

She spent more and more time with Ryan, almost all her time, letting his clumsy attempts at conversation fill the silences she could no longer bear to face alone. And when Riri was near, Yumeko slipped away, a coward’s retreat that gnawed at her pride. It wasn’t like her to back down, but some wounds ran too deep to fight through every day. It was easier — so much easier — to be the coward than to keep carrying that ache.

The pretense held firm, but the cracks were there, quietly widening.

And yet, somehow, Yumeko was starting to get comfortable with this fractured existence — the quieter corners, the half-empty hallways, the easy companionship of Ryan, who stumbled through his words but never pressed too hard. It was a strange solace to be just another shadow moving through the school, not the dangerous wild card, not the threat looming over the council.

In those moments, when no one was demanding more than she could give, when the sharp edges dulled just enough for her to breathe, Yumeko let herself rest. Not because the pain was gone, but because she learned how to carry it differently — less like a wound ripped open and more like a bruise slowly fading.

But even as she found this strange new rhythm, every glance at the leaderboard, every quiet laugh shared with Ryan, every step away from Riri’s watchful eyes was a reminder. The ache hadn’t left her. 

It had simply learned to hide.

The afternoon sun spilled gently over the courtyard, warm enough to leave blazers behind but cool enough for a slight breeze to tease the edges of Yumeko’s skirt. It was a rare quiet moment and Yumeko found herself strolling beside Ryan, who was in full-on ‘nerd mode’, eyes bright behind his glasses, excitedly sharing some obscure fact about probability theory and how it could revolutionize gambling strategies.

Yumeko giggled, genuinely entertained despite herself. Ryan’s earnestness was disarming. He wasn’t smooth or polished — far from it — but his awkward enthusiasm was like a fresh breeze against the usual tension that clung to Yumeko’s days.

“So, basically, if you calculate the odds just right, you could almost predict the dealer’s next card.” Ryan was saying, voice rising with excitement, words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s all about Bayesian inference. Like, you update your probabilities based on what’s already played—”

Yumeko held up a hand, laughing softly. “Whoa, slow down, professor. You’re gonna make me feel like I’m in math class again.”

Ryan flushed, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks pink. “Sorry! I just— uh, wanted to share it with someone who’d actually appreciate it. You know, since you’re… well, you’re really good at gambling.”

She smiled, her eyes warm. “Flattery and brains. You may be getting better,  Ryan.”

Ryan’s usual awkwardness was on full display as he stammered through bits of small talk, his words tumbling out in fits and starts. “S-so, uh, Yumeko… I was wondering— if maybe— you’d want to… uh… come to the spring gala with me?”

Yumeko’s lips twitched into a teasing smile, genuinely entertained by his nervous charm. She tilted her head, eyes bright. “Oh? Ryan, that’s adorable.” She giggled softly, the kind of laugh that could ease tension but still carried a hint of mischief.

Before Ryan could recover from the surprise, a shadow stepped into their path — Suki, sliding in like he owned the place with his signature smirk.

He didn’t even glance at Ryan as he approached — his gaze fixed solely on Yumeko. “Darling.” He said, too brightly. “You’re radiating. So rare to see someone enjoy the company of such… authentic energy.”

Yumeko’s smile thinned. Ryan blinked, unsure whether it was a compliment or a cleverly-worded insult.

Suki’s voice dipped, perfectly pitched. “No offense, sweetheart.” He added to Ryan, faux-sweet. “You just give off… hmm, moth energy. And Yumeko’s always been flame.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he looped his arm through Yumeko’s. “Borrowing her. Council business.”

Yumeko shot Ryan a helpless shrug, let herself be tugged along. Suki led her to a less-populated corridor near the South wing, the sun casting gold through stained glass above them. It felt like a confessional — if the priest wore Balenciaga and smiled like sin.

“Look, honey.” Suki started, dropping the influencer tone for something silkier, darker. “No cameras around. Just us. So this is as honest as my cruelty-free make-up.”

Yumeko leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, playful but bristling. “You always are.”

“Skipping council meetings, sulking through lunch with your pet project, and ghosting your responsibilities? It’s not rebellious, it’s reckless. And frankly, it ain’t cute.”

Yumeko grinned. “You following me around now, Suki? I'm flattered.”

He didn’t bite. “I heard a little something.” He said, feigning casual. “That you spent the entire semestral break at the Timurov estate.”

Yumeko’s flirty expression faltered, just for a second. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Oh, honey.” Suki purred. “I have eyes everywhere.”

Yumeko’s laugh was airy, but the tension in her spine betrayed her. “Jealous? You want an invite next time?”

“No, thanks.” Suki replied. “Too cold in Russia. Can’t let this supple skin dry. But that’s not the point.”

He took a step closer, dropping his voice. “You and Kira in the same house for an entire break without one of you ending up dead? That’s impressive. Kind of makes this whole act you’re doing now feel… performative.”

Yumeko said nothing, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

“No one expects you two to braid each other’s hair.” Suki went on. “But come on, ignoring each other’s existence? That’s not fiery. That’s ice cold. And baby, that’s weird . Especially for you two.”

Her eyes flicked to his, dark and glinting. “What do you want from me, Suki?”

“To stop acting like this is personal.” He snapped, sweetly. “Or if it is personal, to deal with it quietly. Kira looks like she might fall apart, and you flouncing around like you’re in a teenage romcom isn’t helping.”

That landed.

Yumeko’s heart tightened. She blinked too slowly.

“If you can survive under the same roof without a murder charge.” Suki added, voice like a blade wrapped in lace. “You can at least sit at the same table. Attend the same meetings. Smile across the hallway, even if it’s fake.”

“If this goes on…” He leaned in, his final whisper dragging through the air like smoke. “Maybe I’ll find out what really happened last break.”

Yumeko straightened up, forcing her usual smirk, but it tasted like metal.

“I’d love to see you try.”

Suki grinned, victory already gleaming in his eyes. “I always do.”

He turned to go, casting one last look over his shoulder.

“Fix it, Yumeko. Before I dig up something none of us want to deal with.”

And then he was gone, leaving her there, alone in the corridor — heart pounding, Kira’s name like a splinter she couldn’t remove.

She stood there long after Suki had left — back pressed to the cold glass, arms wrapped loosely around herself, like she could hold in everything threatening to spill out.

Suki said she was almost falling apart.

And it was Suki. Kira’s devotee, almost thinks of Kira as a Goddess. The boy who posted slow-motion videos of Kira walking across courtyards as if she were God descending a marble staircase. The one who curled around her like smoke, always first to defend her, always the last to leave her side. For someone like him to say Kira was unraveling? That meant something.

That meant it was bad.

And for a fleeting moment, Yumeko forgot everything else. She forgot that she hadn’t been to a single council meeting in over a week, forgot the ache behind Kira’s “She’s not important”, forgot the socks, and every wound they’d pressed into each other. For a moment, it was just worry, white-hot and clawing. A too-familiar panic that lodged itself in her throat like glass.

She hated that she still cared.

She hated more that she couldn’t stop.

It would have been easier if Kira had tried to ruin her life. If she had turned her father’s power against her, ousted her as a Jabami, dragged her through humiliation and forced exile. Yumeko could have hated her then. Cleanly. Completely. But instead, Kira just kept looking away — offering silence, offering her back, offering that aching kind of distance that was worse than cruelty.

Now Kira was hurting, and Yumeko couldn’t tell if she wanted to run toward her or away.

Because if she cared, she’d lose the bit of pride she had left.

But if she kept walking — if she kept laughing beside Ryan and pretending to rule the gambling boards like she wasn’t breaking inside — then maybe, maybe, she could pretend it never happened.

Maybe she could believe Kira meant it when she said Yumeko wasn’t important.

Then why are you still wearing the socks, Yumeko?

No, she wasn’t. Not anymore. 

At least, physically.

They sat somewhere in Kira’s room again, folded and returned, like some quiet rebellion.

But somehow, she could still feel them. How comfortable and safe she felt once they covered her feet.

She rubbed her arms, biting back the ache building in her chest.

She tilted her head back, looking up at the ornate ceiling of the corridor, as if it had the answers to all her problems.

Kira Timurov was hurting.

And Yumeko didn’t know if she wanted to hold her or break something just to make it hurt more.

The morning after Suki’s words, Yumeko stood before her mirror, the ache still tight in her chest. I’ll do it for her , she told herself — no grand revelations, just something small but real. She didn’t miss the meetings, she didn’t miss being there, but she knew Kira could use a break from all this. So she would show up.

She arrived before anyone else. The council office was too quiet, like it had been holding its breath in her absence. She perched herself on the edge of the circular table, fingers playing idly with the hem of her skirt, staring at the far window like it might give her strength.

Ten minutes passed.

Then the door opened.

Kira stepped in with the kind of poise she must have been born with. A house pet trailed behind her — silent, eyes down. Kira’s gaze flicked to Yumeko and paused, just a second longer than it needed to.

But only just. 

Just for a breath. Just enough for her shoulders to stiffen, for her gaze to linger on Yumeko, unreadable.

Then she walked past her like she hadn’t frozen at all. Like this wasn’t the first time they were in the same room since the library.

She walked to her usual seat and sat, posture perfect, not a strand of her hair out of place. The house pet stood behind her, silent as ever.

Yumeko didn’t speak. Neither did Kira.

But God, there was something sharp in the stillness. Something unbearable.

Yumeko flicked her gaze to the house pet and tilted her head, voice laced with artificial sugar.

“I left a pen in one of my morning classes.” She said sweetly. “Would you mind?”

The house pet blinked, hesitating, unsure.

Her gaze flicked to Kira — for permission.

Kira didn’t look at her, just nodded once.

“Awesome!” Yumeko chirped, reaching into her bag and pulling out her schedule. “Here are my classes today.”

The girl took the paper wordlessly and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

And just like that, the air changed.

Yumeko looked over. Kira was staring straight ahead. Still silent.

Then Kira’s voice cut the air. “Didn’t think you’d show up today.”

“I figured I’d do my good deed for the day. You were starting to look a little stressed, Kaichou.” Yumeko replied airily, her tone laced with that flirtatious sharpness only she could pull off.

“That’s generous of you.”

“I have my moments.”

A breath. Then another.

Kira didn’t look amused. “You don’t have to pretend like you care.”

“I’m not pretending.” Yumeko smiled, teeth too white. “But maybe I am trying to ignore that I shouldn’t.”

Kira’s gaze finally flicked to her. Cold, assessing. “You’ve been dramatic all week.”

“And you’ve been pretending I don’t exist.”

“You made that choice.”

Yumeko’s lips twitched. “No. I made a choice not to be pitied.”

“I wasn’t pitying you.”

“Then what were you doing?” Yumeko’s voice dropped, playfulness peeling away like silk from a blade. “Because from where I was standing, you tossed a bone and called it grace.”

Kira didn’t flinch, but something in her eyes shifted. “It was a gesture.”

“And I declined. Doesn’t mean I wanted to be erased.”

Kira looked down at her hands, folded neatly on the desk. “You walked out.”

“No, I left because I didn’t want to take anything from someone who thinks I’m not important.”

Kira blinked once.

Just once.

Then her voice was careful. “Where did you even hear that?”

Yumeko tilted her head, faux-innocent. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yumeko—”

She cut her off with a sweet hum, still too light, too playful. But there was hurt behind her eyes. “Was it not true? Because it was said so confidently. So easily. God, I was almost impressed.”

“Whoever told you—” Kira’s voice caught, just barely. “You know I didn’t mean it.”

Yumeko shrugged. “Maybe. But you said it anyway.”

Kira opened her mouth, looked like she might try again but then—

Bang.

The door swung open with all the subtlety of an earthquake.

“Oh my god, that class is so boring.”

“I value that lollipop more than your life, Chad. I swear if—”

Runa’s voice cut off mid-sentence. Dori bumped into Chad, who was already halfway through, dramatically throwing his bag on the table.

They all froze.

Three sets of eyes landed on Yumeko first — seated at the table, legs elegantly crossed, playing casual. That alone would’ve been enough to spark gossip. But then they saw Kira, sitting on her throne, perfectly still, a single hand loosely resting on the arm of her chair.

Kira didn’t say a word.

She didn’t have to.

It was all there in her eyes, that glint, that razor-edge warning that even Chad wasn’t brave — or stupid — enough to test.

Runa blinked, then plastered on a sugar-sweet smile. “Oh wow, look who’s actually here.”

Yumeko’s grin widened, all mock innocence and playful charm. “I missed the family.”

The council members exchanged glances. They all knew better than to rile Yumeko before a council meeting, especially since Kira’s presence was a whole other level of intimidating today.

The council chamber had filled like water poured into a glass — a slow, trickling arrival of bodies and whispers. One by one, the members filed in. Suki was the next to enter, dragging Rex behind him like a designer bag that barked. He gave Yumeko a once-over, eyes sharp with assessment, then shot Kira a glance before taking his seat. Rex, for once, didn’t say a word.

Mary came after, hair still damp from what looked like a rushed styling session, her usual pigtails slightly off-center. Her gaze flitted over Yumeko, paused for half a beat — not long enough to give anything away — then slid toward Kira. And then, without missing a beat, she smiled and dropped into her seat, pulling out her phone like none of this mattered.

Riri entered silently, as always, face unreadable behind her sleek black mask. She didn’t even glance Yumeko’s way, but Yumeko felt the weight of her presence like a storm cloud threatening rain.

The room hummed with cautious energy, the unspoken dance of rivalry and fragile truce hanging thick in the air.

Chapter Text

The meeting resumed with all the grace of a reality show reunion — polished smiles, sharp edges, and thinly veiled agendas. Kira sat at the head like a statue carved of glass and pressure, perfectly put together, impossible to touch.

“Spring Gala.” She said, crisp and clear, silencing the last whisper of side chatter. “We need theme confirmation, committee assignment, and media handling finalized by Friday.”

Suki leaned forward, elbows on the table, as if summoned by the words media handling . “Look. I know someone here probably wants to do another ‘Timeless Elegance’ vibe—” He flicked a glance at Chad, who looked up, offended for no reason. “But I’m telling you, that’s tired.”

Runa, lounging in a blue shark onesie today, sucked hard on her lollipop and said. “Lust and Lace.”

“You just like the ‘lace’ part.” Chad muttered.

“No.” Runa said, shrugging. “I just like watching the Board panic when they see ‘lust’ on a banner.”

Mary didn't even look up. “They’ll live. They survived last year’s ‘Garden of Sin.’ Barely though.”

Suki waved a hand. “If we’re gonna do scandal, let’s at least do it tastefully. Think: Versailles in hell. Corsets, satin masks, red light glow—”

“I second it.” Dori interrupted, gleaming with the kind of energy that meant she’d already started imagining someone catching fire. “I want real candles. Real flames. If no one leaves with a singed hemline, it’s not a party.”

Kira didn’t flinch. “No open flames.”

Dori slouched, disappointed. “Fake flames, then. But I want them big.”

Rex, ever quiet beside Suki like a bodyguard or a pet that hadn’t gotten the memo about being freed, offered. “Maybe dry ice fog?”

“That’s cute.” Suki praised, patting his head like a good boy. Rex turned pink.

Chad raised a hand. “I just don’t want any themes that’ll ruin my chances of actually asking someone out. Can we not do something weird like ‘funeral chic’ again?”

“You wore a velvet cape.” Mary said blandly.

“It was hot! ”

“It was horrifying.” Runa added, kicking Chad under the table.

Through it all, Kira barely blinked, letting the chaos ripple and settle, her silence a scalpel used only when necessary.

Finally, a voice from the far corner — soft, nearly swallowed by the noise.

“Masquerade.”

Everyone turned, surprised. Riri had spoken. Masked as always, sitting rigid as ever, but her voice cut through like the ghost of something sacred.

“Masks?” Suki tilted his head. “Oooh. Secrets. Lies. Symbolism. I kind of like.”

“I absolutely like.” Runa agreed, already doodling a mask on her tablet.

Kira’s eyes lingered on Riri for just a moment. A flicker of something passed through her — approval, or something that pretended to be it.

Yumeko watched all of this, propping her chin on her palm. She smiled lazily. “Masks are fun.” She purred. “You can lie better when no one knows what your face looks like.”

Mary, beside her, rolled her eyes. “Not everyone needs a mask to lie.”

“Ooh.” Dori said, grinning wide. “Are we about to fight? I hope we fight. I hope there’s blood.”

“We’re not fighting.” Kira said, finally slicing through the mess. “We’re voting. Masquerade wins. We’ll finalize visual direction this weekend.”

Suki snapped his fingers. “Yes. Now someone find me a designer who can do high fashion masquerade in a week without committing a labor rights violation.”

“I can call my cousin.” Runa said. “He makes costumes for underground raves in Vienna.”

“That sounds incredible.” Dori gasped.

Rex wrote it down dutifully while everyone kept talking over each other, throwing around color palettes, musical acts, choreographers, and, inexplicably, a mechanical swan centerpiece that Chad wouldn’t stop bringing up.

Through it all, Yumeko sat still — smiling, laughing, offering suggestions with that signature sweetness that had venom under its tongue. Kira didn’t look at her again, not directly. But once, when Yumeko laughed too loud at something Mary whispered, Kira’s fingers tensed on the armrest of her chair.

It was subtle.

It was everything.

And no one noticed — except Yumeko.

And that was enough to make her stay just a little longer.

Chad leaned back with all the swagger of someone who thought the entire world revolved around him. “Alright, alright, we got themes, we got plans — but what about dates?”

He grinned around the table like he just dropped the most profound question of the meeting.

“Oh my God!” Dori groaned. “Not everything is about hooking up, Chad.”

“Actually…” Suki interjected sweetly, without looking up from his phone. “He has a point. Visual cohesion is everything. Council showing up paired gives the people something to talk about. You know, leadership, unity, scandal — the good stuff.”

Chad winked. “Exactly. So. Who’s going with who?”

“I’m going with Mikey.” Dori announced, sharp and unapologetic.

Yumeko stiffened. Just slightly. Her smile didn’t falter, but it didn’t reach her eyes either.

Michael.

Even just the name made her fingers twitch with the memory — the sting of whiskey on her lips, the burn of poison in her mouth, and Kira’s voice in her ear daring her to go through with it.

Across the table, Kira’s hand stopped mid-turn of a page. She didn’t speak, didn’t look, but Yumeko felt it — that flicker of attention, razor-sharp.

“Oh, he’s not student council though.” Runa pointed out, lollipop stick bobbing between her teeth.

“He’s hot.” Dori replied, unapologetic. “That makes up for it.”

“I second that.” Chad said, raising a hand. “Also not council, but I’ve got my eye on this girl from the fencing club—”

“Shocking.” Mary muttered.

Suki gave a long-suffering sigh. “Rex is going with me. Obviously.”

Rex didn’t argue. He never did when it came to Suki. He just gave a small nod and a proud smile.

“I’ll go with Mary.” Runa offered, giving her a playful side glance. “If your masked lover gets taken.”

Mary snorted. “A tempting offer, but I think I’m good.”

Yumeko tilted her head, mock-curious. “You think Riri will say yes?”

Mary smirked. “She doesn’t get to say no.”

And just like that, every eye flicked to Riri — who remained at Kira’s side, silent, masked, unmoving. But her eyes — those traitorous eyes — looked right at Mary.

That was enough.

“I’ll go with Riri.” Kira said, evenly, abruptly.

Silence. Not shock — tension.

Suki’s brows shot up. “Wait, really?”

Kira folded her hands on the table. “We’re both Timurovs. It makes sense.”

“Does it?” Mary’s tone was even, but Yumeko felt the slight shift in the air. A challenge.

“Better me than someone unvetted.” Kira replied.

Mary smiled — all teeth, no warmth. “Well, if we’re picking for strategy now…” Her gaze slid toward Yumeko. “Why don’t you take Yumeko instead, Kira?”

“I mean, it makes sense.” Mary repeated with an innocent tilt to her head. “Fire and Ice. The entire student body’s expecting a rivalry show anyway. Might as well give them a front-row seat.”

The words dropped like a match into a gas tank.

That sent a ripple through the council. Whispers bubbled, glances exchanged, and suddenly the whole room was electric with anticipation.

Dori grinned widely, leaning forward with that gleam of chaos in her eyes. “I’m calling it now — one of you ends up with a murder charge by the end of the night. Maybe both...”

Chad smirked, flipping his hair back like it was a breeze. “Honestly, watching you two bicker would be more entertaining than the dance itself.”

Runa, still clutching her lollipop, tilted her head. “After last semester, I don’t know if ‘getting along’ is even on the table.”

Yumeko didn’t move at first. She just blinked once — slow and theatrical — and let the silence stretch, like she was savoring it. A smile curled across her lips, warm, mischievous, but with the slightest tremor underneath.

Then she leaned forward, elbow on the table, chin resting on her palm. “That’s an interesting suggestion, Mary.” She purred, like the idea was nothing more than a playful whim. “What do you say, Kira? Want to go to the gala with your favorite enemy?”

Kira didn’t answer.

But Yumeko saw it. The faintest twitch of a muscle in her jaw. The way her posture stiffened a centimeter. And the ears — God, her ears. Always so telling. They’d gone red.

Yumeko leaned back, giving Kira a slow once-over, voice dripping with teasing sharpness. “Come on, Kira, don’t pretend you don’t want me as your date. It’d be way more interesting.”

Kira’s gaze was ice — unwavering, unreadable. Yet a subtle flush crept up her neck, barely visible. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t waste time on distractions.”

Mary shrugged lightly. “No one’s asking you to, just be there.”

“What, Kira, scared to dance with me? Afraid you might enjoy it more than you think?”

Runa, licking her lollipop, giggled. “I’d pay good money to see you two dance, especially with Yumeko’s two left feet.”

Yumeko laughed softly, the playfulness lingering but tempered now. “You really want to see me drag Kira to the dance floor? That’d be a headline.”

Yumeko’s eyes found Kira’s, full of playful fire, but her voice was careful, a teasing lilt without malice. “I promise I’m better company than Riri. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Kira’s gaze didn’t waver, but the faintest hint of color brushed her cheeks, almost invisible. Her voice was cool, measured. “You’re mistaken if you think I care about fun.”

The room shifted uneasily as the playful edge of the conversation hung between Yumeko and Kira, tension thick but unspoken wounds carefully hidden beneath their words.

Suki with his usual smirk, chimed in smoothly, “Look, this is a social event. You two are part of the face of this council. People expect a show. So, pretend you’re cordial. It’s not that hard.”

Chad gave a quick nod. “Plus, better you two than everyone else gossiping about who got thrown in the river.”

Yumeko caught Kira’s eye again, voice soft but teasing. “So, what’s it gonna be, Kira? Ready to swap that cold stare for a ‘maybe’ smile — just for one night?”

Kira’s icy mask almost cracked, but she shook her head, voice quiet. “I don’t want to play your games.”

Yumeko’s grin deepened, eyes sparkling. “It’s not a game if I’m winning already.”

The room buzzed louder, council members whispering, nudging each other, clearly invested in the show.

Suki raised a hand, grinning wide. “Alright, settle down everyone. Looks like Yumeko and Kira are going together. No objections, right?”

Mary gave a triumphant smile. “See? Sometimes the council needs democracy.”

Dori smirked. “I’m just here for the fireworks, blood if I’m lucky.”

Chad gave a thumbs up. “Best decision ever.”

Runa waved her lollipop, her eyes twinkling. “I’ll be the official witness to history.”

Kira finally met Yumeko’s gaze, a faint blush still coloring her cheeks. The unspoken tension hung thick in the air as Riri’s sharp eyes darted between them, absorbing every detail.

Yumeko gave a slow, deliberate smile, eyes gleaming with challenge and something softer beneath the surface. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Kira’s lips twitched in a barely-there smile. “Try not to embarrass me.”

Everyone was buzzing — a mix of excitement, curiosity, and pure entertainment — as the council members started drifting back to their seats, the gala suddenly promising to be much more than just a dance.

The meeting eventually dissolved into logistical chatter — dates, budgets, vendor contracts, and the usual politics — but the air never quite returned to normal. 

When the meeting adjourned, Yumeko sauntered out with Mary, and Ryan who they saw walking down the hall, the three of them walking through the long hallway that wrapped around the council chambers like a snake.

Mary swung her bag behind her shoulder, voice light. “Well, if I knew our meetings would start turning into matchmaking sessions, I would’ve brought popcorn.”

“Right?” Yumeko replied, grinning. “Now, all we need is a scandal and an afterparty.”

Ryan, walking just a step behind, seemed unusually quiet, as though weighing something heavy in his mind. His ears were red, and he kept glancing at Yumeko like he was working up the courage to say something — anything — coherent.

Yumeko caught it. Of course, she did. “Something on your mind, Ryan?” She asked, cocking her head with that feline mischief she wore so well.

“I, uh… I was just wondering.” He stammered, brushing his hand through his hair nervously. “I mean, you know, Spring Gala, if you weren’t already… I thought maybe we could— like, you and me—”

Mary stopped mid-stride and turned with the grace of a guillotine. “Oh my God!” She said, with mock-surprise and zero volume control. “You haven’t heard?”

Yumeko’s smile froze. A little too wide.

Mary grinned, predatory and pleased. “Yumeko’s going with Kira.”

The words echoed down the hall.

A few passing students turned to look. A few more pretended not to but slowed just enough to catch every syllable. The school might as well have frozen in time.

Ryan blinked. “What?”

“She’s going with Kira.” Mary repeated, louder now, like the point was to make sure even the statues heard.

Ryan looked genuinely horrified. “You can’t go with her. She’s— she’s terrifying. She drinks her coffee black and probably files her nails with the bones of her enemies.”

Yumeko laughed — loudly, almost too delighted — and leaned a little into Ryan. “What’s the matter, Ryan? Jealous?”

“No! I mean— yes? No? I just—” He flailed for a second, face flushed. “I just don’t want you to end up thrown off a balcony. Or poisoned. Or like, exiled to Siberia or something!”

Yumeko threw her head back as she laughed.

Ryan flushed to the tips of his ears. “I- I’m just concerned. I’ve seen the way she looks at people. You know, like she’s imagining how they’d taste after being slow-roasted over a fire. What if you say the wrong thing and she has you—”

“She won’t.” Came a voice behind them, cold enough to silence everything.

Yumeko stilled.

Kira.

She stood just a few steps away, already halfway down the hallway like she’d been walking in silence for some time, listening. Observing. Stalking, almost.

Her gaze flicked to Ryan first — flat, unimpressed. “If you really think so little of me, you should at least keep your voice down. It’s embarrassing.”

Ryan froze like a deer in headlights. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”

“She’s just kidding.” Yumeko interjected, bright and cheerful, clinging to his arm

Kira’s eyes shifted. Landed on Yumeko. Her expression didn’t change — not really — but her posture shifted ever so slightly, as if something inside her locked tighter in place.

Yumeko felt it. The heat behind that cold gaze. The flinch hiding behind every layer of self-control. And something inside her — the self-destructive, performative part that wanted to dig deeper — decided to push.

She leaned closer to Ryan so only they would hear, her voice laced with sugar. “You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should be scared. Though I’ve always loved the thrill.”

Kira’s eyes narrowed — not enough to draw attention from bystanders, but just enough for Yumeko to catch it. Just enough for her to know she struck something real.

Yumeko’s lips curled. She wasn’t done.

“But hey.” She added brightly, fingers lightly brushing Ryan’s shoulder. “I’ll keep you close, okay? Just in case she tries to choke me mid-slow dance. That way you can save me like the valiant knight you are.”

Ryan looked vaguely terrified. Mary looked like she was watching the best drama of the semester.

But Yumeko didn’t take her eyes off Kira.

And Kira didn’t say a word. Just stood there. Still. Tense. Controlled.

But Yumeko saw it. The slight twitch in her jaw. The way her eyes flashed with something sharp. The way her fingers curled — not enough to clench, but enough to speak volumes.

If her ears hadn’t been covered by her hair, Yumeko would’ve bet all her chips they were red.

Still, Kira didn’t react.

Didn’t rise to the bait.

Didn’t say anything at all.

She turned. Walked past them. Like Yumeko wasn’t there. Like Ryan didn’t exist. Like the whole hallway wasn’t vibrating with the quiet tension left in her wake.

But Yumeko watched her go — and her grin only widened.

Because she saw it. The twitch in Kira’s jaw, the flare behind her eyes, the too-still posture she held like a crumbling dam. That wasn’t nothing.

That was Kira Timurov jealous. And trying — failing — to hide it.

Yumeko’s heart fluttered with vicious satisfaction.

She didn’t care how cold Kira looked walking away — she had still burned, just a little. And Yumeko knew the heat was for her.

So she clung tighter to Ryan’s arm, swaying just enough to put on a little show for whoever was still watching.

Let them see. Let them stew in it.

Because this — this was the only time Yumeko Jabami ever truly felt like she was winning.

Not at the tables. Not in the rankings. Not when the world roared for her chaos or when she danced too close to the edge.

No — it was here, with Kira’s jealousy simmering beneath the ice, with her silence cutting louder than any scream.

This was power. Not the kind that crushed others beneath her heel, but the kind that made Kira Timurov falter — even just a little.

And for once, Yumeko didn’t feel like she was chasing. She wasn’t begging. She wasn’t aching.

She was ahead.

And God, did that feel good.

Lunch arrived like any other midday chaos: clattering trays, bursts of laughter, footsteps darting across polished floors. But today, there was a quiet current under it all. A whispering tension. One dropped thread of gossip had woven through the student body like wildfire:

Yumeko Kawamoto and Kira Timurov — dates to the Spring Gala.

Yumeko sat with Ryan at a lunch table deliberately placed not too far from the student council's elevated perch. Just close enough that if she raised her voice the slightest bit — with all the innocence of casual conversation — it would carry. Especially to one person.

Kira.

Yumeko didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She could feel her. Sitting tall, posture perfect, blade-sharp silence honed around her like armor.

“—And technically.” Ryan was mumbling, voice enthusiastic but low. “If you hit level 17 in the subclass and max out Charisma, you could theoretically persuade the necromancer prince to spare the capital…”

Yumeko leaned in, eyes half-lidded. “Ryan…” She said sweetly, “Are you saying I’m your Charisma build?”

Ryan blinked rapidly. “W-what? I—I mean, you’d be a high roll, definitely, I mean—”

She giggled. A perfect bell of laughter, just loud enough to bounce against the polished floors and slip over to the student council’s table.

Kira didn’t react. But she didn’t need to.

Yumeko knew she heard.

She leaned closer to Ryan, voice still airy, still performative. “Be honest, Ryan. Did you have a speech prepared to ask me to the Gala?”

He blinked, choked on his soda. “N-No! I mean—not a speech, just… maybe a few sentences. Like a paragraph. Drafted. Mentally.”

Yumeko grinned, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Adorable.”

She pressed on. Fingers gently trailing over Ryan’s sleeve, her voice light, playful. Loud.

It wasn’t even about Ryan. Not really.

She just wanted to see what would happen.

And then it did.

Riri. Silent, ethereal Riri. Appeared at their table.

She stood wordlessly at their table, gaze unreadable beneath her bedazzled mask. Yumeko looked up at her, unfazed, amused even.

“Well, well, well...” Yumeko purred, tilting her head. “If it isn’t the royal summons.”

Riri said nothing. She didn’t need to.

She simply tilted her head — once — toward the council table.

The implication was clear.

Yumeko looked past her, gaze sliding deliberately to Kira. Their eyes met — briefly. And Yumeko, smiling sweetly, raised her brows just a touch. A silent challenge.

Come get me yourself, Timurov.

But Kira didn’t bite. Of course she wouldn’t.

The ice queen never melted first.

Yumeko clicked her tongue softly, then sighed in mock defeat. “Tragic. I was having such a wonderful time.”

She turned to Ryan, resting a hand on his arm. “Don’t cry too much when I’m gone, okay?”

“Wha—? I— no, I—” Ryan stammered, eyes wide and panicked.

She was already up.

And as she walked, she didn’t rush. She let her heels echo softly, let her presence grow with each step closer to the council’s table.

Riri moved smoothly across the room, sliding into the seat beside Mary at the council table. That left just one seat open — the one right next to Kira.

Yumeko glanced around, eyes sparkling with mischief as she took the spot. The room seemed to freeze. Every jaw slackened. Whispered rumors fluttered like a sudden breeze:

"So they really are going together?"

"No way."

"I thought that was just talk."

The council table was thick with tension. Everyone settled in, but you could practically hear their silent prayers begging for an early end to this lunch.

The council members exchanged uneasy glances, their usual banter replaced by cautious murmurs. No one wanted to upset Kira — not now, not ever.

Runa broke the silence with a gentle voice, trying to ease the tension. “You know, if you two don’t actually want to go together, it’s okay. No pressure.”

Dori nodded slightly, her tone low. “Yeah, no one wants unnecessary drama.”

Chad added, nervously smiling. “Better to keep the peace, honestly.”

A few others muttered their agreement, eyes flicking toward Kira.

Kira’s voice cut through the quiet, steady and sharp as a blade. “If Mary hadn’t already blabbed, maybe that would be true. But it’s done. People expect it.” Her gaze slid over to Yumeko like a cold knife. “No backing out.”

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to freeze.

Then Yumeko’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. Her voice lifted — light, teasing, and deliberately loud enough to cut through the tension. “Oh, Kira, be honest. You’re just scared I’ll steal the spotlight at the gala.” She leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’ll have so much fun.” Her voice dropping at the last word.

Kira’s composure faltered ever so slightly. A faint, almost imperceptible flush crept up her neck and dusted her cheeks. Her jaw tightened, her icy facade threatening to crack, but she said nothing — only stared, eyes sharp and unreadable.

The room held its breath, caught between awe and fear, as the silent battle between them simmered beneath the surface.

Yumeko’s teasing smile lingered, but inside, a hollow weight settled deep in her chest. This was supposed to be the moment — the moment she got to break through Kira’s icy wall just a little, to prove Kira can be vulnerable in public. The playful nudges under the table, the secret touches that made her heart race.

But now, she couldn’t even dare to brush her hand near Kira’s. No subtle squeezes beneath the surface, no gentle pokes to draw a reaction. Not here. Not now.

A memory sharp and vivid flashed — the way she once claimed Kira with a reckless kiss, leaving a mark no one else could see.

Now the gulf between them felt too impossible to cross.

The closeness she dreamed of, the intimacy she craved, had become a fantasy she couldn’t touch.

And yet, despite it all, a stubborn spark remained — an ache, a hope buried beneath layers of pride and fear — that maybe, someday, she might find a way back.

Chapter Text

Yumeko was stretched across her bed, one leg lazily dangling off the edge, flipping through a glossy student gala booklet she'd swiped from the bulletin board. The dorm window was cracked open, letting in the warm breeze of late spring. Her desk was a small warzone of makeup compacts, crumpled notes, a pair of earrings missing their twins, and what suspiciously looked like a half-eaten candy bar tucked beneath a syllabus.

She was in her own little world — until the door creaked open.

No knock. No warning.

And there she was.

Kira Timurov.

Pristine as ever. Perfect posture, sharp gaze. 

Behind her, a poor house pet struggled in, arms full of neatly folded fabrics, a sleek black sketchbook, color swatches, and a silver-edged clipboard that gleamed like a weapon.

Yumeko arched a brow, smiling languidly. “Who’s that? Kira? Oh yes, you may come in.”

Kira ignored her, brushing past like this was her space, too. “This won’t take long.”

“You’re a mess.” Kira commented, tone clinical, eyes drifting over Yumeko’s desk, the open drawer of unorganized accessories, the tangle of clothes spilling from her dresser.

“Organized chaos.” Yumeko shot back. “It’s art if you squint.”

Kira ignored her as she scanned the room.

“God, you brought a whole atelier.” Yumeko said, sitting up on her bed and crossing her legs. “Planning to sew the gown here too?”

Kira ignored the jab. “Set it there.” She told the house pet, nodding toward Yumeko’s desk, the only clean spot being a single rectangle just large enough for a sketchbook. “Then wait outside.”

The house pet obeyed with a quiet groan, setting everything down before fleeing into the hallway. Kira stepped forward, shutting the door and slipping off her shoes before climbing onto Yumeko’s bed.

With such precision, too — like the mattress might judge her.

Yumeko whistled. “Didn’t think you'd brave the disaster zone.”

Kira scanned the room — eyes skating over the mountain of pillows, the unmade bed, the bra hanging from a drawer handle. “You live like a raccoon.”

“Flattering.” Yumeko replied, flipping open one of the fabric boxes. “You came to dress me, or insult me?”

“Both.”

Kira opened her sketchbook and spread it on Yumeko’s lap. Inside were stunning, intricate illustrations — sleek silhouettes, gothic elegance, metallic embroidery, delicate masks feathered and jeweled like art pieces. Pages and pages of designs. Each one labeled with tiny, cursive notes: hem length, fabric type, beadwork.

Yumeko’s brows lifted. “You drew all these?”

“I’m not trusting anyone with my reputation.”

Yumeko ran a finger down one sketch — a sleek black gown with gold-threaded constellations embroidered across the back. Her voice lowered, genuine. “You’re really good, Kira. Like, stupidly good. You should do this. For real.”

Kira blinked, caught off guard. “My father wouldn’t allow it.”

“Why?”

“Because art isn’t useful. It’s indulgent.” She shrugged, and that was worse than a sigh. Like she'd accepted it.

Yumeko stared at her for a beat. “That’s so sad.”

“It’s practical.”

“It's sad.”

Their eyes met. Held. Kira’s lashes were long, her pupils dilated slightly in the dim dorm lighting. Yumeko’s chest thudded. She didn’t know if she wanted to kiss her or punch her father.

Instead, she flipped to another design. “What’s the theme again? Masquerade?”

Kira nodded. “Everyone will be in dark silks, high collars, feathers, lace. It’s about illusion, spectacle. We’re council — we can’t look like we’re trying too hard. We have to look… inevitable.”

Yumeko grinned. “So dramatic.”

“It’s not drama if you can back it up.”

Yumeko hummed. “Maybe I’ll wear red. Velvet, with a slit. Simple mask.”

Kira raised a brow, unimpressed. “You wore red last semester. I’m not dancing with an outfit repeater.”

“God, you’re cruel.”

“I'm tasteful.”

After a pause, she pointed to one particular page — two outfits drawn side-by-side. One was white, sleek, with silver accents in a moon motif. The other: black and gold, sharp and fiery, with a fox-like feathered mask.

“You wear this.” Kira said, tapping the dark one. “Gold against black. Clean lines. Backless. I’ll go in white and silver.”

Yumeko blinked. “You sketched us both already?”

Kira didn’t answer. But she didn’t need to.

The silence that followed was thick — the good kind, the heavy kind. Yumeko felt it settle into her ribs like smoke. For a second, she just… looked at Kira. Her posture. Her profile. The way her hands hovered over her drawings like they were precious.

She used to dream of this. Sitting beside Kira, teasing her while flipping through sketches, though back then she envisioned it with student council papers. In the fantasy, she’d tug at Kira’s sleeve, lean in, kiss her behind drawn curtains. Or maybe she’d pull her in and kiss her until the gloss on her lips stained Kira’s jaw.

Now, they sat inches apart, pretending the gap between them wasn’t loaded.

Yumeko reached out, brushing a curl of hair behind Kira’s ear.

Kira didn’t flinch.

Yumeko’s voice dropped. “You’ll look beautiful in white.”

Their faces were close now. Too close.

Kira’s lips parted — just slightly. Her eyes flicked to Yumeko’s mouth.

Yumeko leaned in—

The door creaked open — and then swung wider.

Mary stood in the doorway, eyes immediately locking on the bed. “What… are you guys doing?”

Yumeko didn’t move — still seated on the mattress, one leg tucked under her, the sketchbook still half-open on her lap. Kira, on the other hand, had jerked away so fast you'd think she touched a live wire. The distance between them now was a chasm — like they hadn’t been inches from each other just a heartbeat ago.

Behind Mary, Riri entered soundlessly.

And she stared.

Not the polite kind. Not even the curious kind.

The kind of stare that peeled back layers — one by one, without blinking — until it saw the thing underneath. Riri’s mask may have covered half her face, but her eyes, those strange, sharp eyes, said enough.

Yumeko tilted her head toward her, smiling like they hadn’t been caught in something too warm, too close. “We’re just planning outfits for the gala.”

“Obviously.” Kira said, standing abruptly. Her voice was calm, but her hands were too precise when she closed the sketchbook. Her whole body was tension wrapped in poise.

Mary didn’t move, still standing in the doorway. “Right. That’s… a lot of fabrics for outfit planning.”

“She's thorough.” Yumeko said, voice light, teasing. “Had a whole runway brought in. Sketches, palettes, insults. A full Kira Timurov experience.”

Riri’s gaze didn’t shift — still locked on Yumeko, sharp as ever.

Kira, ever the picture of discipline, smoothed her blouse and gave the faintest nod. “Excuse me.”

And then she walked out.

Not rushed — no, Kira didn’t run — but fast enough that the silence left behind was louder than her footsteps.

Moments later, the door creaked open again, and Kira’s house pet came in, head down, gathering the discarded fabrics and boxes without a word, shuffling out just as quickly.

The door closed again.

And Mary finally turned her full attention back to Yumeko.

“So… do we talk about that?”

Yumeko smiled sweetly, twirling a loose ribbon between her fingers. “What’s there to talk about? Like I said — we were planning outfits.”

“For the gala.” Mary echoed dryly, stepping fully into the room.

“Exactly.” Yumeko replied, reclining back on her palms. “Color schemes. Hemlines. Tragedy.”

Mary gave her a look — all narrowed eyes and skeptical amusement. “You’re glowing.”

“Oh, thank you. I am radiant by nature.”

Riri hadn’t moved.

Still by the door. Still watching Yumeko.

And Yumeko, despite the smirk on her face, felt it — the weight of that stare. It wasn’t judgmental. It wasn’t even angry. Just… searching. Dissecting.

But she didn’t flinch.

She just leaned back further, stretching like a cat across the rumpled sheets.

“So…” Yumeko said, still with that lazy grin. “What did I miss?”

Mary didn’t answer. Not right away.

Because the air still carried traces of something unspoken — like perfume on the pillow after someone’s left. Something fragile. And dangerous.

And Yumeko?

Yumeko didn’t feel guilty.

She felt alive.

The rest of the evening unfolded like any other — or at least it tried to.

Mary was lounging on her bed, legs swinging off the side, animatedly recounting the latest rumor about a second-year getting caught sneaking into the faculty archives for the 'real' student rankings. Yumeko hummed at the right moments, nodded when prompted, even gasped once — for flair, not surprise.

But through it all, Riri hadn’t looked away.

Perched in the corner like a ghost with perfect posture, she said nothing. She never did. But her eyes — sharp, curious, and damn near surgical — hadn’t left Yumeko since the moment they entered.

Not once.

She didn’t speak, of course. Riri never did. But her silence wasn’t soft. It pressed in from all sides, sharp and suffocating. Her gaze was the scalpel that split Yumeko open, dissected every movement, every half-smile, every strained breath. She wasn’t just watching.

She was reading.

And Yumeko knew it.

Riri’s gaze didn’t flinch when Mary laughed so hard she rolled off the bed. Didn’t drift when she changed subjects mid-rant or threw a pillow at Yumeko’s head for not reacting fast enough.

Riri just stared.

And Yumeko smiled through the burn. Chewed her pen cap and tilted her head in practiced boredom. But beneath the surface, she felt it — the slow crawl of exposure under her skin. Like Riri already knew something happened.

That something almost happened.

Riri didn’t ask.

But she would.

Soon.

It was only a matter of time.

Eventually, Riri stood — silent and graceful — and tilted her head in that faint, unreadable way. Then she turned and slipped out the door like smoke, leaving the room colder in her absence, gliding out the door like she hadn’t just cracked open a hole in Yumeko’s ribs and peered through.

Mary stretched. “Alright, I smell like war crimes. Shower time.”

She grabbed her towel, humming something off-key, and went outside to head for the communal showers, the door clicking shut behind her.

And then — finally — Yumeko was alone.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. And she can no longer drown out the loud thoughts clawing to be let out.

She sat on the edge of her bed, legs dangling, palms pressed against the mattress.

Kira’s scent still lingered faintly in the air — that sharp, clean note of her perfume. Subtle. Always understated. Always there.

Yumeko closed her eyes and let her head fall forward.

And that’s when it hit her.

The memory.

Kira on her bed, sketchbook half-forgotten between them. Her legs folded neatly, posture still perfect even as she tried not to lean too close. The way her fingers brushed the page when she talked about design like it was a lifeline. Her voice had softened — not with sweetness, but with something rarer.

Honesty.

And then… that silence.

The one that stretched long enough for Yumeko to feel it in her throat. The heat between them so heavy she thought it might burn the bed beneath them. Their eyes locked — and for one devastating second, Kira leaned in.

She didn’t kiss her.

But she almost did.

And Yumeko’s blood surged just remembering it.

Her heart pounded hard enough to rattle her ribs, the phantom ache blooming in her chest like bruises forming beneath the skin.

She wanted her to.

God, she really wanted her to.

Even now, hours later, her lips still tingled with the ghost of what could’ve been. Her whole body felt wired, thrumming, like it didn’t know the moment had passed. Like it was still waiting for Kira to close the space between them.

But Kira had pulled back.

Because of course she did.

Because that’s what Kira always did — stopped just short of giving Yumeko what she wanted. What they both wanted.

And Yumeko hated how much she missed her.

Not just the thrill. Not just the danger.

But the ache.

The tether.

That intoxicating feeling that if she stopped, she’d forget how to breathe. That Kira’s lips weren’t a place — they were a need.

She hated that her throat felt dry. That her fingers were twitching with the urge to reach across the bed like she had just a month ago, when they still snuck around between whispers and kisses and soft, selfish lies.

Back when she could take Kira’s hand beneath the table.

Back when she could pull her into dark corners and kiss her like it meant something.

Now?

Now, they couldn’t even breathe the same air without baring their teeth.

But somehow… somehow, that near-kiss hurt more than the biting words. Because it reminded Yumeko that the want never left. It just went quiet.

And that silence was unbearable.

She brought her fingers to her lips and let out a low breath, eyes fluttering shut.

Kira Timurov — flawless, untouchable, cruel Kira — had almost kissed her.

And Yumeko wasn’t sure if that made her heart swell or shatter.

Maybe both.

Yumeko closed her eyes, exhaled slow.

Yumeko curled her fingers into her sheets, head tipping back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.

But all she could think about was how close they were — and how much it still hurt to want her this badly.

Because this wasn’t some sweet thing, wrapped in lace and warmth.

This was hunger.

The winter manor was gorgeous. Opulent. Icy in all the ways the Timurovs were — beautiful and cold, too big for comfort, with a staff that never met anyone’s eyes for longer than a second.

It had been snowing non-stop. And Yumeko had been trapped inside for days. She didn’t know whether it was luck or her misfortune that Arkadi took Riri somewhere else to train her as the student representative.

The Timurovs didn’t believe in rest. Kira trained with a blade in the mornings and politics by noon. Yumeko joined her every day, it’s what she was invited for, after all. 

That afternoon, the snow had been too deep to do anything else. So they sat across each other in the private game room, floor-to-ceiling windows filtering in white light, the hearth behind them long gone out. A board between them. Cards in their hands.

Kira looked tired, but never less than precise. That mask of hers — the stoic one — never cracked. Not even as Yumeko baited her, provoked her, pushed her. Not even when Yumeko won.

She leaned back, stretching her arms behind her, grin lazy. “A deal’s a deal.” Yumeko said. “I won.”

“You cheated.”

“I don’t cheat, Kira-san.”

“What do you want?” Kira asked, already annoyed, already knowing the rules of favors.

Yumeko stood slowly, circling the table. “A kiss.”

Kira blinked. “What?” A blush creeped up her neck, though when asked she’d say it was the heat from the fireplace.

“On the cheek.” Yumeko said airily. “Nothing scandalous. But it has to come from you.”

Kira looked at her like she was insane. And yet — didn’t move. “That’s childish.”

“I’m childish.” Yumeko said, smiling. “But I’m getting a kiss. From you.” Yumeko’s grin widened.

Kira didn’t scoff. Didn’t roll her eyes. She just stood up — slow, careful — and walked over to where Yumeko stood.

There was a second — maybe less — where they just looked at each other. The scent of old wood and lemon polish. Snow falling quietly outside.

And then Kira leaned.

The kiss on the cheek was nothing, truly. Just the barest press of lips. A touch of warmth on frozen skin. But somehow Yumeko’s entire world spun with it.

Yumeko inhaled softly — not expecting the way Kira lingered a half second too long, how the contact set something sparking in her chest. And when Kira pulled back, their faces stayed close.

Far too close.

They looked at each other.

Yumeko felt it before she even thought it.

The ache.

The pull.

The impossible want.

And somehow — maybe both of them moved, maybe just one — their lips found each other.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t tentative. It was quiet and aching and far too deep for something that had never been spoken aloud.

The kiss deepened. And even though it didn’t last long, it left Yumeko breathless.

They parted slightly — just enough to see each other again.

Kira’s pupils were blown wide. Yumeko’s heart was racing.

And then, again — another kiss. And another. And another.

They were standing too close. Hands brushing, trembling. Each kiss more desperate than the last, like if they stopped, it would all vanish. Like if they stopped, they’d remember who they were supposed to be.

By the seventh kiss, Yumeko forgot where she ended and Kira began.

There was something desperate about it, like both of them were starved. Like they were trying to memorize each other’s mouths in case the moment passed.

And it would. Because this was the Timurov estate. Because Arkadi was watching even when he’s not around. Because Kira’s entire world had rules, and Yumeko had just broken every one of them.

But in that sliver of time — between winter silence and stolen heat — it had felt like the only truth that ever mattered.

Kira.

Just Kira.

Yumeko’s breath hitched.

And then—

She blinked.

The room was dark.

The dream snapped like a thread pulled taut for too long.

Yumeko lay flat on her bed, the floor of her shared dorm blurred in the faint light of the illuminating moon. Her throat was dry. The space beside her empty.

The memory — no, the dream — still clung to her. She could feel it like a second skin. The snow-washed light of the Timurov estate. The press of Kira’s lips on her cheek. The weight of those kisses, growing deeper, darker, softer, until Yumeko wasn’t sure if she was breathing or just drowning in the warmth of it.

She remembered everything — the tightness in her chest, the ache just under her ribs, the way her blood had surged when Kira leaned in like she meant it.

Her heart was still pounding.

Hard.

Stupid.

“Fuck.” She whispered.

She sat up slowly, wiping at the sweat on the back of her neck. Her sheets were twisted around her legs, her body flushed too hot for the cool air of night.

Of course it wasn’t real. Of course it hadn’t just happened again.

But it might as well have.

It had felt real. Too real.

The ghost of Kira’s touch still lingered. Her lips, her eyes, the way they looked at each other like the world had sharpened into just them.

God.

The ache was still there. It crawled under her skin, made her limbs heavy, her breath shallow. She curled in on herself, clutching a pillow close, burying her face in it. Like maybe if she held it tight enough, she could chase the scent of that winter day. Or forget it entirely.

But she didn’t forget.

She never did.

Because for all the masks they wore now, for all the cold and fury and jealousy — they’d had that moment, and so many others.

And Yumeko couldn’t stop dreaming about it.

About her.

Even now, her mouth still tingled like it remembered.

Yumeko sighed into the pillow, voice muffled and small.

“Stupid Timurov.”

Trying to stop her heart from beating too fast and burying what she truly wanted to say: I miss Kira.

Chapter Text

The coffee shop was still half-asleep, just like the rest of the town. A gentle lull of acoustic music played overhead, the windows fogged from the early morning chill. The scent of freshly brewed espresso mixed with sugar and warm bread.

Yumeko stirred her coffee with her pinky finger out, lounging in the plush booth seat with that telltale glint in her eyes. Across from her, Mary was curled up in her oversized hoodie, sipping on something disgustingly sweet and definitely not coffee.

They’d both woken up too early, neither with morning classes, and decided to escape campus for a while. No uniforms, no whispers, no pressure — just caffeine and peace.

Well, almost peace.

“So…” Yumeko began, fingers tapping softly against her cup. “How’s our darling masked shadow treating you lately?”

Mary glanced over the rim of her drink, her expression unreadable. “We’re fine.”

Yumeko raised a brow. “Fine?”

Mary rolled her eyes but there was a flicker of something behind them. “We’re… taking it slow.”

Yumeko leaned forward, intrigued. “Slow, huh?”

Mary shrugged, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie. “There’s a lot there, you know? She’s… Riri. And the Timurovs are basically walking vaults of secrets. She’s not just gonna hand over her whole life story. I get that.”

Yumeko smiled softly, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “So you’re building trust.”

“Trying to.” Mary muttered, a little quieter. “She keeps showing up, though. That’s gotta mean something.”

Yumeko tilted her head. “It does.”

There was a pause, just long enough for the steam from their cups to curl into the quiet space between them.

Then Mary leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Okay, now your turn.”

Yumeko blinked, face the perfect picture of innocence. “My turn for what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I would never.”

Mary gave her a flat look. “Yumeko.”

Yumeko smiled sweetly, reaching for her croissant.

“Why was Kira in our dorm?”

Yumeko froze just slightly, but only just. She tilted her head, biting off a piece like she hadn’t heard the question properly. “Well, she’s got a flair for the dramatic. Appearing without knocking, dragging cloth swatches like it’s Milan Fashion Week—”

“In your bed.”

“We were planning our outfits.” Yumeko said with a sing-song lilt, leaning back against the booth cushion.

Mary narrowed her eyes. “You have a desk.”

Yumeko shrugged. “The lighting was better on the bed.”

“The library has great lighting. It also has chairs. And tables. A lot of it.”

Yumeko gave a laugh that was just a little too easy, just a little too smooth. “You’re starting to sound jealous.”

“I’m sounding suspicious.” Mary corrected, her gaze unrelenting. “And then as soon as we walk in, she bolts? Doesn’t even finish the conversation.”

Yumeko tilted her head, smile soft. “It was late.”

Mary didn’t reply. Just stared. Until Yumeko let out a sigh and placed her cup down gently.

“It’s not what you think.” Yumeko said lightly. “Whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“That’s the problem.” Mary said. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. You two — you’re too… I don’t know.”

Yumeko looked out the window then, watching a couple walk their dog down the sidewalk. Her voice was soft when she spoke. “Isn’t it a little dangerous to guess at the things that burn?”

Mary leaned back with a scoff. “Not when the smoke’s already suffocating everyone around it.”

Yumeko’s laugh was quieter this time, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her mug. “We’re just working together for the Gala. We’re not… anything.”

Mary didn’t push — not yet — but her voice was softer when she said, “I know what it looks like when you actually like someone. It’s different from the act.”

Yumeko didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, she let the silence sit between them, long enough to turn the air heavy.

Then she smiled again, breezy as ever. “So… do you think Riri would opt for a black dress or is she more of a ‘knife under the sleeve’ type of girl?”

Mary gave her a look. “Nice dodge.”

“What are you talking about?”

Mary rolled her eyes, but she didn’t press further. For now, that was enough.

But Yumeko knew better than to think she was in the clear.

Because the truth — the real truth — was sitting heavy on her chest. Wrapped in soft carbon sketches and fingers that almost touched hers. And it was growing harder to pretend she wasn’t still burning.

The classroom emptied with the usual hum of end-of-day chatter, shuffling bags, and yawns half-swallowed behind textbooks. Yumeko stepped out last, stretching her arms lazily as she slung her bag over one shoulder — only to halt at the sight waiting just a few steps ahead.

Kira Timurov. Leaning against the corridor wall like she owned the building, arms crossed, eyes already on her.

The air stilled. Or maybe that was just Yumeko's pulse faltering.

“Well, well, well.” Yumeko drawled, smile tugging at her lips as she sauntered closer. “Don’t tell me you’re here for me.”

Kira didn’t even blink. “We have a fitting. The designer’s waiting.”

“Oh?” Yumeko tilted her head. “Didn’t know I had an escort service included in the deal.”

“I’m making sure you don’t get ‘distracted’ and end up thirty minutes late.”

“Wow.” Yumeko said, falling into step beside her. “Do you have my class schedule memorized, or is that just a lucky guess?”

Kira’s mouth twitched — an almost-smile, there and gone.

“Oh please, I’m the student council president. Of course, I have access to everyone’s schedule.”

“Mm.” Yumeko hummed, eyes glittering. “So you knew my Literature class ends at 4:15 instead of 4:30 as per the official class schedule because… what? You studied the whole database over lunch?”

“I—”

“And that I always leave out the east exit, never the west?” She continued, sweet and sly.

Kira faltered — a blink too long. That was all Yumeko needed.

“Oh my God.” She gasped, hand on her heart in mock-shock. “You do have it memorized.”

“I—” Kira’s jaw tightened, that usual steel coming back into her voice. “I’m thorough.”

“So thorough.” Yumeko teased, stepping just a little closer as they walked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you care.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Please. That’s my specialty.”

As they rounded the corner, students whispered from behind lockers, eyes flicking toward the pair like they were watching some unspoken power shift. Yumeko, perfectly aware, tossed her hair back and leaned a little closer to Kira.

“Do I get a reward if I behave during the appointment?” she murmured.

Kira didn’t answer. But Yumeko caught it — the way her fingers curled at her sides, the faintest twitch in her expression. Like restraint cost something.

And maybe, just maybe, Yumeko liked knowing it did.

The black Timurov car was waiting out front, sleek and polished, already humming low. The driver gave a short nod as Kira opened the door without a word, stepping aside for Yumeko to enter first. She didn’t miss the way Kira’s eyes flicked over the hallway — scanning, always calculating — before sliding in beside her.

The doors shut with a soft thud. Silence fell.

Yumeko crossed her legs, leaned against the plush leather, and let the city blur past the tinted windows.

“You’re unusually quiet.” Kira said, eyes staring outside. “Don’t even think about causing a scene.”

“Oh, don’t be so bitter.” Yumeko drawled. “I’ve always been good. For you. Especially when you come all this way to fetch me. Honestly, if I were delusional, I’d think I’m your favorite.”

Kira didn’t look at her. “You’re not.”

“Ouch.” She placed a hand over her chest. “You say the meanest things. You’re lucky I like that about you.”

Still, no reaction.

Yumeko turned toward her fully, eyes sharp now beneath the teasing. “You didn’t have to wait for me, you know. You could’ve just sent a house pet. Or an email. Or Ryan. I bet he would’ve loved the chance.”

That did it.

Kira’s gaze snapped to her — not a full turn, but sharp enough to slice.

“Ryan wouldn’t know where to take you.” Kira said, voice suddenly colder. “He’d get lost before reaching the first corner.”

Yumeko’s lips parted — caught somewhere between a grin and something softer. She knew what she was doing. But still… that reaction?

Delicious.

“You sure know a lot about what Ryan can and can’t do.” She said, sing-song, “Are you jealous, Kaichou?”

Kira’s jaw clenched. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I’m not flattering myself.” Yumeko leaned closer, her voice a low hum now, “I’m just saying… you seem very invested in my escort options.”

Kira said nothing, but her fingers curled against her lap. The tension in the car wasn’t subtle anymore — it sat between them like a spark just waiting for a match.

Yumeko’s smile lingered as she turned back toward the window, letting the silence stretch. Her blood was humming.

She was winning again.

And God, how she’d missed the game when it was just the two of them.

The car pulled up to a narrow, upscale boutique nestled between glass-paneled cafés and manicured greenery. A delicate gold sign above the entrance read Velluto e Spina — Velvet and Thorn. Classic Timurov taste.

Expensive. Exclusive. Private.

The kind of place that only let people in if you had a legacy name or a threat behind your smile.

Yumeko stepped out first, adjusting her coat. She tilted her head up toward the storefront and gave a low whistle. “You sure know how to pick the most dramatic names.”

Kira joined her wordlessly. The door opened before either of them touched it — a well-dressed attendant bowing slightly, clearly expecting them.

Inside, the air was perfumed with lavender and something sharper — maybe expensive paper or pressed fabric. Swatches of silk and organza hung from the walls like banners, and several mannequins stood scattered around, each dressed in something sharp enough to wound.

A woman approached. All black gloves and coiled braids, she barely gave Yumeko a glance before her eyes snapped to Kira. “Miss Timurov. Welcome.”

“We’re here for a joint appointment.” Kira said, brushing a hand lightly across a sketch portfolio. “She’ll be attending the Gala with me.”

She smirked.

The tailor gestured to a velvet-draped partition. “This way.”

Kira stepped onto the raised platform with the kind of grace only someone born under pressure could master. Her blazer came off first — folded and handed to an assistant without a glance. She unbuttoned her shirt cuffs next, and another assistant — pale, jumpy — reached for the measuring tape with a tremble.

Yumeko slouched in the plush chair just off to the side, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting in her hand as she watched.

Watched.

Not discreetly.

Not politely.

“Wow.” She said, voice light, just to cut through the silence. “You really brought me here to watch you get measured?”

Kira didn’t even glance her way. “I brought you because if I left you alone, you'd probably insist on making unapproved changes in the design.”

“I can be tasteful.” Yumeko said, flicking a swatch of black silk into the air and letting it drift down like ash. “But I guess it’s cute you care so much about how I look next to you.”

“I care about optics.” Kira said, stepping into a pivot so the assistant could measure her back. “You just happen to be part of the visual problem.”

Yumeko smirked, chin still resting in her palm. “Mmm. So harsh, Miss President.”

The measuring tape inched across Kira’s waist. She held perfectly still.

Yumeko tilted her head, watching the slow glide of fabric and fingertips over Kira’s form. She knew this body — not in theory, not in passing. Knew it. Every line of tension between her shoulders, the subtle curve of her lower back, the scar by her ribs she always tried to hide.

Last winter, that body wasn’t measured with cloth tape and clinical hands.

It was hers.

Every curve, every crevice, every breathless second of skin against skin — Yumeko had memorized it. Traced it. Worshipped it.

And now, all she could do was sit still and pretend.

Pretend her fingers didn’t twitch from the phantom ache of reaching out.

Pretend she wasn’t watching Kira get measured like she’d once undressed her in a room full of shadows and snow.

“Thinking something?” Kira said suddenly, without looking back.

Yumeko smiled slowly. “Always.”

Kira gave a soft hum. The assistant had moved to her arms now, measuring wingspan. She rolled her shoulders slightly. “Then try thinking looking somewhere else.”

“Can’t help it. The view’s too good.” Yumeko said, propping her chin up higher, her voice syrupy-sweet. “And you look so tense. Maybe I should schedule you a massage.”

“You’re the tension.” Kira snapped.

Yumeko gasped dramatically. “I cause tension and yet you keep inviting me places. Interesting.”

The assistant scurried off to double-check measurements, mumbling something about adjustments. Kira stepped off the platform, tugging her sleeves back down.

She passed Yumeko on the way to the fitting room.

“You’re next.” she said flatly.

“I always am.” Yumeko murmured with a smile — not that Kira heard it. She was already gone behind the curtain, sharp and silent as ever.

And still — Yumeko’s eyes lingered on the spot she’d stood, heart pounding.

Knowing.

Wanting.

Missing.

And doing everything not to show it.

The car ride back was quieter than it had any right to be.

Kira sat by the window, her coat folded neatly over her lap, one leg crossed precisely at the ankle. She’d changed back into her uniform, though a single strand of hair had come loose near her temple — a rare imperfection she hadn’t yet noticed. Or maybe she had. Maybe she just didn’t care. Which, for Kira, was rarer still.

Yumeko, meanwhile, stretched across her side of the seat like she owned the whole vehicle. She toyed with the ring on her finger, casting her eyes sideways now and then — catching glimpses of Kira in the glass reflection.

“You were awfully quiet in there.” She said finally, breaking the silence with her usual silk-wrapped teasing. “Cat got your tongue? Or was it the tailor seeing you half-naked in gold pins and measuring tape?”

Kira didn’t flinch. “You talked enough for both of us.”

“That’s what I’m good at.” Yumeko said with a little smile. “Filling in the silences you leave behind.”

Kira glanced at her now, briefly, like she might say something — maybe something sharp. But then she looked away again.

Yumeko watched her for a beat, then shifted closer, her tone turning falsely casual. “You didn’t hate it, though.”

Kira raised a brow, not taking the bait.

“I saw the way you looked in that mirror.” Yumeko added, eyes gleaming. “A little proud. A little vain. A little…” She let the word dangle, voice lowering. “…nervous.”

Kira finally looked at her again. “If you’re trying to get a rise out of me—”

“No rise.” Yumeko said, smile curling. “Just an observation. Everyone around you usually fear you. You’re just not used to people looking at you like that. Wanting.”

Kira stared at her, unreadable. “And you are?”

Yumeko leaned in, enough that their knees brushed slightly. “I’m used to people wanting me.” She said, matter-of-fact. “But not the way I wanted you.”

Silence.

Yumeko didn’t flinch. Not even as Kira’s gaze darkened, not even when her throat bobbed in a swallow she tried to mask.

She pressed on, quieter now. “I memorized you then, at your father’s estate. Same way you have my schedule memorized now, actually. It’s almost funny how you still try, and fail, by the way, to act like none of that happened.”

Kira’s hand twitched slightly where it rested on the leather seat. Yumeko noticed.

“Is it exhausting?” Yumeko asked softly. “Pretending you didn’t care?”

“I didn’t.” Kira replied instantly. Too instantly.

Yumeko smiled. “Sure.”

The silence returned, thicker this time, heavier — but charged, like a storm forming between glances and unsaid words. And then, without thinking, or maybe because she thought far too much, Yumeko let her hand brush Kira’s again — gently, not quite holding, just touching.

Kira didn’t move.

She didn’t look at her either, but her eyes stayed forward and her lips parted — ever so slightly.

“I like it when you don’t pull away.” Yumeko whispered, her voice just for them.

Still, Kira said nothing.

But she didn’t pull away.

And that was answer enough.

The walk back to the dorms was quiet at first. The kind of quiet that wasn’t born of awkwardness, but of something else — like both of them were waiting to see who’d break first.

Yumeko didn’t mind the silence. She liked the weight of it. Liked the way Kira walked just a little too close, like it meant nothing. Like she wasn’t deliberately matching Yumeko’s pace.

The sky was pale with the beginnings of dusk, the campus painted in fading golds and sleepy shadows. It felt like something was ending. Or maybe about to begin.

When they reached the path just outside the dorm building, Yumeko finally turned her head toward her.

“You know…” She said lightly, fingers twirling with the chain of her bag. “You didn’t have to walk me.”

Kira didn’t look at her. “It’s on the way.”

Yumeko grinned. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Because if I didn’t know better…” She tilted her head, her voice dipping into a sly whisper, “I’d think you were trying to woo me, Kira-san.”

Kira’s eyes finally flicked to hers, sharp and unreadable. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, right.” Yumeko gasped mockingly, placing a hand over her chest. “Silly me. You’re just escorting me because you’re so concerned about my well-being, aren’t you?”

Kira exhaled like she was already regretting her life choices. “I’m making sure you get back safely. You’re a student council member. We still have a gala to attend. It’s just logistics.”

“Mmm.” Yumeko hummed. “A knight in shining armor.”

Kira gave her a look. “Hardly.”

“Oh, but you are.” She leaned a little closer, walking backward now, still facing Kira. “So noble. So dutiful. All that’s missing is your white horse.”

“Yumeko.” Kira said, voice steady, warning.

“What?” she said, blinking with faux innocence. “I’m flattered. Truly. Didn’t know I was your damsel in distress.”

“You’re not.”

Yumeko smiled wider. “Then why are you blushing?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Kira’s jaw ticked.

Yumeko took a slow step back, just enough to reach the front of the her dorm's door. Her voice dropped, teasing but gentle. “You sure you’re not trying to win me over, Kira?”

Kira’s expression didn’t shift — but her eyes did. Just slightly. Just enough.

“I don’t have time for games.” She said softly.

Yumeko tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Good thing this isn’t a game, then.”

And with that, she turned, stepping closer toward the door, pausing only to glance back once more. “Goodnight, Kira.”

Kira stood there, still as stone.

Watching her like she might say something else.

But she didn’t.

And Yumeko didn’t need her to.

Not tonight.

Yumeko opened the door with a light hum under her breath, still faintly glowing from the walk back. Her mind was replaying every moment — the banter, the way Kira didn’t pull her hand away, the warmth that settled under her skin like a secret she didn’t know where to hide.

She stepped in, half-ready to drop onto her bed and bask in the confusion of it all.

But someone was already there.

Riri Timurov.

Sitting on her bed.

Poised. Still. Waiting.

Her mask glinted faintly in the light, legs crossed neatly, gloved hands resting on her lap like she’d been there for a while. Watching. Thinking.

Yumeko didn’t even blink. She leaned against the closed door and gave her a slow, amused look.

“Oh.” she said with a feigned air of surprise, “I didn’t realize we were hosting the Timurov royal guard tonight. And here I was thinking this dorm was too humble for guests.”

Riri said nothing. As expected.

Yumeko’s smile curled wider. “If you’re looking for Mary, I regret to inform you I am not her keeper. And if you didn’t know…” She gestured lazily toward the bed. “That’s mine, not hers.”

Riri didn’t flinch. She stayed exactly where she was.

Yumeko sighed, kicking off her shoes with practiced ease. Her blazer slid off her shoulders and onto the nearby chair, and she started working on her tie — slowly, deliberately, as if giving Riri every opportunity to say whatever she came here for.

But Riri didn’t move. She waited.

Only when Yumeko was done — collar unbuttoned, shoes off, finally settling onto the edge of her bed — did Riri speak.

“What’s going on with you and Kira?”

Yumeko blinked, her lashes fluttering like it took effort to register the words. But of course she registered them. She always did.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she cocked her head, like she was humored by the question — by the very idea of Riri speaking to her like this.

A pause.

Then, smoothly, lightly. “We just had a gown appointment. You know, since we’re dates for the Gala?” She moved to her dresser, fingers grazing over a bottle of perfume she didn’t spray. “I’m sure you remember. You were there when the council decided, weren’t you?”

Riri didn’t blink. She didn’t move.

But her next words were sharper.

“What happened at the estate?”

Chapter Text

The kiss lingered between them, a fragile thread stretched taut in the quiet room. Yumeko’s breath hitched as she waited for something — an apology, a denial, a word. But Kira pulled away, just enough, and slipped past her toward the door.

“Wait.” Yumeko murmured, but Kira didn’t look back.

Yumeko’s heart twisted.

Was she angry?

Embarrassed?

Did she regret it?

She could almost hear the walls closing in with the silence that followed.

Minutes stretched on, slow and heavy. Then the soft creak of the door startled Yumeko from her thoughts.

The room was quiet except for the faint clink of porcelain as Kira set down the tea beside them. She didn’t sit across from Yumeko this time — she settled beside her, close enough that the warmth of her presence was a soft pressure against Yumeko’s side.

Yumeko smirked, breaking the silence with a teasing tilt of her head. “So… is that how a Timurov kiss? Or is it just a Kira thing?”

Kira laughed, a sound low and easy, catching Yumeko a little off guard. “You are so…”

Kira looked at Yumeko like she was contemplating.

Kira continued quietly. “My first kiss… was with the daughter of one of the housekeepers. It wasn’t anything serious. Just reckless, really. I didn’t even like her.” She admitted with a faint smile, eyes distant for a second. “It was just something small I could claim. A moment where I could pretend I had control — where I wasn’t just the heir waiting for my father’s approval.”

Yumeko tilted her head, a slow grin spreading. “Did you wear blue lipstick then, too? Or was that a much later rebellion?”

Kira chuckled softly, the sound warm and real. “Blue lipstick came years later. That was more of a statement — less about disappearing, more about standing out.”

“Hmm, so this reckless…” Yumeko teased, leaning just a little closer. “Kira thing.” She tapped Kira’s chest lightly. “Is it also a one-time secret, or—”

Before Yumeko could finish, Kira leaned in, lips pressing firmly against hers. The kiss was soft but certain, an answer that needed no words.

When they parted, Yumeko’s grin was wide, eyes sparkling with triumph. “Well played.”

Yumeko lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling painted with shadows from the moonlight slipping through the curtains. The night was quiet, but inside her mind, the kiss replayed relentlessly — each brush of lips, the heat of Kira’s breath, the way her heart had jumped and stumbled all at once. She had told herself it was just a fleeting moment, a reckless spark in the dark. Just tonight. Because they’ve been stuck inside for days. 

Yet, no matter how she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. About Kira.

Her thoughts circled like moths to a flame, flickering between wonder and doubt. Every question tangled tighter, twisting her stomach into restless knots. Sleep was a stranger.

Eventually, she gave up. She slipped out of bed, the cool floor grounding her as she wandered the silent halls. Her footsteps echoed softly, but her heart thundered in the quiet. Without quite knowing why, she found herself standing in front of Kira’s door.

Her hand hovered over the wood. What if Kira’s asleep? What if she doesn’t want me here? Maybe I’m just disturbing her. The thoughts wrestled for a moment. But something inside her whispered. 

You won’t know unless you try.

With a deep breath, Yumeko knocked twice. The door cracked open, and there was Kira, sitting on her bed with a laptop balanced on her lap. Her eyes flicked up in surprise, but her expression held no annoyance.

“Why are you still up?” Kira asked, her voice quiet but steady, as if she was waiting for an answer she already knew.

Kira shifted, patting the space beside her.

Yumeko smiled, playful and tired all at once, and perched on the edge of the bed. “Well, why are you still up?”

Kira’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile. She didn’t answer immediately, her eyes tracing the pale light spilling across the floor.

Yumeko leaned back, feeling the mattress soften beneath her. “Can’t sleep.” She admitted with a half-shrug. “Maybe it’s the bed. Definitely not the company.”

Kira’s eyes flickered to her, sharp and amused. “Funny, I was about to say the same.”

Yumeko’s grin softened as she settled a little deeper into the mattress, the comfort surprising her. Her own bed felt cold, distant. Here — despite the rivalry, the tension, the complicated mess between them — this felt…  different.

The warmth from Kira’s side seeped into her skin, steadying the fluttering in her chest. The laptop’s glow dimmed in the quiet that settled between them.

They didn’t speak for a long moment — no words were needed. Just the gentle rhythm of breathing, the calm presence of each other. Finally, Yumeko whispered. “Thank you.”

Kira glanced at her, eyes soft but steady. “Don’t get used to it.”

And in that stillness, surrounded by shadows and soft light, Yumeko felt something close to peace — if only for tonight.

Yumeko woke slowly, the way one does when the air is too soft and the bed too warm to remember real life right away.

The first thing she noticed was the silence. Not the sterile kind that filled her guest room — cold, expensive, and hollow — but a stillness wrapped in familiarity. The kind that meant someone else had been here. That someone had made space for her.

She blinked, eyes adjusting to the low morning light slipping past the heavy curtains.

Kira’s room.

She was still in Kira’s room.

The blankets were pulled neatly over her — not the way she’d left them when she collapsed onto the mattress the night before, curled up and half-lost in her own thoughts. Someone had tucked her in. Smooth and careful. Like they’d watched her sleep for a minute. Maybe more.

Her fingers curled into the fabric instinctively. Warm. Heavy. She hadn’t felt this safe in weeks.

But the bed beside her was empty.

No laptop. No notebook. No Kira.

Gone.

Yumeko sat up slowly, the covers slipping from her shoulders as she stared at the untouched space beside her. Her heart did something traitorous — a little drop, a quiet stutter — and she told herself not to read into it.

She’s probably just in the greenhouse. Or the study. Or anywhere that isn’t here.

But it was hard not to read into it. Especially when everything still smelled like her — that familiar scent of lavender and black coffee.

She looked around, her bare feet brushing against the polished wood floor. Everything in this room was still perfectly in place — a calculated still life. Nothing out of line except her.

Did she leave early to avoid me?

Did she regret last night?

Or worse — does she expect me to pretend like it never happened?

The thought made her stomach twist.

The kiss was supposed to be the confusing part. The moment. The crossing of a line neither of them had been brave enough to name. And yet, that wasn’t what haunted her now.

No. It was this. Waking up without her.

She buried her face in her hands, sighing into her palms.

Get it together, Yumeko. You’re not some lovesick schoolgirl.

Except… wasn’t she? Just a little?

She’d spent the whole night sinking into the scent of Kira’s pillow, every breath dragging her further from reason. She’d fallen asleep wondering if this — the tea, the banter, the slow, slow closeness — meant something. She hadn’t realized how badly she’d hoped Kira would still be there in the morning.

Maybe it wasn’t the bed that made her sleep so soundly. Maybe it was just the fact that it was hers .

She leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. The Timurov estate was always quiet, always pristine. It was like living inside a snow globe — beautiful and untouchable. But something about last night had cracked that glass.

And now she was left inside the quiet, wondering what came next.

Would Kira speak to her like nothing happened over breakfast? Cool and impassive, back to being the perfectly sculpted heir?

Or worse — would she avoid her entirely?

Yumeko groaned and flopped sideways, dragging the pillow over her face. Kira had left without saying anything. That could mean anything.

And Yumeko Jabami — Kawamoto, or whoever she was pretending to be now — was never good at waiting in silence.

Not when her heart was already too loud.

The Timurov estate was too large for silence. Every step echoed like it held secrets. Every corridor felt like it remembered more than it let on.

Yumeko wandered with her hands in her jacket pockets, marble cold beneath her socks. She wasn’t really looking — at first. Just walking. Letting the vast house stretch around her.

But when she didn’t find Kira in the study — where Kira always honed her strategy — or in the library — where she pretended not to notice Yumeko stealing poetry volumes — or even in the private gambling salon Kira used for training — she began to dread the empty morning.

The estate felt hollow without her.

Not in some dramatic, sweeping way, but deeply personal — as if a space had been carved from her day and left unfilled.

Yumeko almost laughed at herself. Chasing Kira through a palace like she’d misplaced her favorite secret.

She paused outside the archery wing, then continued. 

Did Kira leave?

She nearly turned back. Almost called it a morning.

Then — a faint sound drifted from deep in the east wing. Music. Not the estate’s classical tick, something softer. More intimate.

It came through a door they’d never used.

Yumeko tilted her head. Maybe a housekeeper at work. Maybe she should just ignore it.

But something pulled her. Curiosity, instinct, or the ache of needing to find her.

So she went.

The doors creaked as she nudged them open, peering in.

And froze.

There, in the center of a mirrored room, sunlight fractured across dust-covered floorboards, stood Kira Timurov. Hair pinned up, a few strands loose, body swaying in a black leotard and tights. Each movement precise, silent, and achingly vulnerable.

Ballet.

God, of course it was ballet — the purest, most disciplined dance.

Yumeko lingered in the doorway, stunned, before her lips curved into a playful grin.

“Well…” She said softly, her voice slicing through the hush. “Didn’t know you did ballet.”

Kira paused mid-movement, head tilting in surprise, as if processing how much was in that soundless entrance.

She finished her turn and folded her arms, still faintly catching her breath. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

“Oh? So this is a ghost I’m catching?” Yumeko stepped in, tone teasing but her heart racing.

Kira gave her a small, guarded smile. “It’s exercise. Discipline.”

“Sounds exhausting.” Yumeko said, settling onto a covered bench. “Exercising precision and posture isn’t exactly my idea of entertainment.”

Kira dried her hairless forehead with a towel. “It’s control. Something I practice.”

Yumeko watched her, gaze softening. “You’re good at it. Like everything else.”

Kira glanced at her, expression unreadable. “Did you go looking for me?”

Yumeko shrugged. “Woke up and you weren’t there. Rude. I expect company — especially when I got tucked in.”

“It was late.” Kira’s voice quieted. “I didn’t want to disrupt you.”

Yumeko ran a fingertip along a dusty plank. “You tucking me in was a disruption I didn’t mind.”

They stood close, silence thick around them.

Then Yumeko lowered her voice, soft but steady. “I thought you’d pretend it never happened.”

Kira paused, searching Yumeko’s eyes. “Nothing happened.”

Yumeko swallowed, stepping in closer. “You tucked me in. Let me sleep beside you.”

Kira exhaled sharply, folding the towel. “I was being nice.”

“You’re never nice.”

“I was feeling charitable.”

They met — eyes locked, distance charged.

Yumeko closed the gap. “You’re hard to find when I need you.”

Kira looked away, then back. “I needed space.”

Yumeko’s voice softened. “You could’ve left a note.”

Kira’s gaze lingered for a second too long, unreadable. Then she pulled back slightly, her voice flattening out like she was flipping a switch.

“I need to shower.”

Yumeko tilted her head, unfazed. “I’ll come with you.”

Kira blinked. “What—?”

The look Kira gave her could have carved stone. Equal parts exasperation, disbelief, and something warier underneath.

Yumeko laughed, raising her hands in surrender. “Not like that.” She said, grinning. Then, after a pause, lips quirking into something more wicked. “Unless you want to.”

Kira exhaled like she was counting to ten in her head. “I really don’t.”

Yumeko just smiled wider and shrugged. “Fine, fine. I’ll just sit in your room while you do the whole… noble heir ablutions thing.” She pushed off the doorframe and started down the hall like she owned the place. “I promise not to dig through your drawers. Much.”

“I should lock the door.”

“But you won’t.” Yumeko tossed back over her shoulder, already slipping into Kira’s room like it was hers.

Yumeko wandered idly to the edge of the bed, dropping onto it with a bounce. The sheets were still a little rumpled from the night before, from her. Her palm brushed over the duvet, and she hesitated.

Why did this bed feel more like home than anything she’s ever known?

Maybe it was the idea of being pulled under a blanket that wasn’t hers. Maybe it was the stillness of the air. Or maybe it was just the ghost of Kira — so close last night, warm and real and strangely human.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind her with quiet finality. The distant sound of water starting up broke the silence.

Yumeko lay back, staring at the ceiling, her arm flung dramatically over her eyes like some exhausted heroine from a far more delicate story.

“God.” She muttered aloud. “Get it together.”

She tried to focus on anything else — the pale afternoon light slipping through the curtains, the books stacked neatly by Kira’s desk, the scent of lavender soap lingering in the air — but it was impossible.

All she could think about was last night.

Kira’s beside her.

The warmth between them.

The softness — not just of lips, but of letting go.

And the terrifying idea that maybe, just maybe, Kira had wanted her there.

Yumeko didn’t even realize how still she’d gone until she heard the door open.

Kira stepped out, towel draped around her shoulders, damp hair darkening the collar of her sweater. Her eyes landed on Yumeko — sprawled on the bed like temptation wrapped in mischief — and she sighed.

“You’re still here.”

“You did leave me in your bed.” Yumeko smiled lazily.

Kira gave her a look — part tired, part amused. “You’re impossible.”

“=And yet.” She said, patting the space beside her. “Here we are.”

Kira didn’t move right away. She just stood there for a moment, watching her. Like she was trying to decide whether to speak or stay silent forever.

And Yumeko — head still resting against Kira’s pillow, voice low but teasing — added. “If it’s weird, I can go.”

Kira hesitated… and then crossed the room, dropping her towel onto the back of a chair. She sat at the edge of the bed, back straight, not touching Yumeko. Not yet.

“It’s not weird.” She said softly.

Yumeko turned her head, eyes catching hers. “Is that your way of telling me to stay?”

Kira finally leaned back slightly, shoulders still tense, careful not to get too close but not pulling away too much either.

Yumeko let out a contented sigh and leaned back, eyes twinkling.

“See? Not so weird.”

Kira glanced at her, still guarded but something softer lingering beneath.

Kira’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s just… you make everything feel complicated.”

Yumeko’s smile softened, not coy now, but genuine. “I think it was already complicated, Kira. I just refuse to lie about it.”

Kira didn’t answer, but she stayed. And that, Yumeko decided, maybe that was enough.

It had been a few days since that first kiss — since everything quietly shifted between them. They kept stealing moments, allowing the unspoken thread between them to grow taut and alive: kisses that spoke secrets no words could hold, touches that traced the edges of skin just where clothes met flesh. Soft marks — small, lingering impressions of their closeness — branded Yumeko’s neck and collarbone, whispered reminders of stolen nights and tender battles. Kira’s skin was no longer just her own; it belonged to Yumeko in the same way Yumeko’s belonged to her — a silent claim written in heat and breath.

Yumeko hadn’t returned to her own bed since that night. Kira’s room was no longer just a refuge, it was home, a sanctuary where she could shed the armor built from years of expectations. There, she could breathe without fear or pretense, wrapped in the warmth of Kira’s presence, falling asleep to the steady rhythm of a heart that had become her anchor. Inside those four walls, she had pretended that she wasn’t Yumeko Jabami working secretly to avenge her parents, nor Yumeko Kawamoto breeding chaos everywhere she goes. Just Yumeko.

The only time Yumeko stepped back into the guest room reserved for her was when they carefully transferred her luggage from there to Kira’s chamber. Asking the household staff was impossible — too risky. Secrets like theirs couldn’t afford to slip into whispered rumors, not with Arkadi Timurov’s eyes ever watching. So, they moved the bags themselves in the quiet hush of early morning, silent and deliberate. Each careful step was a reminder that this fragile intimacy was theirs alone to protect.

One morning, Kira woke her up a little too early. She would’ve been pissed about it but Kira kissed her ‘til her lips started to taste more Kira, less of her. And truly, when Kira does that, how could she ever be mad?

After that, Kira told her, in that quiet, deliberate voice. “I want to show you something.” And Yumeko, already used to following her through hallways and heartbeats, said nothing — just walked with her.

They descended deeper into the Timurov estate, down an iron spiral staircase that Yumeko hadn’t even noticed until now. Every step echoed. Everything felt tucked beneath centuries of old blood and silent wars. But what waited at the bottom wasn’t a vault or a cellar.

It was water.

Or rather — walls of it.

The room opened up into glass, wrapped nearly in full around them. Pale blue light rippled across the marble floor, reflecting the slow dance of sleek shadowed creatures Yumeko couldn’t name. The soft hum of filters and the dull movement of life filled the quiet.

Yumeko exhaled, slow. “Wow.”

Kira stepped ahead, just slightly, her reflection swimming beside her in the curved glass. “He had it built for me.”

Yumeko blinked. “Arkadi?”

Kira nodded. “After I beat my uncle in poker. I was eight. He’d brought me to one of their business nights. I wasn’t supposed to play. I wasn’t supposed to win.” Her voice didn’t sound triumphant. Not bitter either. Just factual. “But I did. And my father… he smiled. Just for a second.”

Yumeko didn’t speak. She just stepped closer, eyes on the way Kira’s posture shifted slightly — looser at the shoulders, like old memories made her heavier, not lighter.

“It was the first time he called me his daughter.” Kira added, barely above a whisper. “Not just ‘this girl.’ Not just ‘her.’”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It throbbed with something deep and raw, something Yumeko didn’t try to fix.

Instead, she reached for Kira’s hand.

Kira looked at her, at their fingers brushing but not clasping.

Then, slowly, she laced them together.

They stood like that — two shadows stitched together by silence — for a long while.

Yumeko leaned her head against Kira’s shoulder. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft with wonder and something else. “You really do keep all the best parts of you buried under glass, huh?”

Kira didn’t reply right away. But her fingers squeezed hers, just once.

It was enough.

Yumeko turned in a slow circle, taking it all in — floor-to-ceiling tanks wrapping the walls, coral towers and kelp forests swaying in artificial current. The colors felt too soft to be real, like dreams stitched in water.

She pointed to a cluster of sleek, striped fish moving in sync near the corner. “What are those? The ones that move like a little army?”

“Those are convict tangs.” Kira said, stepping closer. “They’re schooling fish. Not very aggressive, but they move together in tight formation. If one breaks from the group, it rarely lasts long on its own.”

Yumeko tilted her head. “So dramatic. Are you saying I'd die if I were them?”

Kira smirked faintly. “No. I’m saying they know how to survive. Even if it means blending in.”

She pointed to another side of the tank where a slow-moving creature pulsed through the water, its fins flowing like silk. Yumeko leaned in, eyes catching on the creature’s soft, opalescent glow.

“Ooh.” She whispered. “That one’s beautiful.”

“Moon jellyfish.” Kira said, her voice dipping softer. “Delicate. Transparent. But each sting is laced with venom. Not so much to kill you, but strong enough to remind you they aren’t harmless.”

Yumeko laughed under her breath. “Now that feels like me.”

Kira glanced at her sideways. “I was thinking that too.”

“Is that a compliment?”

Kira only smirked as they observed the moon jellyfish.

They kept walking. The tank shifted in shape here, curving around the room in a wide arc, and the light deepened — colder, almost violet. Large fish coasted slowly through the dark: silent titans in their own world.

Yumeko stopped in front of one in particular — a sharp, darting shape with iridescent coloring and a fin that jutted like a blade. “Okay, what about that one? That one looks like it’d shank me in my sleep.”

Kira actually laughed — a small, genuine sound. “That’s a triggerfish. They’re territorial. Fiercely so. If you get too close, they don’t warn you — they just attack. Divers call them underwater sentries.”

“Sounds like your ideal pet.”

“Maybe.” Kira said, folding her arms. “They’re solitary. Stubborn. But they protect what’s theirs.”

Yumeko glanced at her from beneath her lashes. “A little possessive, aren’t they?”

Kira didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she turned and leaned against the railing, watching the dark flicker of the water.

“And which one…” Yumeko asked slyly, “Is the prettiest?”

Kira didn’t answer right away.

She seemed to consider it seriously, her gaze moving over the glowing tank with quiet thoughtfulness. Then, finally, she pointed to one near the top — a lionfish, drifting in slow elegance with its striped fins fanned like an opera gown, spines arched and regal.

“That one.”

Yumeko studied it. “Venomous?”

“Yes. But it never attacks unless provoked.”

Yumeko smiled slowly, something warm rising behind her ribs. “So… beautiful and dangerous?”

Kira didn’t look at her, but her voice was quiet, careful. “Exactly.”

Yumeko leaned in, shoulder brushing Kira’s. “That must be you, then.”

Kira’s eyes met hers — something tender caught between defensiveness and vulnerability — but she didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.

The silence was soft. Easy.

They stood there as the water moved above and around them, a world between glass and breathing, unspoken truths reflected in blue light and the stillness of being seen.

Yumeko leaned her head lightly against Kira’s shoulder.

The silence between them had stretched into something gentle — not tense, not awkward, just still. The kind of quiet that wrapped itself around skin and breath and the flicker of aquarium light reflecting against the glass.

Kira’s hand found hers again, not even consciously, fingers folding over like it was instinct now.

Yumeko stared ahead, but she wasn’t looking at the fish anymore.

She was thinking of their nights. Her suitcase now sharing space with Kira’s closet. The press of Kira’s mouth under her jaw. The way Kira said her name when it was just them, low and careful, like it might break if said too loud.

She exhaled, voice soft but curved in amusement. “Are we…?”

The question trailed off — not on accident. She didn’t need to finish it. She didn’t even want to. She just wanted to hear what Kira would do with it.

Kira didn’t answer for a long time.

Her thumb ghosted along the inside of Yumeko’s wrist. Back and forth. Like she could stall the question there, if she just kept tracing long enough.

Finally, she spoke. “You know we can’t.”

Yumeko’s smile twitched, sad and knowing. “Can’t what?”

Kira didn’t say. She didn’t have to.

Yumeko shifted slightly to look at her — her profile sharp in the dim glow, her mouth set, like saying less was safer.

“Not in St. Dominic’s.” Kira murmured, eyes still on the fish. “Not… outside these walls.”

Yumeko studied her. “Because of your parents.”

Kira’s silence was agreement.

Yumeko leaned her head back down, cheek pressed to Kira’s shoulder. “And because of mine.”

They stood like that, side by side, their hands knotted together like a secret no one could afford to name.

“This place.” Yumeko said after a moment, “It feels fake. Like a snow globe. Everything’s still and curated. Beautiful but… breakable.”

Kira nodded. “That’s why it works.”

Yumeko let out a quiet laugh. “Because it’s not real?”

“Because no one can break what they haven’t seen up close.”

The ache sat quietly between their ribs.

They didn’t talk about what it meant — that Yumeko would have to leave this estate. That Kira would go back to being Timurov, daughter of Arkadi, president of everything she touched. That Yumeko’s war didn’t end just because she kissed the enemy’s heir in the dark.

They didn’t say it.

But it lived in every word they didn’t speak.

Yumeko’s grip tightened on Kira’s hand, heart pulling her one way — to run, to protect herself, to leave before the fall.

But another part of her wanted to let go. To freefall completely, reckless and bare. To risk the pain rather than live with the memory of what might have been. 

Than to never touch Kira again.

Yumeko closed her eyes for a beat, then opened them again, voice softer still, full of something like longing and defiance. “I know the ending’s etched in stone.”

She paused, fingers tightening around Kira’s.

“But…” She whispered. “I still want to know what it’s like while it hasn’t.”

Yumeko felt it deep inside — she and Kira were like two sides of the same coin, forever bound together but could never land face-to-face. They existed in each other’s presence like distant stars caught in orbit, close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s light, yet far enough to never truly collide.

And still, somehow, they did. In stolen moments beneath snowy skies, in the gentle brush of skin marked where clothes met flesh, they touched — not just physically, but in a way that defied the walls built around their names and destinies. It was fragile, like holding something too precious for the world to see, a secret rebellion against the roles they were forced to play.

The weight of it settled heavy — the knowledge that this stolen time couldn’t last, that the coin would spin and fall, shattering this dream quietly. But for now, in this fragile, hidden world, she held onto the impossible — the warmth of Kira’s hand in hers, the feeling that even if the ending was written and sealed, the story of what they shared, however brief, was theirs alone.

And yet, deep inside, Yumeko couldn’t help but hope. 

Because how could anyone be sure of the ending when no one had ever foreseen a beginning?

“What happened at the estate?”

Yumeko stilled.

It wasn’t much — just a second. Barely enough to catch. But to someone like Riri Timurov, silence was blood in the water.

Yumeko smiled again, slower this time, like she had to pull it up from somewhere far deeper than her usual shine.

“You would’ve known.” She said sweetly, turning to face Riri fully. “Had you been there.”

And then her head tilted, eyes glinting. “Where were you again? Oh, yes. Off with Daddy. Groomed to replace Kira.”

She watched the words land. Riri didn’t flinch. She never did. But Yumeko could feel it — the way the air changed, just slightly.

“I just want the truth, Yumeko.” Riri said.

Yumeko laughed. Just a breath of it. “Then why are you asking me?” Her voice held something sharper now — not mockery, not quite anger. Something that hovered between defense and deflection. “I’m not your sister, Riri.”

Riri’s response came without hesitation. “Kira won’t tell me.”

And Yumeko...

Yumeko hated how that landed.

Of course Kira wouldn’t tell her. Kira didn’t talk about feelings. Not to her family. Not to Riri. Maybe not even to herself.

And yet Yumeko had once been the exception.

Once.

Now?

She drew a breath, curled her fingers at her side, and let her lips pull back into something smooth. “That’s probably because there’s nothing to know.”

Riri tilted her head.

“You’re lying.”

Yumeko let her laugh fill the space — light, dismissive, sugar-sweet. “But how can you prove that?”

She stepped forward slightly, slow, deliberate, closing the space between them just enough to make it feel like a stage. Like she was back in control. Like Riri couldn’t see the way her pulse had spiked.

Riri said nothing. Her silence was heavier now — not hesitation, but strategy. She wasn’t buying it. She was collecting.

Yumeko hated that. She hated how seen she felt. How her skin prickled like a secret exposed under a microscope.

So she pivoted.

“Look, Riri.” She said, tone cooling just enough to sound reasonable. “If I were you? I’d focus on Mary.” She gave a little shrug, a half-smile, too casual to be real. “Rather than try to interrogate people over… what, exactly? Imagination?”

Still no answer. Just that stare.

Riri rose, moving as quietly as she came. Her posture perfect, her mask unreadable.

She left the room without another word.

But Yumeko stood frozen for a moment longer.

Her palms were sweaty. Her heart ached in a way she didn’t want to examine. She let out a breath only once Riri was gone.

Because she knew.

Riri didn’t believe her.

And worse — it was only a matter of time before she figured out the truth.

Yumeko sat down slowly on her bed, the phantom press of Kira’s weight still fresh in the sheets.

She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t cracked.

But oh, how close she was.

And the worst part?

The idea that Riri — quiet, observant, calculating Riri — might get to the truth of what happened between her and Kira before Kira could even fully admit it to herself.

Chapter Text

Yumeko sat alone on the stone bench just outside the conservatory, fingers tracing idle shapes against the carved edge. Late sun shone through, turning everything soft and gold, like even the day was pretending nothing had shattered.

She hated that.

Because everything had.

She thought of Michael more than she wanted to admit. Not out of guilt — that wasn’t it. The death of his father had always been inevitable, and Michael, of all people, had known that. Had helped her get there, even. The betrayal wasn’t that she did it. It was that he couldn’t stop her.

He hated her now. That much was clear.

But it didn’t change the fact that he was still the only person alive who could understand what she was going through.

Michael had always tried to do the right thing — not the noble thing, not the self-sacrificing one. Just… right. Measured. Precise. And that’s why she’d trusted him. That’s why she wanted to talk to him now.

Because he wasn’t just someone who understood her. He understood Kira too.

He knew the weight of legacy, the slow crush of becoming your father’s heir whether you asked to or not. He saw what the system did to people — how it turned hunger into hierarchy, turned children into pawns.

And he hated it.

He hated all of it. The politics. The empire. The unspoken rules of bloodlines and allegiance. Which meant he hated her — the girl who gut his lineage — and Kira, who had been born the perfect daughter of that empire.

Still, Yumeko couldn’t stop wishing he’d speak to her. Just once. Because he’d be the only one who could see it clearly — all of it. He wouldn’t excuse her. Wouldn’t pity Kira. Wouldn’t twist the story to fit some moral angle. He’d just see it.

Her. Kira. The estate. The game.

And he’d call it what it was: doomed to fail.

That was the thing about Michael. He never flinched from the truth. Not even the ugly kind. And God, Yumeko needed someone like that. Someone who could understand what it felt like to kiss the girl who might become the last wall between you and your revenge — and not pull away.

But he was gone. Silent. Furious. And in some way, she couldn’t blame him. If she were him, she’d hate her too.

She leaned back against the bench, lifting her eyes toward the distant windows. There was no point in writing to him. No point in seeking him out. She didn’t want forgiveness. She didn’t even want understanding.

She just wanted a witness.

And right now, she had none.

Only her thoughts, looping back again and again — to Michael, to Kira, to the quiet possibility that no one in this whole world could see all sides but him.

Yumeko didn’t hear Ryan approach until he was already sitting down beside her. The faint scrape of his shoes against the stone was enough to pull her from the spiral of her own thoughts.

“Hey.” He said, voice casual but carrying that familiar edge. “You look like you’ve been dragging that weight around all day. What’s Kira been doing? Giving you a hard time again?”

Yumeko glanced at him sideways, lips curving into a faint, tired smile. “She’s not exactly making things easy, no.”

He leaned back, folding his arms. “I don’t get why she's like that. She’s got everything handed to her, you know. The name, the money, the power. Doesn’t have to lift a finger for any of it.”

Wrong.

Just because the chains aren’t visible doesn’t mean they’re non-existent.

“Sometimes I wonder if she even knows what it’s like to struggle. Or if she just expects everyone else to do it for her.”

Also wrong.

She carries more than he could ever guess. She carries more in a week than Ryan ever will in his life.

“She doesn’t work for any of it. She will always have that surname for when things go wrong.”

Still wrong.

That surname is probably the root of everything that had gone wrong for Kira.

“She’s got that whole legacy wrapped around her — like it’s a shield she never asked for but never takes off. Makes me think she thinks she’s better than the rest of us.”

Yumeko’s jaw tightened. Her breath caught, the silence finally breaking. Her voice was low, cold, a quiet warning beneath the heat.

“Don’t ever talk about her like that.”

Pause. Then, sharper.

“Ever again.”

Ryan blinked, surprised. “Hey, I’m just saying—”

Yumeko stood, her heart pounding, the weight inside her not eased but set aflame. She didn’t look back.

Yumeko didn’t slow her pace, the weight of Ryan’s words still simmering beneath her skin. 

She found herself drawn to the garden, the one where she’d seen Kira weeks ago — quiet, hidden, and somehow untouched by the rest of the world’s chaos. The memory of that moment was a quiet ache, a fragile hope tucked beneath layers of doubt and fear. Maybe Kira would be there again. Maybe this time, the distance between them wouldn’t feel so thick.

The sun was dipping low, casting golden light through the branches. The garden looked exactly the same as it did the last time she’d wandered here — blooming and untouched.

The air was warm, fragrant with the delicate scent of blooming jasmine and cherry blossoms. At the center, where the garden bench nestled beneath the arching branches of a flowering tree, stood Kira, her posture relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket.

Kira looked over as Yumeko approached. “What are you doing here?”

Yumeko crossed her arms, a slow, teasing smile curling at her lips. “Why? Is this yours? Is your name engraved around here somewhere?”

Before Kira could reply, Yumeko pressed on, the words spilling out with playful confidence. “’Cause if it is, I’d like to put a heart and my name right next to it.”

Kira laughed then — a soft, genuine sound, effortless and warm. It was the kind of laugh Yumeko had missed more than she’d realized, like a small crack of sunlight in a clouded day.

“I missed hearing that.” Yumeko said quietly, stepping a little closer, the weight of the world falling away in that moment.

She sat down, their shoulders brushing, the proximity electric and familiar all at once. For a while, they just looked out at the garden — the way the cherry blossoms trembled gently in the breeze, petals drifting like soft pink snow, and the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the ground in shifting patterns.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, looking out at the garden. The breeze was light, curling between the branches. Somewhere nearby, a bee moved lazily from bloom to bloom.

Yumeko let her gaze follow it, then glanced sideways. “Do you always come here alone?”

Kira nodded. “It’s quiet. No one ever thinks to look for me here.”

Yumeko leaned back. “You’re not as hard to find as you think.”

“I must be losing my touch.”

Yumeko smiled faintly. “Or maybe I’ve just gotten better at looking.”

They let the silence settle again, not uncomfortable, just full — like the kind that hums between people who’ve run out of pretense and don’t need to fill space with noise.

Kira tilted her head, breaking the silence with a teasing smile. “So, what exactly brought you here? Need a break from the chaos?”

Yumeko’s eyes flicked toward her, amusement sparking behind their calm. “Maybe. Or maybe I was just hoping to catch you.”

Kira raised an eyebrow. “That’s a dangerous game.”

Yumeko’s grin widened. “I’ve always said, no risk, no fun.”

The silence stretched, warm and dappled like the sunlight filtering through the trees. 

“Stand up.” Kira said, brushing invisible dust from her skirt as she rose to her feet.

Yumeko blinked, still lounging on the bench. “Why? Planning on sparring now? I didn’t bring my gloves.”

Kira gave her a look, the dry arch of her brow speaking volumes. “The gala’s next week. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

“Oh.” Yumeko groaned, leaning her head back with theatrical dread. “That thing. The one where we all pretend to be functional, well-adjusted members of society?”

“The one where you’re expected to waltz in front of a crowd without embarrassing my family name.” Kira corrected, tone flat.

Yumeko perked up. “Good thing that’s not my name, then.”

Kira didn’t laugh — but the edge of her mouth curved, barely. “Get up.”

Yumeko finally obeyed, stretching like a cat. “You know I’m terrible at dancing, right?”

“That’s why I’m leading.” Kira stepped closer, already lifting one hand with graceful confidence. “Try to keep up.”

Yumeko huffed, letting her fingers be caught. “Bossy.”

Kira gave her an even look. “Uncoordinated.”

“I prefer creatively untethered.”

Kira didn’t argue. Instead, she placed one hand lightly on Yumeko’s waist, the other clasping Yumeko’s fingers. It wasn’t overly intimate — not quite — but Yumeko still felt her breath catch.

“This is a waltz.” Kira said. “Count in threes.”

Yumeko grimaced. “I don’t count that low.”

“Yumeko.”

“Fine, fine.”

Kira took the first step. Yumeko stumbled. Not hard — just enough to jolt the moment with a little chaos.

Kira sighed.

Yumeko grinned. “I warned you.”

They tried again. This time, Kira’s hand guided her more firmly, more deliberately. There was no room for missteps. Not with Kira leading like that — surefooted, focused, eyes always somewhere in the middle distance like she was already seeing the perfect finish.

Yumeko, for once, followed.

They turned slowly beneath the branches, the quiet rustle of leaves their only music. Yumeko stepped wrong again, and this time, her toes knocked into Kira’s shoe.

“Sorry.” She muttered.

Kira looked at her then. “You’re tense.”

“Sue me. I have layers.”

Kira didn’t let go. “Relax. I’ve got you.”

Yumeko’s gaze flicked to her face. “I know.”

And maybe it wasn’t about dancing at all. Maybe it was about surrender. Letting someone else lead. Trusting that they wouldn’t let you fall.

Kira’s fingers tightened — just enough to say, I won’t.

Yumeko breathed out.

They kept dancing. Slowly. Clumsily. Light pooling in waves through the trees, catching in Kira’s hair like the end of a dream. Yumeko felt the rhythm slip into something steadier. The same way everything with Kira did — just when she thought she couldn’t do it, Kira found a way to make it work.

Even if it was only for a moment.

“Still hate dancing?” Kira asked after a beat.

Yumeko tilted her head, thoughtful. “No.” She said, soft. “I think I just hate dancing with the wrong person.”

Kira didn’t reply. But her hand stayed on Yumeko’s waist. Her steps didn’t falter.

And Yumeko — for once — didn’t step out of rhythm.

Yumeko was breathless from how terribly she danced, and Kira — smug, amused, and just a little flushed — finally let go of her hand.

They sat again, this time closer, more comfortable now with the small space between their shoulders.

“I think I pulled every muscle in my body.” Yumeko said, grinning.

Kira chuckled. “That’s because you dance like you’re dodging bullets.”

Yumeko leaned back, shoulder brushing Kira’s. “If we were being shot at, I’d be dead already.”

A pause followed — a good pause, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. But Yumeko’s gaze dropped, her fingers idly twisting a loose thread on her sleeve. Something heavier pulled at the edges of her thoughts, and eventually she let it spill.

“Riri asked me what happened at the estate.”

Kira’s amusement didn’t disappear — it just dulled. She didn’t shift, didn’t flinch. But the atmosphere changed, like a ripple under still water.

“What did she say?” Kira asked, casually enough that it wasn’t casual at all.

Yumeko toyed with a stray thread on her sleeve. “Just asked what happened.” A pause. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Kira nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon, but her jaw tightened ever so slightly. “She’s persistent.”

“She’s smart.” Yumeko leaned her head back. “She doesn’t believe me.”

“She wouldn’t.” Kira’s voice was quieter now. 

Yumeko turned her head slightly, studying Kira’s profile in the dappled sunlight. “Why don’t you just talk to her?”

Kira’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s not that simple.”

“She’s your sister.”

“Exactly.”

Yumeko exhaled slowly. “She’s not after secrets, you know. She’s not trying to get something out of you. I think… I think she just misses you.”

Kira’s hands were folded neatly in her lap, still as stone. “She’s too soft with me. Father would hate that.”

“That’s not softness. That’s care.” Yumeko tilted her head. “And I think that’s what’s killing her — the not knowing, the silence. She doesn’t want power over you, Kira. She wants to be let in again.”

Kira looked away, toward the garden, where the cherry trees stood in bloom. For a moment, she looked younger — not smaller, not weaker, but worn in a way she didn’t usually let herself be seen.

“She was supposed to be there.” She said finally, voice flat. “At the estate. But she left. She chose to go with father. I can’t make that mean nothing.”

“That wasn’t her choice. I think you, of all people, would know that.” Yumeko said quietly.

Kira was quiet.

The silence stretched between them again, not hostile — just weighty. Full of everything unspoken.

Yumeko didn’t press further. She just let the words settle like dust, soft and slow.

After a moment, she nudged Kira gently with her shoulder. “You could talk to her. Even a little. You don’t have to make it better. But you don’t have to make it worse, either.”

Kira didn’t answer.

But she didn’t move away either.

Kira let the silence hang for a beat longer, then, as if weighing her words, turned her gaze sideways.

Kira leaned back against the bench, arms folded loosely as she watched a gust of wind shake loose a handful of petals from the nearest tree.

Then, quietly, she asked. “Have you talked to Michael again?”

Yumeko didn’t answer right away. Her gaze stayed fixed ahead, somewhere far beyond the garden.

“What would I even say?” She murmured, almost to herself.

Kira didn’t press. Just waited.

Yumeko sighed. “He knows what I did. And I know what he lost. There's no version of that conversation that doesn’t end in blood.”

A pause. Then Kira, voice low but unflinching. “He might kill you.”

Yumeko turned to look at her — not startled, not offended. Just thoughtful.

“I’ve considered it.” She said softly. “It wouldn’t be unjust. He’d be doing exactly what I did.”

Kira’s expression didn’t shift, but something behind her eyes flickered. “I’d hate that.”

They sat with that — the weight of the truth, sharp and settled like gravel in the lungs.

“I’ve thought about writing.” Yumeko admitted eventually. “About explaining it. Not to be forgiven. Not to be understood. But, just… not to be forgotten.”

“And would that help?” Kira asked. “If he remembered you as the girl who poisoned his father but left a note afterward?”

Yumeko’s smile was tired. “Probably not.”

Another silence, heavier now.

Then, after a beat, Kira said. “I don’t blame Michael. But if it were me, I won’t be like that. If you killed father, I mean.”

Yumeko looked at her. Kira didn’t blink.

“I’d understand.” Kira added.

Yumeko tilted her head. “You already letting me get away with it?”

Kira gave a slow breath. “Not today.”

Yumeko didn’t smile. “But you’d let me.”

Kira’s throat moved like something stuck halfway down. Her eyes didn’t leave Yumeko’s. “If you do it...” She said, voice soft but steady. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty — it was thick. Brittle.

“But I wouldn’t forgive you either.” She added. “Not because he doesn’t deserve it. But because some part of me still wants him to choose me back.”

Yumeko’s gaze flickered, the breath she drew suddenly sharp.

“He won’t.” She said quietly.

“I know.”

“I hate that it would break you.” Yumeko said quietly. “If I did what I need to do.”

“And you’re the only person who understands why I haven’t done it myself.” Kira whispered back.

Their hands didn’t touch. Their knees almost did. It would’ve been easy to reach out — to close that sliver of space and fall into something softer. But they didn’t.

Because softness wasn’t something they were allowed to have. Not really. Not out loud. Not out here.

They didn’t speak again right away. There was nothing comforting in it — no lies, no reassurances. Just that hollow ache that comes from naming something rotten and still wanting it anyway.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Yumeko murmured after a moment. “We’re supposed to be enemies. Timurov and Jabami.”

Kira’s mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “We still are.”

Yumeko let out a breath — half a sigh, half a laugh. “Then why could I only think of kissing you?”

“Because you’re insane.” Kira replied, voice barely above a whisper.

Another pause.

“And that’s the worst part.” Yumeko said, her voice thick with truth. “That even with everything — bloodlines, revenge, war — all I want is to kiss you until none of it matters.”

Kira didn’t respond.

She didn’t need to.

The silence between them was the kind that trembled — not from fear, but from restraint. From knowing that what they wanted couldn’t exist in the light. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

They were two daughters raised with knives in their hands, still cutting themselves on the ghosts of parents who had shaped them. Still walking forward, even when it bled.

They weren’t just rivals. They were girls molded to be weapons, pressed against each other like a standoff waiting for a trigger pull — and still, still, they longed.

And maybe that was the real tragedy.

That the only place they could ever be honest was in stolen moments. That they had to be like thieves, could only be true behind locked doors and under false names.

Because when morning came, they’d go back to their roles.

But here, now — in the hush of garden wind and the soft brush of spring air — they were just girls again.

And though the war waited at the gates, for a breath, all Yumeko wanted was to forget who they were supposed to be.

And wonder, instead, what it felt like to want without consequence.

Chapter Text

The day before the Spring Gala, one of the student council rooms of St. Dominic’s had transformed into a makeshift atelier — full-length mirrors propped against paneled walls, garment racks wheeled across marble floors, assistants buzzing quietly in black. It had the crisp tension of a runway prep room, except this wasn’t fashion week. It was just how the top ten lived.

St. Dominic’s, in all its absurd tradition, didn’t just host galas. It curated them. And for the top ten, the arrival of their customized ensembles felt more like a coronation.

Their outfits had been delivered like declarations. Pressed, steamed, and reverently unpacked by gloved hands. Most of the council wore what they wanted — sleek tuxedos, gowns in every cut and shade, mostly over-the-top choices that screamed look at me louder than any speech could.

Kira stood still in front of one of the floor-length mirrors, dressed in a sleek white gown with silver detailing that moved like moonlight when she walked. Her shoulders were squared, her expression as unreadable as ever. But her eyes flicked — fast, precise — to the other side of the room.

Where Yumeko was being fastened into her gown.

Backless black silk, gold threading catching the light like embers. Kira had sketched it weeks ago — every line, every fold, every bit of architecture sewn to fit the curve of Yumeko’s spine like it was drawn for her. Because it was.

A tailor hovered close to Yumeko, adjusting the hem near her ankle.

Kira’s eye twitched.

Mary was lounging on the chaise, flipping through the gala program mock-up. “We have rose champagne for tomorrow, right? ‘Cause if not, I’m revolting.”

“Because that’s your breaking point?” Asked Suki, perched on the windowsill.

“Well, yes. I can handle murder. I cannot handle tacky wine.”

Kira didn’t laugh. Not even a smirk. Her hands were clenched slightly at her sides. The knuckles stiff. Controlled.

Yumeko noticed.

She swayed — just barely — and the stylist gasped, placing both hands on her waist to steady her. “Please, Miss Kawamoto. Don’t move.”

“I’m just breathing.” Yumeko said sweetly, feigning innocence. Then louder, without looking up, “Kira, are you breathing too? Or should I start panicking?”

Kira’s glare didn’t shift. But she walked across the room with a kind of silent fury only she could master, heels clicking softly against the marble.

Kira stopped a foot away from Yumeko, gaze sharp. “You’re fidgeting.”

“I like making your designs come alive.” Yumeko said, twisting a little more. The stylist stammered, trying to adjust the dip of fabric over her hip.

Kira stepped in — smooth, wordless — and gently moved the tailor aside. Her fingers brushed Yumeko’s waist, aligning the gown herself.

The room quieted just enough to make the tension feel real.

Yumeko leaned in with a faux-whisper. “If you wanted to touch me, you could’ve just said so.”

Kira didn’t blush. Didn’t flinch. Just tugged the gown into place, eyes meeting hers like a warning.

“Behave.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Kira said nothing — only stepped back, perfectly composed, the ghost of something unreadable passing across her features.

“Okay.” Mary muttered to no one in particular. “They’re either going to dance or duel.”

Suki smirked. “My money’s on duel.”

Kira gave them both a sideways look. “Neither.”

Yumeko, still glowing, looked at Kira in the mirror. “White suits you. But I still think I wear your designs better.”

Kira’s reflection didn’t respond.

But her grip on the dress rack nearby tightened.

And Yumeko knew she’d won — just a little.

Runa flounced in with a grin, “Yumeko, you’re slaying that dress. Honestly, Kira’s got good taste.”

Suki, lounging nearby with that smirk that said he was never really taking things seriously, added. “Yeah, the rest of you should take notes. Kira’s got the whole ‘royalty in motion’ vibe down pat. If she taught a class, I’d enroll — just don’t expect me to pay tuition.”

Dori snickered. “Better than boring. Honestly, the whole council looks like they walked off a runway. Except Riri, who looks like she’s planning a hostile takeover.”

Riri stood quietly at the edge of the room, arms crossed, eyes sharp but unreadable. Mary was nearby, serene as ever, observing without comment.

Chad swaggered over with a grin, eyes zeroing in on Yumeko. “Hey, Yumeko, that dress must’ve cost a fortune. How about you let me take you out after the gala?”

Kira’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening imperceptibly. Without looking away from Yumeko, she said coldly. “Don’t you have a hundred other girls you could pass that STD on to?”

Heads turned, a few stifled laughs echoed. Chad blinked, caught off guard, then forced a grin. “Chill, Kira. Just sharing the love.”

Runa leaned against the wall, smirking. “More like sharing everything except love.”

Dori snorted from her seat. “Chad, save it for the underclassmen. You’re like a mosquito in a designer suit.”

Suki, scrolling on his phone but still listening, snapped his head up with a smirk. “Honestly, Chad, you’re like a bad TikTok trend — annoying, desperate for attention, and nobody’s watching after the first five seconds.”

Yumeko caught Kira’s tense posture and smiled, stepping closer, voice low and teasing. “You’re a little more possessive today, aren’t you?”

She reached out to lightly poke Kira’s side. “Don’t worry. They may stare at me in this dress, but only you get to find out what my underwear looks like.”

She paused, leaning in just a touch closer, whispering with a mischievous glint. “Or if I even have any.”

Kira’s jaw clenched, eyes closed, refusing to meet Yumeko’s gaze.

Meanwhile, the rest of the council kept up their usual banter.

Dori was halfway into a gown, one leg still stuck in a cascade of blood-red tulle. “If this thing doesn’t stop trying to eat me alive, I’m gonna beat it into submission.”

“Violence isn’t always the answer.” Chad said with the smooth confidence of someone who’d never been told no in his life.

Dori grinned. “Isn’t it?”

Across the room, Suki turned to Rex, examining himself in the mirror with all the theatrical flair of someone who lived in high-definition. “If my ass doesn’t trend tonight, I’m firing my entire glam team.”

“You don’t have a glam team.” Rex deadpanned.

“Exactly.” Suki said, lips pursed. “You’re all fired.”

“Suki, please. No one’s looking at your ass when I look like this.” Runa popped a new lollipop into her mouth. Wearing a soft gray fleece with faint tabby stripes, designed to look like a smug little kitten dressed for a black-tie event.

“Runa.” Chad said, lifting a brow. “It’s a masquerade, not a cosplay convention.”

Runa smiled around the stick. “And yet I still manage to look better than you in a suit. How tragic.”

Suki snorted. “Don’t let him hear that, he might cry into his cufflinks.”

Rex leaned closer to Chad. “Do cufflinks absorb tears?”

Chad rolled his eyes. “Y’all are just mad I was voted ‘Most Likely to Make Someone Forget Their Vows’ in the recent survey.”

“Most likely to ruin them, maybe.” Suki muttered, fluffing his sleeves.

Dori threw her leg up on a nearby chair, dramatically yanking the skirt down over her thigh like she was prepping for war. “How am I supposed to smuggle weapons in this thing?”

Runa, twirling her lollipop, raised an eyebrow. “You planning to stab someone at the gala or just hoping for the opportunity?”

“Hope is for the weak.” Dori replied smoothly. “I like to be prepared.”

Suki clapped slowly. “Brilliant. Can’t wait for the gala massacre. It’ll go great with the floral centerpieces.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” Riri muttered without looking up from her tablet.

Suki tilted his head at her, completely unfazed. “Do you ever take anything not seriously?”

Before Riri could respond, Chad leaned toward her with a grin. “Careful, Suki. Poke her too hard and she might smite you with a dagger.”

“Then I’ll die beautifully.” Suki sighed, twirling. “Bury me in Dior.”

Rex, off to the side, offered helpfully, “He’s not kidding. He already made me memorize his final wishes.”

“Only because you’re the one who’ll outlive us all.” Suki replied sweetly. “Like a cockroach in Prada.”

That got a snort from Yumeko, who’d been mostly quiet through the banter, sipping from a water bottle as her stylist adjusted the hem of her gown again. She was standing just a few feet away from Kira — and for once, it was Kira who wasn’t watching the council. Her gaze was fixed.

Yumeko felt it, the tension, the flicker of attention, like a wire humming between them.

She turned, just slightly, enough to catch Kira’s eye. “You know…” She said under her breath, tone low and full of mischief. “If you keep looking at me like that, they’re going to think you want to eat me. I’m just hoping it’s the fun way.”

Kira blinked, cool and composed — except for the way her fingers tightened just slightly around the edge of the mirrored vanity she was leaning against. “Maybe I’m just wondering if that designer survived your fitting.”

Yumeko tilted her head, smile blooming, wicked and lovely. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“No?” Yumeko stepped closer, leaning just a touch too near — enough for her breath to kiss Kira’s jawline. “Because you looked like you were going to break someone’s hand when they brushed my back.”

Kira didn’t flinch, didn’t even move — but her ears, sharp and fair, were red. A quiet, traitorous flush crawling up from her collar.

“I just don’t like people who don’t know where their hands belong.” Kira replied coolly.

Yumeko hummed. “And where exactly do mine belong?”

Kira’s gaze flicked toward her, sharp like silver, but she said nothing.

Yumeko leaned back, satisfied. “Thought so.”

Kira’s jaw was tight, lips pressed together — the perfect picture of someone who was definitely not affected. Except for the way she hadn’t blinked in far too long. Except for the flush rising still.

Back by the other set of mirrors, Suki called out. “Is Yumeko seducing someone again? I can’t keep up!”

Without turning, Yumeko replied lightly. “Only someone worth the effort.”

Suki gasped. “You hear that, Chad? Sounds like rejection.”

“Story of my life.” Chad deadpanned.

Kira exhaled slowly, standing straighter. “You’re trouble.”

“I’m your trouble.” Yumeko whispered, just for her.

Kira didn’t respond. But she didn’t walk away either.

And her ears?

Still red.

Amid the noise, Riri stood by the window, silent. Her eyes flicked once toward Kira, then Yumeko. Something unreadable moved behind them, but she said nothing. Just watched.

After the chaos, they were the last two in the room. The mayhem of the earlier fitting had long since cleared — scraps of fabric, empty coffee cups, and the ghost of Suki’s running commentary still lingering like static in the air.

“You should get ready in my room tomorrow.” Kira said, not looking up.

Yumeko blinked, then smiled slow. “So formal. What happened to dragging me there without asking?”

Kira turned her head, calm and sharp as ever. “Your dorm is shared. Mine isn’t.”

“So?” Yumeko drawled, stretching her arms behind her head. “What’s a little chaos in the name of a grand entrance?”

Kira’s expression didn’t change. “It’s easier. No distractions. No people to fuss over you. And I can make sure you don’t ruin the dress.”

Yumeko raised a brow. “Ruin it? Kira, you’re the one who showed up with designs like you’d been sketching them in your sleep.”

Kira didn't deny it.

“You picked every inch of that gown.” Yumeko went on, rising to her feet, letting her voice drop into something quieter, silkier. “The backless cut. The gold trim. Even the heel height.”

“It had to be balanced.” Kira replied, just a little too fast. “Your proportions don’t suit heavier detailing.”

Yumeko smirked. “So I’m your project now?”

“You volunteered the moment you became council.”

“No.” Yumeko said, stepping closer, gaze fixed on hers. “You decided. You showed up with two gowns — one for you, one for me. A matched set.”

Kira didn’t respond. Not with words. Just that slight shift — her fingers tightening on her phone, her shoulders too still.

Yumeko leaned in, voice warm. “I was going to surprise you, you know.”

Kira’s brow twitched.

“At the gala. Show up all dazzling. Make your breath hitch a little.” Yumeko’s grin widened. “But if I get ready in your dorm… no surprise.”

“I’d rather it be done right.” Kira said evenly, though her eyes flicked to the side — evasive, practiced.

“So it’s not that you’re curious?” Yumeko teased. “About how I’ll look once it all comes together? No anticipation at all?”

Kira’s voice was crisp. “Anticipation is inefficient.”

“Mmh. Sounds like denial.” Yumeko tilted her head. “You sure you just want to supervise the final look… and not the process of getting there?”

Kira didn’t answer. But her ears betrayed her — flushed a soft, unmistakable pink.

Yumeko caught it, delighted. “You’re cute when you pretend not to be flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You’re blushing.”

Kira looked away. “Just… get ready at my place.”

“I will.” Yumeko said, grinning. “But I’m still going to make you look twice.”

The next day, St. Dominic’s simmered with anticipation.

The gala was hours away, but the academy already pulsed with the electric hush of too many secrets wrapped in silk and ambition. Flower arrangements were being rushed down corridors. Velvet ropes appeared where none had been. Students transformed into something glittering behind closed doors, the air heady with perfume and nerves.

And inside Kira’s private suite — far from the noise — Yumeko was having a quiet, unholy crisis.

She had expected to be the one to provoke. After all, her gown was designed to draw attention — black silk clinging to her frame, gold-threaded accents catching light with every movement. The backless cut dipped daringly low, defiant and sharp. She had every intention of turning heads tonight. Of turning Kira’s head.

But then Kira had stepped out in that gown.

And Yumeko’s brain had stopped working.

She wasn’t even sure what hit her first — the color, the cut, or the woman wearing it.

Kira in white was already a contradiction, but the silver that edged every line, every curve, only made it crueler. The fabric moved like light made solid — cool and sharp, like moonlit water. And then there was the slit, trailing up one leg so high it made Yumeko’s breath catch. Not just a cut of fabric — a revelation . 

An invitation. 

A warning.

Yumeko stared — helpless, hungry, and utterly desperate.

The slit was going to kill her.

She hadn’t noticed yesterday how high it actually went — how the gown threatened modesty with every sway of Kira’s hips. And maybe it didn’t matter to Kira, who moved with all the sharp grace of a blade being drawn. Maybe she didn’t even realize what it was doing to Yumeko.

But, Yumeko noticed.

And God, Yumeko suffered .

She dragged her gaze away, only for it to land on the exposed edge of Kira’s thigh again. One shift, one pivot, and more of that skin appeared — like a reward or a punishment.

Yumeko’s eyes dragged lower, following the exposed path of skin. The smooth length of thigh visible through the slit. The careful, brutal elegance of it. She couldn’t help but imagine it — her fingers brushing there, slow and certain, just to see if Kira would flinch. Just to see if she could .

What would she do if I knelt right there?

Yumeko’s fingers curled against her gown.

How easy it would be to touch. To test. To slide a hand up that slit and trace the line of muscle with slow, reckless certainty. To slip behind her, press lips to neck, and ask everything and nothing at all.

She looked expensive. She is expensive. That dress alone probably cost more than most of the students’ attires tonight combined. And yet the thought coiled in Yumeko’s head like smoke.

What would it take to ruin it?

A single kiss.

A single tug.

They wouldn’t even make it to the gala.

She could press Kira against the wall and let the dress pool to the floor, silver puddling like spilled moonlight. They could stay here — no masks, no lights, no expectations. Just teeth and hands and all the things they weren’t supposed to want anymore.

Yumeko bit the inside of her cheek.

She was the one who teased Kira yesterday. Who leaned close and whispered sin into silk. Who made her ears turn red with nothing but a line and a smile.

But now?

Now she was the one undone.

The mask was on the vanity. Her heels were beside the bed. But Yumeko hadn’t moved. Couldn’t move.

Because Kira looked like a storm dressed up as a woman.

And Yumeko — for all her false elegance, her precision, her intent — suddenly wasn’t sure she’d make it out of this room without falling to her knees first.

She let her gaze linger, slow and deliberate, imagining how soft that skin must be beneath the cool silk. Her fingers itched to reach out, to trace that bare line and watch Kira’s reaction.

Kira caught her staring and arched a brow, voice low but firm. “When you’re done ogling me, maybe you could actually get ready.”

Yumeko smirked, stepping a little closer, voice dripping with mischief. “Why rush? It’s not like the gala’s going anywhere.”

Kira’s eyes narrowed, a faint flush rising to her cheeks, but she held her ground. “You should get ready.”

“Or what?” Yumeko teased, circling her slowly.

“I’m serious.” Kira’s tone sharpened, but there was an edge of vulnerability in her eyes Yumeko wasn’t blind to.

“Oh, I know you’re serious.” Yumeko whispered, voice low. “But maybe you should make me.”

She let her hand brush lightly over the silver slit, fingers teasing the smooth skin beneath. Kira’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Yumeko leaned in, voice barely more than a purr. “See? Not so easy to resist.”

Kira opened her eyes, cheeks flushed deeper now, voice shaking just slightly. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Yumeko teased again, sliding her fingers a little higher, slow and deliberate. “I’m just making sure you’re presentable.”

Kira swallowed hard, trying to pull away but rooted in place. “This is… inappropriate.”

“Is it?” Yumeko said softly, finally drawing back her hand. “But you know what? You’re right.”

She gave a slow smile, eyes sparkling. “I do have to get ready.”

Yumeko stepped back, voice light but warm. “We have a gala to attend, after all.”

Kira’s eyes shot Yumeko a sharp glare that said a thousand words without a single one.

Yumeko just grinned wider, stepping in closer like she was savoring a secret. “Why are you so worked up?” She teased, voice dripping with mischief.

The words hung there, thick with double meanings — and Yumeko loved watching Kira try not to lose her cool.

Kira’s jaw clenched, but she stayed silent, the only reply the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Yumeko couldn’t help but poke a little more. “What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little heat?” She whispered, voice low enough to tease but not enough to be serious.

She let her fingers lightly brush against Kira’s arm, slow and deliberate. “Don’t worry, I’m just having fun.”

Kira shoved the mask into Yumeko’s hands with the kind of precision that masked frustration. Not harsh. Not soft. Just exact.

“Get ready already.” She said, turning her back. “And stop playing games.”

Yumeko didn’t answer at first. She stared down at the mask, rolling the cool, hard edge of it between her fingers. Black with gold trim. Elegant. Sharp. Like Kira herself.

Yumeko laughed under her breath, flipping the mask in her hands before slipping it on, voice lilting as she replied, “But where’s the fun in that?”

She liked being able to get under her skin. Liked the way Kira’s voice got tight when she tried to stay indifferent. Liked the way her hands stiffened, like she was trying to remember how to stay still.

She liked that she made Kira forget herself.

Dangerous, a voice inside her warned.

But then again — what about her and Kira wasn’t?

Moments passed with the soft rustle of fabric, the click of jewelry clasps, and the shared hum of silence that wasn’t entirely tense.

Yumeko fastened the mask over her face and stepped into her heels.

Then they both turned toward the mirror.

She wasn’t prepared. Not really.

They looked devastating. Together.

Her in backless black with gold that glinted when she turned. Kira beside her, tall and impossible and composed, like a statue carved out of snow and moonlight.

“Don’t we look good together?” Yumeko murmured, watching the reflection more than she watched Kira.

Kira didn’t hesitate. “It’s only right.”

That — that did something to her.

Yumeko smiled slowly, turning just a little toward her, enough that the hem of her dress swayed and brushed against Kira’s leg. “Careful.” she said, voice low. “Say things like that too often and people might think you actually like me.”

Kira’s face didn’t shift. But Yumeko saw it — the flicker in her throat, the way her eyes narrowed, like she wanted to roll them but didn’t dare.

Kira’s lips twitched — not a smile, but the ghost of one. “Don’t make a scene tonight.”

Yumeko turned to her fully, expression mock-thoughtful. “If I don’t…” She trailed off, letting her gaze drop — slow, deliberate, tracing every edge of Kira’s gown, lingering on every exposed sliver of skin.

Her voice was soft and dangerously sweet. “What’s my reward?”

Kira leaned in slightly. She could feel the thrum of Kira’s pulse now, subtle beneath the perfume and silk.

“Behave.” A pause. The barest hint of a smirk. “Then you’ll see.”

Yumeko’s heart stuttered.

Game on.

Chapter Text

The Spring Gala at St. Dominic’s was the kind of affair that made reality feel thin.

The ballroom had been transformed — all high-arched ceilings and glittering chandeliers, gold-trimmed mirrors catching the warm light and fracturing it across walls of velvet and marble. Music swelled from the orchestra in the far alcove, low strings curling through the air like smoke. The students in attendance looked like they’d stepped out of a fairytale — dressed to kill and masked like royalty, floating between politeness and politics. It was a night for alliances and appearances. For power, cloaked in chiffon.

And just as the room found its rhythm, Suki burst into frame — quite literally.

“St. Dominic’s, are you alive?” He announced to the phone in Rex's hand, voice sweetly venomous. “Because the fits tonight? Absolutely unholy.”

Behind him, Rex trailed with perfect devotion, angling the camera to keep the chaos crisp.

Suki twirled once for dramatic effect, the silver embellishments on his deep emerald jacket catching the light. “We are live, honeys. And trust me — you do not want to miss what’s walking through these doors.”

As if summoned by cue — or fate — the crowd parted, and in came Kira and Yumeko.

All heads turned. Few hearts stopped.

Conversation dimmed, like someone had turned the world down a notch.

The feed nearly combusted.

Kira, draped in white with silver embroidery so intricate it shimmered like starlight, looked less like a girl and more like a warning dressed in silk. The slit in her gown ran so high up one leg it bordered on dangerous — flashing glimpses of pale thigh with each deliberate step, silver-threaded heels clicking against marble like punctuation marks.

Yumeko, beside her, was a darker mirror. Her gown was backless and black as ink, with gold detailing that danced in the light. Sleek, striking — but it was her eyes behind the mask, glinting with something unspoken, that made people turn to stare. She looked like a storm dressed up for a coronation.

They didn’t speak as they moved through the room. They didn’t have to. Attention bent around them instinctively.

Suki froze for half a second. Then spun on a heel and practically slithered toward them. “Oh. My. God. Rex, zoom in, do not fumble me right now.”

Suki approached with mock reverence. “Ladies.” He breathed, voice theatrical. “You didn’t just dress to kill — you dressed to erase the population.”

Suki turned the camera to face himself and stage-whispered. “Someone call the paramedics. I fear for my soul.”

He pivoted to face the girls, gaze unapologetically focused on Kira. “Kira Timurov, you absolute weaponized swan. Slay doesn’t even cut it — you’re committing murder. Who let you be this powerful?”

Kira gave the faintest smile, the kind that wasn’t for the camera. Yumeko, beside her, raised a brow, amused and watching.

Suki turned to Yumeko with a grin. “And you, Miss Mystery-Backless-Blackout?. Gold was a choice, and it’s paying interest. ”

He held out the phone again and struck a pose beside them. “Get the drip. Get the girls. This is what money, mayhem, and trauma bonding look like.”

In the background, Rex added dryly. “Gala of the year. Or funeral, depending how this ends.”

Suki cackled. “Babe, if it’s a funeral, I hope I’m buried in that slit.”

He gestured dramatically to Kira’s leg.

Kira said nothing — just tilted her head with a look that suggested Suki was lucky he was funny.

The camera panned once more, capturing the full visual of the two: Kira, ice and power in silver and white, and Yumeko, night and fire in black and gold.

“Get your screenshots.” Suki told the live viewers. “This is history.”

Naturally, once the initial wave of awe passed, they were swarmed.

Classmates, faculty members — everyone seemed to orbit them, drawn in by either reverence or curiosity. A Timurov and a Kawamoto, matching in everything but color, moving like twin stars too bright to look at directly.

They mingled — politely, expertly. Kira’s tone was cool, efficient. Yumeko’s warmer, layered in charm. It was an old dance they’d both learned far too young.

Eventually, they drifted apart, like it was choreographed.

Yumeko drifted past a trio of girls in velvet gloves, smiling politely, glass in hand. Somewhere behind her, she could still feel the echo of Kira’s presence — even apart, they moved like parts of a tether, always within a few degrees of orbit.

“You’re acting strange.” Mary said, appearing at her side without ceremony.

Yumeko didn’t miss a beat. “Define strange.”

“You’re smiling like you’ve already committed a crime.” Mary narrowed her eyes, then took a slow sip from her glass. “Or like you’re about to.”

Yumeko tilted her head. “Maybe I’m just having a good time.”

Mary snorted. “You? Enjoying yourself at one of these things? That’s new.”

Yumeko hummed. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

“Maybe you’re distracted.” Mary countered, following Yumeko’s gaze across the room.

Kira stood on the elevated platform, speaking to a faculty member with that signature calm — too composed, too polished. But Yumeko’s eyes weren’t on the conversation. They were on the way her gown caught the light, and especially the flash of skin through the high slit as she shifted her weight.

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Right. So... how long have you two been pretending this is still just rivalry and not whatever it is now?”

Yumeko took a sip, then exhaled lightly through her nose, gaze still trailing Kira like a habit. “You ask like there’s something to pretend about.”

Mary gave her a flat look. “I was there for the fittings, remember? I’ve seen less heat between actual couples. And I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

Yumeko finally turned toward her. “How does she look at me?”

Mary didn’t smile — not quite. “Like she’s trying not to.”

Yumeko’s lips parted just slightly, the response caught somewhere between amusement and something quieter, more honest.

“She’s not the only one.” Mary added, then nudged her gently. “You look at her like she’s the answer to a question you never wanted to ask.”

Yumeko was quiet for a beat too long. Her fingers tapped gently against the stem of her glass. “That’s poetic.” She said at last.

“It’s obvious.” Mary replied simply.

Yumeko glanced back toward Kira — still poised, still untouchable. The silver shimmer of her gown moved with her like she was born in it.

And for the first time, Yumeko said nothing at all.

Mary didn’t push further. She just clinked her glass lightly against Yumeko’s and smirked. “Good luck surviving the night.”

Yumeko smiled back, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thanks, I’m going to need it.”

The night blurred into elegance and excess — gowns swirling like petals on the dance floor, laughter bubbling from champagne-flushed mouths. One song melted into another, each with a tempo that begged for touch and rhythm, but Yumeko still hadn’t danced.

Not with the one she wanted to.

She scanned the ballroom again, eyes skipping over sequins and suits, heels and masks. Kira was nowhere to be found. Probably tucked into some corner of the room, watching, mingling, cataloguing — doing what Kira did best. Remaining just out of reach.

So when Ryan approached, awkward but trying not to be, Yumeko didn’t wave him off.

“May I?” He asked, voice a little stiffer than usual — maybe the lights were too bright, or maybe Kira’s presence still haunted him.

Yumeko gave him a smile, sly and a little dangerous. “Are you sure you can handle me?”

He offered his hand, and she let herself be led — if led was even the word. Their dancing was… generous, at best. Ryan moved with grace but, God, he does not know how to lead, and Yumeko stifled a giggle behind her mask.

“You always this light on your feet?” She teased, swaying a little closer, her voice sugar-laced mischief.

“I’m trying my best.” Ryan muttered, ears turning red. “You’re not exactly easy to— uh— navigate.”

“I get that a lot.”

They stumbled again, and Yumeko laughed — not cruelly, just amused. The moment was harmless, forgettable even… until a voice cut through the air like silk over glass.

“I think that’s my date you're failing to dance with.”

Yumeko turned. Kira stood just behind them, still as a statue and twice as sharp. Her mask did little to hide the way her gaze pinned Ryan in place.

He startled, nearly tripping over himself. “I— I didn’t mean to— she said—”

Yumeko didn’t wait for him to finish. With deliberate ease, she released his hand and stepped away.

“Well, I’m afraid he’s bruised my pride and my toes.” She said, her smile now sharper. “You wouldn’t let that happen to me, would you?”

Kira didn’t smile. She didn’t need to. Her hand reached forward, and Yumeko, without hesitation, took it — guiding Kira’s palm to her waist with the kind of intimacy that made onlookers pretend not to stare.

The moment their bodies aligned, the world melted away.

Kira’s lead was confident, precise. Yumeko followed, and for once, she didn’t falter. She didn’t trip, didn’t miss a step. She just… moved. As if this dance had always belonged to them.

“Ryan?” Kira said, voice cool as crystal. “Really?”

Yumeko tilted her head. “He asked.”

“You said yes.”

“You weren’t around.”

Kira’s fingers flexed just slightly at Yumeko’s waist, the only tell. “I didn’t realize I needed to guard you like territory.”

“Maybe you do.” Yumeko said lightly, eyes dancing with wicked delight. “You vanish on me, and I get bored.”

“Dangerous habit.” Kira murmured, spinning her just slightly — not flashy, just enough to let the silk of her dress flare.

Yumeko’s breath caught, and then she leaned closer, her voice brushing Kira’s ear. “Then maybe next time, don’t leave me waiting.”

Kira didn’t reply. But her grip at Yumeko’s waist grew just the slightest bit firmer — a silent reply.

The song stretched around them, and for once, the world stopped tugging. They moved in sync — light and darkness in perfect rhythm.

The music shifted into something slower, strings and piano curling together like smoke. Kira’s hand stayed firm at Yumeko’s waist, her gaze never drifting — until it did.

Suki’s heels clicked as he approached, just in time for the chorus to swell. “Sorry to crash.” He said brightly, flashing a too-innocent smile. “But someone just spilled an entire tray of oysters around the East exit and now Rex is dry heaving somewhere behind a curtain.”

Kira didn’t blink. “That’s not my problem.”

“Well, no, but apparently the Headmaster’s wife slipped, and Riri’s trying to do damage control—”

Kira’s eyes sharpened. “Where’s Riri now?”

Yumeko didn’t flinch. She didn’t have to. The cold ripple under her skin was small, tight, fleeting.

Still — Yumeko hadn’t tripped once. Hadn’t missed a single step.

Of course Kira would go to her. That was her sister. That was the girl she trusted most. Even now.

She didn’t want to be jealous. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t the closeness. It was the way Kira would leave her here, instead of letting her help, too.

“With paramedics, I presume.” Suki said, then glanced at Yumeko. “Don’t worry. Nothing on your shoes.”

Kira released Yumeko’s waist, fingers lingering for half a second too long. Her silver gaze lingered just a beat longer before she stepped away.

And just like that, she was gone. Off into the crowd, clean lines and white silk and everything Yumeko couldn’t quite hold on to.

“Guess that makes me your rebound.” Suki said, extending a hand with dramatic flair. “Dance with me?”

Yumeko arched a brow. “You sure you want your toenails dead before the night ends?”

He grinned. “For you? I'd risk it.”

They didn’t bother with formal steps — just soft sways in time with the music, feet barely shifting, bodies close enough for whispers to pass unnoticed.

“I turned off my live for this.” Suki murmured. “So I expect real answers.”

“Dangerous expectations.” Yumeko said sweetly.

“Don’t test me. What’s going on between you and Kira?”

Yumeko smiled, all coy delight. “What do you mean?”

“Oh please.” he said, leaning closer. “One day you’re sunshine and thunderstorm in the same hallway, the next you’re pretending each other doesn’t exist, and now you’re dancing like it’s rehearsed ? Honey. Be serious.”

Yumeko hummed. “Maybe we’re just very adaptable.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe you’re just very observant.”

“Or maybe…” He said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re very bad at lying.”

She tilted her head, still swaying, still calm. “Or maybe I’m just so good you’re not sure.”

Suki laughed. “God, you're exhausting.”

“I aim to please.”

Suki exhaled, mock-disappointed. “Ugh, fine. Don’t tell me.”

He pulled back, tilting his head dramatically. “But I will find out, you know. Eventually.”

Yumeko raised a brow, still swaying to the music. “Is that a promise?”

“It’s a prophecy.” He grinned. “You know I don’t miss a single piece of gossip — especially when it’s wrapped in designer fabric and student council tension.”

Yumeko chuckled, low and light, her gaze drifting once more across the crowd.

But her smile, just for a moment, faded.

Because Suki might be right.

And if he did find out…

Well.

That was a whole different game.

After dancing with Suki and feeling the press of the candlelight swirl of gowns and laughter, her eyes swept the room like a magnet searching for its opposite — determined, restless. Every elegant mask, every silver stitch on a gown, only reminded her of the one person she was really looking for.

Her heels clicked softly against the ballroom floor as she slipped past clusters of silk and suits. The chandelier above swayed gently with the bass of the waltz, and her eyes kept scanning for silver. For her.

Instead, she found Riri.

Could be the other way around, really.

Yumeko noticed her a moment too late — standing just to the side, gaze calm and unreadable beneath her half-mask. It was the same look Kira sometimes wore. The same unnerving stillness that said she’d been watching long enough to start forming conclusions.

“Riri, where’s Kira?”

Riri extended her hand.

She didn’t say a word.

Yumeko blinked at it, then slowly realized, this wasn’t just an invitation to dance. It was a conversation. A private one. 

So this is how they did it — masks on, smiles wide, hands on waists — and secrets, whispered in rhythm.

She took Riri’s hand.

They began to move — simple steps, quiet ones. Riri didn’t lead like Kira did, but she was precise. Like everything about her, it was careful, calculated, designed not to draw attention. A girl raised to stay adjacent to power, but never louder than it.

And then, once they were moving in sync — once their mouths could be close without suspicion — Riri spoke.

“I know something’s going on with you and Kira.”

Yumeko smiled, the same way she always did when she didn’t want to give anything away. “Do you?”

Riri’s tone didn’t shift. “You’ve changed. She has too.”

Yumeko gave a breathy laugh. “Maybe the stars are in retrograde.”

Riri didn’t bite. “That kind of evasion won’t work on me.”

Yumeko tilted her head, mock-thoughtful. “Maybe it’s just a very complicated connection. With a very complicated history. But I’m sure you know how that goes.”

Riri’s jaw didn’t move, but her grip subtly tightened. “You’re not the one who’s been locked out.”

That made Yumeko pause — just a second too long between steps. She recovered smoothly, smile sharpening at the edges. “You’re talking about her. Not me.”

“You’re part of it.” Riri said evenly, eyes narrowing.

They moved through the crowd like ghosts between worlds — regal, poised, utterly out of sync with the frivolity around them. Yumeko could feel her heartbeat against her ribs. Not from nerves, exactly — but from the weight of how much they weren’t saying.

Before she could respond, a flicker of silver caught her eye.

Kira.

Appearing like a ripple in still water, cutting across the ballroom with that same commanding stillness she always wore — the kind that made others move, even when she hadn’t spoken.

And just like that, Riri’s hold loosened. The music hadn’t stopped, but the moment had.

Yumeko stepped back, letting go.

Kira moved toward her through the golden-lit crowd like a secret only Yumeko could read.

Without needing to speak, Yumeko stepped forward — her hand finding Kira’s with ease, her other settling at the back of her neck. They fell into place as if they’d never stopped moving in sync. It didn’t matter that the music had changed, Kira always knew how to lead, and Yumeko always let her.

“What did Riri want?” Kira asked, her voice low, even. Not unkind — just unreadable.

Yumeko smiled lightly, playing it off. “She’s just suspicious again.”

Kira didn’t reply immediately, but Yumeko wasn’t looking at her. Not yet.

“Where have you been?” She asked instead. 

She felt the shift even before she saw it — in the sudden tightness of Kira’s shoulders, in the invisible coil winding its way back around her spine. Her fingers didn’t tighten, but they didn’t move either.

“My father called.” Kira said simply.

That made Yumeko’s gaze snap up.

“Why?” Yumeko asked gently.

Kira didn’t answer.

She didn’t look away, but she didn’t explain. The silence wasn’t cruel. It was worse — it was practiced. The kind of silence a person learns to wear like armor. Yumeko knew that silence. She’d heard it before.

And now, the walls were right back up.

That version of Kira — the soft, teasing one in a dress slit to the heavens and ears too red to lie — was gone. And this one, the one in front of her, had that same perfectly blank mask that never cracked, no matter who was watching.

So Yumeko pulled away.

It wasn’t abrupt. It wasn’t cruel.

It was deliberate.

Kira didn’t stop her.

She didn’t reach out or explain or apologize. She just stood there, regal and radiant and untouchable — like a portrait of someone Yumeko used to know.

And Yumeko?

Yumeko didn’t say a word.

She didn’t need to.

Because Kira knew why she was walking away.

And that — the knowing and the still not choosing to stop her — was louder than anything she could’ve said.

Yumeko didn’t look back.

She slipped away from the dance floor, past the curated lights and shallow laughter, past the haze of perfume and champagne and perfectly timed smiles. Every second she spent there now felt like it pressed against her skin, trying to force her into some shape she didn’t want to take.

The gala didn’t matter. It never had. Not the glinting chandeliers, not the orchestral swells, not even the whispers that followed her when she walked. None of it had ever held her attention.

It was always about Kira.

And now she couldn’t breathe with her in the same room.

She found herself in one of the upper halls, her heels echoing against the marble until she pushed open the ornate doors to the balcony — off-limits, cordoned off with velvet ropes and a discrete plaque. 

As if that would stop her.

The night air was cool against her skin, laced with something floral and distant. The stars were faint tonight, but they were still there — quiet and untouchable. Like everything else that felt just out of reach.

She sat on the ledge, the material of her gown pooling around her, her mask finally discarded to one side. Her hands pressed into the stone beneath her as if grounding herself could quiet the whirlwind in her chest.

It hurt.

Not in the sharp, sudden way she was used to — no blade or poison, no overt betrayal. Just the ache of something unfinished. Of someone turning away when all you wanted was for them to stay.

Her eyes brimmed, but she didn’t cry. Not here. Not yet.

She still has to go back in. Of course she would. She always does. But just for now, for this sliver of a moment, she let herself feel everything she refused to show.

The door creaked open behind her.

Yumeko didn’t move.

“Are you busy?”

She blinked and turned, half-expecting a guard or maybe even Kira — though that hope, she reminded herself, was dangerous.

But it wasn’t either of those.

It was Michael.

Chapter Text

Standing in the threshold, mask in hand, expression unreadable in the moonlight.

Of all the people…

Yumeko stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, and then slowly… she smiled. But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Well…” She said softly. “That depends. Are you here to kill me, or just ruin my night some more?”

Michael stepped out onto the balcony without a word, the door clicking shut behind him like the punctuation to a sentence neither of them had the courage to say. He didn’t walk all the way to her — just enough to be near, but far. There was a stretch of silence between them, a physical echo of the distance that had grown since the cabin, since Ray, since everything.

He sat down near her, close enough for the silence to settle differently, like a presence rather than a void.

The moonlight cast silver lines across the floor. Neither of them looked at the other.

And then Yumeko spoke, voice steady but hollow.

“If you’re here to avenge him.” She said, eyes still on the sky. “You could push me off now. I wouldn’t fight.”

A long pause.

Then, Michael’s voice. Tired. Flat. Honest.

“No.”

That was all. Just that. No denial, no defense. No apology.

Yumeko turned to glance at him. His expression was unreadable, carved from the kind of weariness that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from too much living.

“I haven’t forgiven you.” 

“I haven’t forgiven you either.”

“And I don’t think I will. Not because I don’t understand. I do. God help me, I do.” He said after a moment, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, elbows resting on his knees. 

“But he was still my father. The worst man I’ve ever known, but still…” He exhaled through his nose. “The man whose shadow I swore I’d never stand in. And now look at me.”

His voice sharpened with quiet rage — not at her, not entirely, but at the inevitability of it all.

“I’m the king of a crumbling empire I never wanted. Built on blood and silence and everything I fought against. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing. Because from the moment I was born, I was always destined to be him.”

Yumeko was quiet for a beat, her fingers curling against the edge of the stone ledge.

“I’m sorry.”

Michael looked at her then — sharply, bitterly.

“Sorry you killed him?”

Yumeko shook her head, slow and certain. “No. I’m sorry I caused that.”

The wind stirred her hair. Her voice didn’t waver, not once. “I know you tried. To do the right thing. To keep things from falling apart. And maybe if I’d walked away… you wouldn’t be here now, like this.”

Michael scoffed under his breath. “You wouldn’t have walked away. You never walk away. That’s what makes you who you are.”

She smiled faintly, sadness tucked into the corners of her mouth. “Then I guess I should be sorry for that too.”

“Are you?”

“No… not really.”

Another pause passed. Not the same kind of silence from earlier. This one was quieter… softer. Less hollow, more human.

Yumeko leaned back slightly against the ledge, tipping her head up again to the stars, voice low but lighter now. “So… why are you here, Michael?”

He didn’t answer right away, rubbing his palms together absently as if trying to ground himself.

“I needed a breather.” He finally said, with a wry twist of his mouth. “Dori’s… a lot.”

That pulled the faintest laugh out of her — a breath, really. “She’s definitely not subtle.”

“No.” He agreed. “But… she’s growing on me. In the way stray explosives sometimes do.”

Yumeko snorted softly. “Explosives are very effective.”

He glanced at her then, almost smirking — the kind of look that once would’ve led to long nights and longer conversations. But tonight, it just lingered.

“And… I saw you.” He said, more quietly now. “Out here. Sitting alone. And… I don’t know. I guess I just felt like I needed to come.”

Yumeko let the silence stretch, the weight of everything that wasn’t being said pressing into the quiet like another presence between them. Her eyes were still on the stars, but her voice, when it came, was raw in that way only honesty could make it.

“What are we doing, Michael?” She asked softly. “Are we trying to be friends again?”

He looked at her — really looked — and she didn’t miss the flicker of pain in his eyes before he dropped his gaze to his hands.

“‘Cause I don’t think we can be.” She went on, quieter. “You lied to me. I killed your father. That’s not exactly something you come back from.”

A beat. Then two.

“I know.” He said.

His voice was almost a whisper, like saying it any louder would shatter the illusion of calm between them. Then he glanced sideways, a sad sort of hope curling in his expression.

“But what if…” He said. “Just for tonight — for this one moment — we pretend none of that happened? That I wasn’t the one who lied to you. That you’re not the one who… That we’re not us. We’re just…”

He trailed off. No need to finish it. They both knew who they used to be. Before truth cracked through the walls. Before blood stained the floor.

Their friendship was built on trust. But like most things in Yumeko’s life, it had to shatter. Because Yumeko never realized that showing Michael her cards would end in him hiding his, and Michael never realized that helping Yumeko would cause the death of his father.

Yumeko turned her head to him, and for a second, her expression was unreadable — caught somewhere between mourning and something dangerously close to longing.

“Just for this moment.” She echoed, her voice barely more than breath.

Michael let out a slow breath, then shifted his gaze to her. “You and Kira… what’s up with that?”

Yumeko’s eyes flicked away, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re asking too many questions at once.”

He smirked, but there was something gentle behind it. “Hey, we’re friends now, right? I’ll go first.”

He paused, voice lowering, as if sharing a secret.

He took a breath, voice low and steady.

“The business my father left me — it’s not really a business. It’s a legacy tied to my blood. I can’t just walk away from it. Not unless my cousins do too.”

He looked at her, a mixture of frustration and resignation in his eyes.

“I’m supposed to be the leader, but sometimes it feels like I’m just trapped in a cage built by my own family.”

Michael shifted again, one elbow on the balcony ledge, eyes still on her. “You and Kira. What’s the story?”

Yumeko exhaled, her breath curling into the cold night. “It shouldn’t even be a story.”

He glanced at her sideways, curious.

She gave a bitter, almost amused laugh. “We’re supposed to be rivals. That’s how it’s been written, right? Jabami versus Timurov. Even if no one knows who I really am, that’s what it was always meant to be. Two legacies clashing. Politics. Revenge. Balance.” She paused. “But last break…”

Michael turned to her fully now. “What happened?”

Yumeko looked up at the stars like they might offer her a cleaner version of the truth. “It was just the two of us. At her father’s winter estate. Isolated. Quiet. We weren’t supposed to talk much, just gamble. But then we did. And then it got easier. Somewhere between the silence and the power plays, we started… finding comfort in each other.”

She rubbed her hands together, not from the cold. “It was supposed to stay there. Something soft and temporary. A moment sealed inside a snow globe. But then we got back here, and suddenly I couldn’t stop looking at her. Thinking about her.”

Michael studied her for a moment, brow slightly furrowed. “You think she feels the same?”

Yumeko gave him a sideways look, fingers idly tracing the curve of her mask where it rested in her lap.

“I think…” She started, slowly. “I think she doesn’t want to. I think she fights it harder than I do.”

Michael didn’t speak. He just listened, gaze steady — like he knew the words needed space.

“But sometimes…” Yumeko went on, her voice barely above the hush of the wind. “She lets go. Just for a second. She softens, laughs a little, lets me in. And I get this glimpse of someone else. Someone I want to know better. Someone I sort of already do.”

Her eyes were far away now, pulled into some half-memory she didn’t want to admit meant too much.

“But then…” She said with a bitter breath of laughter. “If I move, if I say a bit too much or reach a little too far, she shuts the door. Not slams it. Just… closes it. Like nothing ever happened. Like we never got anywhere at all.”

Michael exhaled quietly. “Push and pull.”

Yumeko nodded, looking down at her hands.

“It’s maddening. Because she doesn’t run. She stays close enough to give hope. But far enough to hurt.”

Michael was quiet, a shadow of understanding moving through him. “That’s a hard kind of want.”

“It is.” Yumeko whispered. “And I keep falling for it, over and over. Every time she looks at me, every time she makes a little effort, and every time she… sprinkles a little bit of attention on me, I forget how much it’s going to cost.”

Michael let that sink in, leaning back on his palms. “So what now? You keep dancing around each other until you burn the world down?”

Yumeko smiled faintly, but her eyes didn’t. “Maybe. Or maybe one of us walks away before we do.”

Michael was quiet for a moment, his gaze turned outward again. Then, almost too gently, he asked. “Are you willing to walk away?”

Yumeko didn’t answer. She didn’t even breathe for a second.

Instead, she looked away — toward the distant edge of the ballroom’s lights glowing faintly through the tall windows, toward anything but him. Because she wasn’t. She wasn’t willing, and she hated that truth.

She should be. Everything about this screamed danger. Her blood, her name, her history — all of it told her that wanting Kira Timurov is a suicide mission. A contradiction. A betrayal of every promise she'd whispered to her parents’ graves.

But she couldn't. She couldn’t walk away. Because even when Kira closed herself off, even when her silence burned more than any scream, Yumeko still craved her like a bad habit. 

No. 

Like a necessity. 

Like air.

Michael watched her, reading the silence in her body.

He spoke again. “Can you bear it if she’s the one who does?”

Yumeko blinked — slow, like the thought was heavier than she expected. Then finally, quietly, she said. “No.”

The truth settled between them like snow: soft, cold, inescapable.

Michael let out a dry laugh, humorless but not cruel. “Then I guess…” He said, voice low. “We’ll just see what happens when the two of you blow everything up.”

Yumeko let out a slow breath, chest rising and falling like she was preparing for war. In a way, she was.

She reached for her mask, fingers grazing its polished edge — delicate, ornate, deceptive. And as she lifted it back over her face, she wasn't just preparing to walk into a masquerade. No. She was putting herself back together.

Yumeko Kawamoto again. Bold, reckless, calculating.

The girl who doesn’t ache when Kira pulls away.

The girl who never broke in the first place.

“We should head back.” She said, voice cool and smooth now — but not cold. Just… worn. “Dori’s probably ripped someone’s wig off because she couldn’t find you.”

Michael gave a quiet huff. “And I’m guessing Kira’s throwing verbal knives at anyone who looks her way because you’re not there.”

“That’s a nice thought.” Yumeko smiled faintly, lips curling with something soft and bitter. “But I doubt it.”

They stood, the silence stretching for a beat longer than necessary — not awkward, just reluctant. Like neither of them really wanted to break this fragile little bubble they’d found.

But they did. 

That’s just how things are now.

The doors of the hall loomed closer, music swelling faintly behind it, laughter, light. 

Masks.

Yumeko adjusted hers once more before glancing at him sidelong. “We’re still not friends, right?”

Michael didn’t look at her when he answered. “You said it yourself. We can’t come back from… everything.”

She nodded once. No argument. No protest.

Just truth.

But before they stepped inside, Yumeko hesitated. Only for a heartbeat. “It was nice talking to you, Michael.”

She meant it. Maybe too much.

“You too, Yume.”

And inside, where no one could see, she swallowed the ache of the words she didn’t say — I missed you.

The moment Yumeko stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth hit her like perfume and pressure combined — golden light, the low hum of another slow song, and a crowd of people hiding behind masks that didn’t do a thing to soften their watching eyes.

She found Mary almost instantly. Or maybe Mary found her.

“Hello.” Yumeko greeted, lips curving.

Before she could say more, Mary tilted her head and extended a hand. Wordless. Expectant.

Yumeko blinked, then huffed a soft laugh. “Do we have to dance to talk now? Is this really a student council code thing?”

Mary didn’t answer — just took her hand and pulled her into a gentle sway.

Yumeko smirked. “Wow. Riri’s really rubbing off on you.”

That got a reaction. Mary’s expression twitched, and even behind the mask, Yumeko could see the blush. That slight down-turn of her gaze. That quick, exasperated sigh.

“She is not.” Mary muttered.

“You’re doing the whole mysterious-glance-then-dance move.” Yumeko grinned. “What’s next? Coordinated sabotage?”

“I will end this dance right now.”

Yumeko snorted. “Sure. After the tea you’re obviously dying to spill.”

Mary hesitated — just for a second — then her voice dipped. “I noticed it a while ago — few weeks, I guess — but I didn’t say anything. Because I didn’t know what it was. And I don’t usually talk about what I don’t understand.”

Yumeko stilled a little, her smile softening.

“But I saw you.” Mary continued, quieter now. “Coming back in. With Michael.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.

Yumeko’s lips parted. “You were watching?”

Mary looked almost embarrassed. “Okay, fine. Maybe I glanced. Once.”

Yumeko leaned in with a wicked grin. “Riri is rubbing off on you.”

Mary groaned softly. “Shut up.”

Yumeko giggled. The tension ebbed — not completely, but enough. Enough to make this feel like them again.

Mary tried to shake it off, eyes narrowing with faux precision. “So. You and Michael.”

“He and I fought. Before the break.” Yumeko offered after a beat.

“And now?”

“We’re still not okay. But I’m okay with that.”

Mary studied her for a second but didn’t push. “Alright.”

Yumeko appreciated that. She always did with Mary.

But peace was a fleeting concept.

“I figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“…You and Kira hooked up, didn’t you?”

Yumeko missed a step. Her heel caught the hem of her gown and she nearly tripped — which, to be fair, wasn't that out of character given her dancing skills — but still.

“I knew it.” Mary said smugly, mouth twitching into a knowing grin.

Yumeko straightened, flustered. “Are you drunk?”

“This is a party, Yumeko. Of course I am.” She grinned. “You didn’t answer the question though.”

Yumeko tried to collect herself, smoothing her dress as if it could press the heat from her cheeks. “You’re delusional.”

“I’m not saying it in a bad way!” Mary insisted, clearly enjoying herself now. “I’m just curious. When she kisses you, are her eyes still open? Like… is she analyzing you while she’s doing it?”

Yumeko blinked, then laughed harder. “Mary—”

“And when you try to undress her, does she stop you and say something like, ‘this isn’t part of the schedule’?”

“I’m not entertaining this.” Yumeko was still grinning, warmth creeping up her neck.

Mary leaned in, dropping her voice dramatically. “Come on. She’s so scary, it’s hot. Admit it. What’s it like?”

She looked away, breath catching for half a second, the laughter still lingering on her lips but her thoughts now tangled.

There were options laid out before her like cards in a spread:

She could deny it.

She could lie.

She could laugh it off, redirect, pretend it didn’t matter.

Or she could tell the truth — just a sliver of it.

But what was the truth, anyway? That every time she looked at Kira, something in her unspooled? That her name tasted different on Yumeko’s tongue now — sweet and sharp and everything she craved?

She exhaled through her nose, choosing none of those things.

Yumeko turned back to Mary, letting the playful smirk return to her lips like it never left. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

Mary groaned. “That’s the worst answer!”

“You’re the one asking scandalous questions while we’re dancing.”

“You’re the one who tripped when I brought it up. Dead giveaway.”

“Shut up.”

They laughed, spinning slowly in the sea of masks and silk and secrets. And for a moment, Yumeko let herself forget everything — the weight of expectations, the confusion of her feelings, the way Kira could break her with a glance.

Just her and Mary, and the strange comfort of someone seeing through her without needing to break her open.

Eventually, the dancing dulled into a slower rhythm, feet aching, energy fading under the golden haze of chandeliers. Yumeko and Mary didn’t leave the floor right away — not really. They just slowed, leaned into the music, then naturally drifted off to the edge of the room like waves receding after the tide.

They stayed there together, side by side, the flush on Mary’s cheeks deepening with each passing drink. Yumeko wasn’t worried, not exactly, but something in her wouldn’t let her stray too far. Like she had to watch Mary, to anchor her if she got too caught up in the revelry. Maybe it was just habit. Maybe it was just the night making everything feel heavier than it was.

She stood still beside her friend, letting her eyes roam the crowd in search of white and silver. But Kira was nowhere in sight. Again.

How surprising.

And then Riri appeared, slipping into view like a breeze, all grace and calm and something Yumeko still couldn’t name. She didn’t say anything, just reached out a hand to Mary, who looked at her with a grin — faint, fond, and drunk.

Mary took it, giggling as Riri led her away. Their silhouettes merged with the rhythm of the music, clean and easy. Riri spun her like it was nothing, like it had been practiced a hundred times.

And Yumeko watched.

She watched the way Mary tilted her head back laughing, the way Riri steadied her without a second thought, and how the world kept going around them like they were the only still point in it.

Some part of Yumeko — quiet, buried, and already tired — wondered if it would’ve been easier.

If she and Kira were just like that.

Just two girls.

Not rivals.

Not heirs to tangled legacies and blood-stained names.

Just students with messy feelings and complicated hearts.

She could imagine it — Kira finding her on the floor, teasing her about her lack of rhythm, pulling her close with a smug smile. She could imagine them not needing to hide, not needing to flinch when the past crept up to the surface.

But that wasn’t their story.

What they had wasn’t something sweet, funny, nor stupid in an endearing way.

It hadn’t even started, not really.

And yet, some days — today, most especially — it already felt like the end.

Just as Yumeko turned from the dance floor, unsure if she wanted to keep floating through the evening or disappear altogether again, a familiar figure approached.

“Dance with me?”

Yumeko blinked. “Chad?”

He grinned, all charm and teeth. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to get stabbed tonight.”

She arched a brow, hesitating just enough for him to notice. Chad leaned in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“My date’s dancing with someone else. Thought I’d return the favor. Promise not to hit on you or fall in love or anything.”

Yumeko rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Fine. But if you try anything, I am allowed to stab you.”

Chad placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “Ms. Top Five, please. I value my life.”

They stepped onto the floor and began to dance — nothing serious, nothing too close. Just two people moving to the rhythm, playing a game they both knew didn’t matter.

“You and Kira.” Chad said after a beat. “Honestly thought one of you would've killed the other by now.”

Yumeko’s smile faltered, but only slightly. She covered it with a soft laugh. “You and me both.”

But it stung more than she expected. Because no, they hadn’t killed each other — but she felt like dying inside more than she cared to admit. 

Not all knives leave visible wounds.

She glanced away and changed the subject. “So, who’s your date again? I’ve seen you with at least three different girls tonight.”

Chad smirked. “Guilty. But the real one’s the girl in the red dress by the fountain. You see her?”

Yumeko looked toward the edge of the ballroom, spotting a striking girl with tight curls and a sharp gaze. “Ooh. She’s gorgeous.”

“Right? And now she’s dancing with that second-year with the dumbly symmetrical face.”

“The tragedy.” Yumeko murmured with mock sympathy. “You had no choice but to recruit me.”

“Exactly. You’re doing charity work right now. I should thank you.”

She snorted softly. “You should.”

Suddenly, a cool hand closed around Chad’s shoulder — firm, deliberate. Before either of them could react, Kira’s voice cut through.

“There are plenty of other girls chasing you, Chad. You shouldn’t be hitting on someone else’s date.”

Chad stiffened, brows lifting. “Shit— Kira, I wasn’t—” He looked between the two of them, registering the shift in temperature. “Sorry. My bad.”

He stepped away quickly, hands raised in surrender. “You two have fun.”

And then he was gone, leaving a silence that buzzed louder than the music.

Kira slid into his place effortlessly, her hand landing on Yumeko’s waist with practiced familiarity. Her other hand found Yumeko’s, lifting it gently. The rest of the ballroom blurred, but Kira — she was always sharp in Yumeko’s view. Cutting, beautiful, infuriating.

Yumeko moved, but her eyes stayed elsewhere. Her body followed the rhythm Kira set, but her gaze refused to meet hers.

Kira tilted her head. “You’re not going to look at me?”

Yumeko exhaled sharply, something bitter curled behind her teeth. “You don’t get to be jealous after what you did.”

Kira blinked, but her voice stayed calm. “What did I do?”

That did it.

Yumeko’s gaze snapped to her, fire barely hidden beneath the veneer of calm. “Don’t play dumb, Kira. You know exactly what.”

Kira’s jaw tensed, but she didn’t speak.

Yumeko pressed on, her voice quieter now, more dangerous. “Every time we start getting close, you do that thing — you shut down, wall up, disappear behind that mask like I’m nothing.”

Kira’s hand faltered for half a second before steadying their rhythm again. But she said nothing.

Yumeko laughed bitterly, soft but strained. “And then you act like this. Like I’m yours. Like you get to be angry. Well, you don’t.”

Their eyes locked — sharp silver and dark fire — and the music seemed to slow with them.

“You can’t just pick a time when you want me.” Yumeko whispered, voice tight with control. “Then drop me when it’s inconvenient.”

A beat. Two. Kira’s mouth opened slightly, but Yumeko cut her off before the words could form.

“Because I’m not always going to be willing to go back.”

And though her voice was soft, the words landed like a thunderclap — final, echoing beneath crystal chandeliers and stringed instruments.

Kira’s lips parted again, something finally ready to break free from behind those carefully constructed walls.

But she didn’t get the chance.

“Alright, alright, finally—” Suki’s voice rang out, sharp and bright and utterly disruptive. “I know you’ve all been dying to know, and yes, honeys, the time has come.”

He was standing near the center of the floor now, Rex dutifully following with the phone held up, streaming the moment live for what had to be thousands of viewers.

“I have never seen so many slayed fits in one room, but some of y’all? Let’s just say… choices were made.”

Laughter and scattered cheers followed.

Yumeko blinked, the weight of her and Kira’s conversation being pulled out from under her like a rug. Kira straightened, walls back up. Poised. Untouchable.

“And without further delay — Spring Gala King!” Suki drew it out, hand lifting like a showman. “None other than our very own heartthrob, Chad!”

Applause erupted. Chad stood up from the crowd, grinning and winking in his perfectly tailored tux, and someone shouted “Give us a spin!” which he did, to many appreciative whoops.

Yumeko barely noticed. Her gaze hadn’t left Kira.

Suki raised his arm again, voice booming. “And the moment we’ve all been waiting for — Spring Gala Queen… drumroll please…”

No one actually drumrolled, but the crowd leaned in anyway.

“Kira Timurov, obviously.”

The cheers this time were louder, fueled by awe and fear alike.

Kira didn’t even hesitate. She moved. Playing the part she’s supposed to. Head high, gown flowing behind her like moonlight and silver ash, she walked away from Yumeko.

And Yumeko?

She stayed right where she was. Watching.

And wondering.

How many more times will I have to watch her walk away before I finally stop hoping she’ll come back?

The answer wasn’t tonight.

Tonight, she wouldn’t stop hoping.

But she also wouldn’t wait.

Not to see Kira take the crown. Not to see the spotlight hit her just right. Not to pretend she was part of the glittering fantasy anymore.

She turned and left.

Not because she wanted to.

But because if she stayed a second longer, she’d break down right there in front of everyone.

The halls outside the ballroom were quiet, the thud of music still echoing faintly behind her. Her heels clicked against polished marble as she walked faster, faster, until she reached the dormitory wing.

She didn’t bother with the lights.

The moment the door closed behind her, she let the mask slip from her face. Set it down gently. Carefully.

Then sat on the edge of her bed, hands gripping the comforter like it was the only thing keeping her from splintering apart.

She had to do this now. Fast. Get it over with before Mary came back and saw what was left of her.

Because Yumeko Kawamoto couldn’t cry at the gala. She couldn’t cry on the dance floor. Couldn’t cry in front of Kira. Couldn’t cry in public.

But here?

Here she could fall apart for a little while.

And so she did.

Silently. Completely.

And all alone.

Chapter Text

At St. Dominic’s, Sunday was never a day of rest.

It was war.

The campus buzzed like a casino on fire — dice clattering against velvet, cards flicking onto tables with sharp slaps, voices rising and falling like a tide in the gambling hall. Students piled into game rooms, common areas, even the courtyard, stacking chips and lives to claw their way up the hierarchy ladder.

Yumeko walked past them like a ghost.

She wasn’t even in the hall yet — just nearing it — when she heard them. The whispers.

Not about the gala dresses or the crowns. Not even about the kisses stolen in shadows or the scandals caught on camera.

No.

They were talking about a bet.

The side bet.

No one had won.

Because no one had died.

“Honestly, I really thought Kira was gonna snap and drown her in the fountain.”

“Right? I bet on Yumeko tying her up and hanging her with one of those chandelier cords.”

“Pity. I put money on a slow stab in the ballroom.”

“All that tension for nothing.”

Yumeko didn’t look at them. Didn’t slow.

She just kept walking, the echo of her heels lost in the noise of chips and laughter.

She hadn’t known about the bet. Not yesterday. Not during the gala. She'd been too busy searching for Kira in the crowd, too busy dancing and fighting and breaking down quietly on a balcony to notice the entire school had bet on one of their deaths.

She should’ve expected it.

This was St. Dominic’s. Their love language was violence. Their foreplay was warfare.

But they were wrong.

All of them were wrong.

Because she may not have bruises on her skin, no blood staining her gown, no bones broken or lips split — but inside?

God.

Inside, she felt like dying.

And wasn’t that worse?

To feel dead and still have to keep walking. To carry your body like a costume, skin stretched too tightly around all the grief and longing you can’t speak out loud. To smile or smirk or wink at people you could barely see through the fog of disappointment and ache.

The fountain was still. The ballroom was untouched.

But her chest?

Wrecked.

Every breath she took felt like proof that the worst injuries weren’t visible.

She stepped into the gambling hall, gaze forward, posture perfect. Not a hair too out of place.

And no one noticed she was bleeding inside.

Just the way she liked it.

Yumeko placed her chips like they were weapons — clean, deliberate, unhesitating. Her opponent barely masked his nerves, sweat glistening at his temple as he tried to match her stare. She tilted her head. Poor boy didn’t even know he’d already lost.

But her focus wasn’t entirely on him.

There was a wooden window lattice carved into the wall above the gambling hall — subtle, elegant, easy to miss unless you knew to look. It was just high enough to see the entire room from a single perch. A perfect view for an observer who never quite joined the game.

She could feel it — a sensation that crawled up her spine and sat between her shoulder blades.

Yumeko didn’t have to glance up to know who was there.

She felt her.

Kira was watching her.

Kira’s gaze always felt the same — sharp like the prick of a blade’s edge, cool and assessing. And right now, it wrapped around Yumeko like silk pulled taut.

Of course she wouldn’t come down. Kira never did.

It was almost funny. How even after everything, Yumeko didn’t expect more.

That had always been the problem, hadn’t it?

Kira gave just enough to make her stay — and never enough to stay herself.

Yumeko played another round. Won again. The table watched in half-awe, half-fear. Her opponent slinked away.

A third round. A third win.

Still no movement from the lattice above.

And Yumeko hated that she could time it now — that she knew how long Kira would hover at the edges, never breaching the space between them. It didn’t even hurt anymore. Not in the way it used to.

Now it just felt like gravity. Inescapable. Unchanging.

She stood. Her heels clicked crisply on the floor as she left the table. The chips were irrelevant. The whispers didn’t matter. She walked like someone who didn’t care about being watched, but God, did she know she was.

Just before she reached the door, she stopped.

Turned her head.

And looked up.

Through the dark wood lattice, through the dim space above, she found the shape of Kira. And then, her eyes.

They met.

For a second. Maybe two.

Long enough to count every beat of her aching heart.

Yumeko didn’t smile. Didn’t wink. No playful glint, no tilt of her head.

She just looked at her.

One last look.

Then she turned, and left.

Back to her dorm.

Back to her silence.

Back to where she didn’t need to pretend like she wasn’t bleeding from the inside out.

Because Kira hadn’t cut her open.

No — she just watched while Yumeko did it to herself.

And Kira stayed where she always did.

High above and out of reach.

The heaviness didn’t leave when Yumeko returned to her dorm, but she did what she could to dull it — curled up on her bed with the curtains drawn, the room dim and still, like a lull after a storm. Maybe sleep would cut through the ache in her chest. Maybe if she closed her eyes long enough, she'd forget the way Kira looked from above, all silver and distance, like a queen carved in marble.

She didn't dream.

When she woke, the light had shifted, soft amber pooling through the window. And Mary was there — lounging at the foot of Yumeko’s bed, scrolling through her phone like she belonged there, like Yumeko hadn’t just been curled in silence with the weight of the world pressing on her ribs.

“You okay?” Mary asked, tone light, but there was something sharp underneath it. She always had a good read.

Yumeko stretched slowly, blinking away sleep. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Mary glanced up. “I mean… it’s gambling day.”

Yumeko let her head fall back on the pillow. “The gala was exhausting. I just needed a break.”

Mary didn’t respond immediately, but Yumeko could feel her watching. The kind of scrutiny that made you feel stripped bare, even when you weren’t saying anything.

“…Is this about Kira?” She asked.

That caught Yumeko. Froze her, just for a beat. Then she smiled, just the barest tug of her lips. “You always jump to conclusions.”

“I’m right, though.” Mary said simply.

Yumeko rolled to her side, tucking the comforter tighter around herself. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Mary studied her for a few seconds longer, then nodded, letting it go with a small exhale. “Okay. I won’t ask again. But if you ever want to, you know… talk, I’m here.”

Yumeko was about to respond when the dorm door clicked open.

No knock.

No warning.

Just Kira.

Mary blinked, the shift in her expression almost comical in its surprise. “Kira! What a… pleasant surprise…” She said, eyebrows rising like she’d walked into an exam she didn’t study for.

Kira gave her a polite nod, acknowledging her only briefly before her eyes landed — and locked — on Yumeko.

Yumeko sat up, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. Her pulse picked up, uninvited.

Mary looked between them, her gaze pinballing as the tension wrapped tight enough to choke.

“I have to— I’m gonna go.” She said, hopping off the bed with her phone and moving toward the door like it was on fire. “Yep. Leaving now. Definitely not going to eavesdrop through the wall or anything.”

The door shut behind her.

Yumeko looked at Kira.

Kira stared back.

Neither of them spoke.

Not yet.

Kira stood just inside the doorway, the gold crest of her blazer catching the light as she held a folded garment bag and a neat little stack of other things — pins, accessories, a velvet pouch probably containing some make-up Yumeko had left behind.

“I’m just returning your things.” She said finally. “From yesterday.”

Yumeko didn’t sit up. “You could’ve sent one of your house pets.”

Kira didn’t blink. “It’s a lot.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

That earned nothing back. Just silence. Kira remained by the door, poised, perfectly still. A statue carved in hesitation.

“Just leave it on my desk.” Yumeko added, turning on her side, facing the wall. Her voice was softer now, but still far from inviting. She heard the faint rustle of movement as Kira complied, placing the items down with her usual precision.

She expected the retreating footsteps next. A soft click of the door opening and shutting.

Instead, she felt her mattress shift.

Yumeko stiffened slightly. She didn’t turn, didn’t look. But she knew. Kira had sat at the foot of her bed.

A moment passed. 

“You left early.” Kira said.

Yumeko closed her eyes. “Got tired of dancing.” She murmured. “There were so many people there.”

It was almost casual. Almost.

But they both heard the sharp edge under the softness.

Kira didn’t defend herself. Didn’t explain where she’d been between the dances and the distance. That silence hurt more than any excuse could’ve.

Another pause. A long one.

Yumeko shifted her arm under the pillow. “You were busy.” She added after a beat, and this time, it wasn’t bitter. Just tired.

“I wasn’t—” Kira started, then stopped. She exhaled through her nose. “You weren’t there after I came back down.”

“I was tired.” Yumeko’s voice dropped.

More silence. Then a quiet, almost reluctant. “I looked for you.”

Yumeko didn’t reply.

Kira stayed seated for a few seconds longer. And in that short silence, there was everything Yumeko could never say out loud — that she didn’t wait but she’d hoped, and that every time Kira left her, it got harder to pretend it didn’t matter.

“I really want to rest now.” Yumeko said eventually, not unkind, but final.

Kira stood without another word.

The door opened softly. Closed even softer.

As the door clicked shut, Yumeko stayed still.

The silence that followed wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t peaceful or soft. It was suffocating. It wrapped around her like a too-warm blanket on a hot day — cloying, heavy, and unrelenting.

Kira had looked for her. Kira had sat at the foot of her bed. Kira had left again.

And all of that meant nothing. Or maybe it meant too much. Yumeko wasn’t sure anymore.

She hated how used to this she'd become — this rhythm of almosts and unspokens. Of Kira standing so close she could feel her breath, then walking away like none of it mattered. And maybe that was the cruelest part: how easily Kira could pretend.

Yumeko pressed her face further into her pillow, eyes still open, blankly watching the soft curtain flutter with the breeze through the cracked window. 

Just like how Kira liked it, fuck.

Her room smelled faintly of lavender and gala perfume. Like roses left out too long. Wilted sweetness.

A part of her wanted to cry. But it felt indulgent. Selfish, even. There were no tears — not yet. Just this steady ache in her chest and the dull pounding in her skull, like her own body was exhausted from holding it all in.

The worst part wasn’t that Kira didn’t choose her.

It was that Kira never said she wouldn't.

She just… didn’t.

Again and again.

And Yumeko? She stayed. She always stayed.

Her fingers curled into the sheets.

It would be so much easier if she could hate Kira. If she could snap the fragile thing that connected them and walk away. But she couldn’t. And she hated herself for that more than anything.

Eventually, the weight of it all — of the gala, the conversation, the pretending — dragged at her limbs.

She felt her thoughts slip sideways, dissolve, twist into half-formed shapes that no longer held the sharpness of memory. Her eyes blinked slower. The room blurred at the edges.

And finally, her body gave in.

Yumeko slept.

Curled up in a patch of sunlight, surrounded by the quiet aftermath of everything unsaid.

Yumeko stirred awake to the faint sound of rustling fabric.

She blinked slowly, the afternoon haze still clinging to her vision like a second skin. The light had shifted in the room, gold streaking long shadows across the floor. She stretched a little, still tangled in the weight of a sleep that hadn’t soothed her at all — more like a pause than real rest.

Then she saw her.

Riri.

Sitting on Mary’s bed, posture straight, hands resting neatly on her lap. Her presence, like always, was quiet but impossible to ignore — still as a painting, but intense in the way a storm brews behind glass.

Yumeko sat up instantly, heart stuttering from the sudden awareness of company.

“You scared me.” She muttered, voice still hoarse with sleep. “Let me guess — you’re waiting on Mary again?”

Riri’s expression didn’t shift. “I came for you.”

Yumeko blinked. That woke her up.

“If this is from Kira, just—” She started, brushing hair out of her eyes, irritation bleeding into her tone.

But Riri’s voice cut clean through her words. “Our father is inviting you to dinner. Tonight.”

Just like that.

The world stilled. Yumeko’s breath caught in her throat for a second, barely noticeable, but there.

She scoffed lightly, brushing it off. “I’m not hungry.”

Riri didn’t blink. “It’ll be better for you if you don’t decline.”

There was nothing threatening in her voice. No malice, no sharpness. Just an observation. A warning tucked carefully inside a gift-wrapped box.

And Yumeko realized, in that moment, what this was.

It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command. A summons, lacquered in polite civility.

She stared at Riri, at the elegant way she sat there, and thought about how easily the Timurov family could twist a knife while offering you tea.

“I’ll be there.” Yumeko said quietly.

Riri stood, smoothing down her skirt. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Then, without another word, she left.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence returned, thick and sterile.

Yumeko didn’t move for a long time.

Her hands were cold.

Her breath came slow.

And then the thought bloomed in her mind — not fully, not yet, but like a seed that had already rooted deep and would grow with or without her consent:

She could kill Arkadi tonight.

The thought wasn’t a passing whisper, not some slippery daydream that flickered and vanished. It rooted itself in her mind, deep and cold and deliberate.

Not with a knife. That was for fools and amateurs. Blood was too loud, too vulgar. It left stains, and Yumeko wasn’t trying to make a scene. 

Not after Ray.

She wanted silence. Absence. She wanted Arkadi to vanish from this world with the same ease he carved himself into everyone else’s lives.

It would be poison, most likely. Something subtle. Tasteless. A compound designed to mimic natural failure. A man Arkadi’s age, his power — people would say stress finally caught up to him. Heart failure. Stroke. Tragic, but not suspicious.

She could lace his wine while no one was looking. Smile as he drank it. Watch the color drain slowly from his face across the course of dinner.

The idea of it, the symmetry of it, settled something in her. Like aligning puzzle pieces. This wasn’t vengeance. This was correction . 

Arkadi Timurov was a sickness — one that infected every room he entered, every life he touched. Ending him wasn’t just right.

It would be beautiful.

She sat still, letting the logistics unfurl in her mind like a quiet symphony. Every beat fell into place. She could already hear the gasps. See the flash of glass slipping from his fingers. The way his eyes would widen, finally realizing too late that he was not untouchable. That someone, somewhere, had the power to look him in the face and decide he no longer deserved to draw breath.

Yumeko breathed in.

It tasted like control.

And it felt good.

Yumeko moved with intent.

No theatrics, no hesitation. Her hands were steady as she laid out the pieces of herself she’d need tonight — the persona, the armor. The dress she chose was sleek, deep wine-red silk with a neckline sharp enough to rival a blade. It hugged her body like it knew the power she was stepping into. Her shoes were stilettos — elegant, quiet, deadly. Her makeup would be controlled, understated. No false softness tonight. No smoke to obscure the gleam in her eyes.

In the little pillbox she’d hidden inside her vanity drawer, the capsule waited. Colorless, odorless, impossible to trace once it melted past the throat. It wouldn’t kill instantly — she wasn’t sloppy — but it would start the chain reaction. Internal. Silent. Inevitable.

Yumeko had just finished her make-up when a soft knock came at the door.

Riri always knocked. Quietly, like she was asking the space permission to be there.

Mary glanced up from her bed, her phone still in hand, half-scrolling through something she clearly wasn’t reading.

Riri stood there, composed and calm, not a strand of her hair out of place. Her uniform had been traded out for something darker, sleeker, and expensive enough to look understated — the kind of clothing that didn't need to prove itself.

“Where are you two going?” Mary asked, voice light — too light.

Yumeko turned slightly, her hand still on the doorknob. “Dinner. With her father.”

The answer hung in the air like an unspoken betrayal.

Mary blinked, just once. No sharp inhale, no gasp, no furrow of the brow. Just a small, reflexive nod. But Yumeko saw the flicker — the faint sag in her shoulders, the way her thumb stopped moving on the edge of her phone. That wasn’t nothing. That was everything.

Mary didn't say anything more. But she didn’t have to. Her silence wasn’t passive. It was screaming.

Riri, as expected, said nothing. Her eyes passed over Mary — just a fraction of a second too quick — before turning back to Yumeko, and then toward the hallway again. No invitation. No explanation. Just the quiet expectation that Yumeko would follow.

And she did.

They walked in silence, the carpet muffling their steps, the air heavy with everything unsaid. It wasn’t until they’d passed three turns and reached a quieter part of the building that Yumeko finally spoke — softly, almost like she was testing whether the air would let her.

“You should treasure her more.” She said quietly.

Riri didn’t answer. Of course she didn’t. They were in public. 

“She didn’t say anything, but I saw her face, you did too, you were there.” Yumeko went on. “And I know Mary. She bottles things up until she doesn’t. And today? She was trying not to say something.”

Still, Riri was quiet.

Yumeko’s voice softened — not kinder, but lower. “You could’ve invited her, Riri.”

Silence. The kind that confirmed everything.

“She’s not a secret. Everyone at school already knows about you two. They might not say anything out loud, but they know. So if you're still trying to keep her from your father like she’s some shameful hidden chapter in your life… then you should be ready to lose her.”

She glanced over. Riri was looking ahead, expression calm. Too calm.

Yumeko pressed on. “I know you're scared of him. I get that. You think I don’t? I’ve seen the way you change around him — the way your shoulders square and your voice vanishes. Well, you know, more than usual. But Mary’s not afraid. She knows the risk. And she’s still choosing you.”

They reached the doors leading out of the dormitory. Riri paused, one hand resting on the frame, like she needed a second before stepping into the cold.

Yumeko stood beside her. “So don’t shut her out like this. Don’t let your fear turn her into a secret. She deserves better.”

Riri didn’t speak — she wouldn’t. Not here, at least.

But Yumeko didn’t need a verbal response. She saw it in the way Riri’s fingers curled tighter around the doorframe. In the slight dip of her head, almost imperceptible — like something inside her shifted.

It wasn’t confirmation.

But it was acknowledgment.

And for now, that was enough.

She didn't know if Riri would ever be brave enough to show Mary that part of her world. But if she didn't, someone would get tired of waiting.

And Yumeko knew exactly how that felt.

Yumeko straightened her shoulders and walked taller, her expression calm, precise. But beneath it, her heart thrummed with something sharp and ready.

Because she wasn’t just walking toward dinner.

She was walking into a trap she’d decided to spring.

Arkadi didn’t know it yet — but tonight, he’d begin dying slowly. And she would be the one to serve the main course.

Chapter Text

The Timurov home loomed like a monument to excess — if the vacation estate was impressive, this was an empire carved in marble and silence. From the wrought iron gates to the sprawling courtyard paved in obsidian stone, everything screamed of power and old money layered in secrets and blood.

Guards were stationed at every turn, posture stiff, hands near holsters. The kind of men who didn’t speak unless told, who wouldn't hesitate if Arkadi simply nodded. It would be much harder than she thought.

She was walking straight into the lion’s den.

And tonight, she'd have to kill the king.

The corridor stretched forever, hallways gilded with gold-leaf edges and lit by low chandeliers that cast heavy shadows across the walls. They passed display cases filled with centuries-old weapons and portraits whose eyes followed her with silent judgement. All of it — every single inch — reeked of legacy, of violence neatly stitched beneath polished veneer.

Yumeko wondered how many people had to bleed for this kind of wealth to be possible.

And then they reached the dining hall.

It was cathedral-sized, with ceilings that vanished into the dark and a single table long enough to seat fifty. Candles flickered along the center like the spine of some sleeping creature, their flames dancing on the gleaming silverware and wine glasses.

And there, at the head of the table, was Arkadi Timurov.

Regal. Cold. Alive.

She hadn't flinched walking into this place, not when she passed a wall lined with guards, not even when she imagined how she might end him.

But then she saw her.

Kira.

Fuck.

It hadn’t even occurred to her that Kira might be here. She should have known better. Arkadi would want both his daughters present — one for power, one for display.

Kira sat at his right side, flawless in ivory silk, silver glinting from the edge of her collar to the delicate cuffs at her wrists. No mask, but she still wore one — that calm, poised smile Kira always summoned around her father. Polished. Pretty. But Yumeko saw the tension behind it. She saw the tightness in her shoulders, the way her hands curled into her lap too tightly, like she was fighting the urge to shatter something.

She always looked beautiful. But tonight, she looked exhausted from pretending.

Arkadi stood when they approached. So Kira did, too — always one beat behind him.

“Yumeko Kawamoto.” Arkadi said smoothly. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

Yumeko smiled, effortless. She was used to pretending, too. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Timurov.”

He nodded, and stepped out from behind the table to pull out a chair — not the one near Kira, but one directly opposite her. The implication was deliberate. So was the fact that Kira remained standing until her father sat back down.

Only then did she lower herself into her chair.

Riri followed silently, settling beside her sister.

But Arkadi turned his gaze to them both. “Riri. Sit to my right.”

There was a beat of quiet.

A shift.

Yumeko caught it before she even processed it — the pause. Kira's slight stillness. Riri’s hesitation.

Kira was always the one beside him. Always.

Now he was moving her. Replacing her.

And she knew it.

So did Riri.

They didn’t protest. They didn’t have to. Yumeko could feel the shift in the air like static. The change in hierarchy. Kira might’ve been silent, composed, but that single moment — being asked to move — ripped something from her.

It was an insult. Calculated and cruel.

To remove Kira from that seat — the seat she'd occupied for years, the seat beside her father, the seat next in line.

A public demotion.

Riri took the seat beside Arkadi. Kira slid one over, and sat next to her sister, expression still unreadable but posture just a little too straight.

Arkadi didn’t look at her again. Not once.

Yumeko watched the whole thing unfold with a kind of sick, simmering hatred in her chest. She could stomach a lot. But not this — not the way Arkadi played his daughters like game pieces, not the way Kira took the humiliation with grace like she’d done it her whole life.

This man deserved to die.

And dinner hadn’t even started.

The first course arrived in a silence so sharp it could cut.

The servers moved in synchrony, like they'd trained their whole lives to be invisible. Plates were placed with a whisper — opal porcelain carrying an appetizer that looked like it belonged in a museum instead of a table. A delicate tower of beet-cured salmon, coiled into a rose, atop a smear of dill crème fraîche and sprinkled with edible gold flakes that caught the chandelier’s light like falling embers. Microgreens curled at its base like ivy, an attempt at softness for a dish that reeked of wealth and precision.

It was beautiful. Cold. Perfect. Like everything in this house.

Yumeko didn’t touch it immediately. She watched instead — Kira’s posture perfectly straight, fork held with exact elegance, but she wasn’t eating either. Just cutting tiny pieces. Mechanically. As though chewing anything more than small bites would count as rebellion.

Riri was the same. Quiet, still. Their every movement contained.

Then Arkadi broke the silence.

"So, Miss Kawamoto." He began, voice like velvet draped over steel. "How are you finding St. Dominic’s?"

Yumeko smiled the kind of smile you reserve for enemies who think they’re friends. “Never better.”

"Come now, don’t be modest." He said, lifting his wine glass but not drinking from it. "You climbed to the top ten last semester and now you’re the top five within weeks of the semester starting. That’s quite an achievement.”

Yumeko tilted her head. “What can I say? It’s a very motivating environment.”

Arkadi laughed, low and approving. “Spoken like a true predator.”

That word. She hated it. Not because it wasn’t true — but because coming from him, it was laced with the approval he withheld from his own daughters. A compliment to her, a weapon when used on them.

As if to prove the point, he gestured to Riri with his glass. “Riri here tells me you’ve been quite the asset to the student council. Reliable, clever. I’m pleased to know you’re in good company.”

Yumeko glanced at Riri. She didn’t lift her gaze. Just kept eating, mechanically. As if she hadn’t been praised at all.

Kira, on the other hand, remained untouched in the conversation. Her plate was barely disturbed. Her hands still, her smile unmoving.

Not a single word had been said about her.

Yumeko realized something then — something utterly cruel.

They didn’t speak unless spoken to. Not once since she sat down.

Not a stray comment. Not a light jab. Not even a whispered sister-to-sister glance.

It was like Arkadi owned their voices. Held them captive in his grasp.

The kind of silence you wore like a chain. Not the dignified silence of self-control — the suffocating one.

Yumeko cut her salmon and let the silence stretch a little longer before she forced herself to eat.

Yumeko cut into the salmon again, less for the taste and more to keep her hands busy. Across the table, Kira hadn’t lifted her fork since Arkadi spoke. Her knife lay idle. A stillness in her posture, practiced and familiar, only fractured by the subtle twitch of her lashes when Arkadi’s attention swept her way.

“I do hope Kira’s been helpful to you.” Arkadi said next, voice smooth but clipped. “She’s the student council president, after all.”

Yumeko blinked slowly, shifting her gaze toward Kira — and for a moment, something soft and real nearly breached the surface. But she cloaked it quick.

“She has been.” Yumeko said, voice airy, as if the words were just a passing thought. “Strong leadership. Clear expectations. Kira runs the council like a tight ship. It’s impressive.”

Kira’s gaze darted to her. A fraction of surprise. A flicker of something else.

Arkadi hummed, clearly unmoved. “As she should. She's been trained for this her whole life.”

So that was it. Not praise. Pure expectation.

Yumeko tilted her head. “Still. Not many people can manage the entire student body without breaking a sweat.”

“She’s hardly managing an empire.” Arkadi replied, flat and swift. “But I suppose it’s good practice.”

Yumeko didn’t answer. Kira’s jaw tightened just enough to see, and Yumeko felt the urge to stab Arkadi with her fork. She didn’t. Instead, she smiled.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Arkadi turned to her again, wine glass glinting in his hand. “I trust our winter estate treated you well.”

She felt it immediately — her spine straightening in a quiet, instinctive defense.

“My apologies for not being able to greet you during your stay.” Arkadi continued. “Business held me elsewhere. I suppose you girls managed on your own?”

There it was. The wordless ripple in the air.

Yumeko didn’t need to look at Kira to feel her freeze.

She didn’t need to look at Riri either, but she did.

Riri’s eyes met hers — still and calm and unreadable — but something passed between them. An acknowledgment.

She knows.  

And this time Yumeko couldn’t deflect anymore.

Riri doesn’t know what, but this is the clarification that something happened. 

Something that cannot come to light right now.

Yumeko exhaled, slow and careful. “The estate was beautiful. Truly.” She said, keeping her tone light. “Exactly the kind of place you’d expect of a Timurov. Grand and endless and… quiet.”

Arkadi smiled. “Quiet is good. Keeps the mind sharp.”

Not when you’re buried under it.

“Did you teach Kira any of your… strategies while you were there?” Arkadi asked, clearly amused with himself. “She’s capable, but I’m sure there are techniques she’s yet to master.”

Yumeko set her fork down gently.

“I think we learned plenty from each other.”

It came out smoother than she meant it to. Slower. Sharper.

And though she didn’t mean to, maybe it also came out dripping with innuendo.

Kira choked — barely, but it was there. A small, quick cough into her napkin, and the entire table shifted.

Arkadi’s expression darkened.

“You’re not a child anymore.” He said to Kira, voice cool. “Control yourself. We have a guest.”

“Sorry, father.” Kira said softly, and she didn’t look at anyone.

Yumeko’s hand curled under the table.

“What was it like, staying with her?” Arkadi continued, not even bothering to mask his disdain now. “I hope she wasn’t too… rigid. She tends to make things more complicated than they need to be.”

Yumeko smiled, sugar-laced with venom. “Actually, it was Kira who made things easier.”

That made Arkadi pause.

“She knew the estate inside out. Everything worked like clockwork. I don’t think I could’ve survived the place without her.”

Kira didn’t move, but she blinked — slow and deliberate. 

Arkadi, clearly displeased, sipped his wine. “Well. She should know it. They spend their winter there every year.”

“Still, it’s a rare thing, to feel safe in someone else’s home. Kira made it possible.”

The tension wasn’t something that grew — it had always been there. Yumeko was only now walking directly into it, cutting it with practiced, smiling precision. Her answers aren’t exactly lies nor were they the truth, they were defense. She couldn’t let Arkadi know the truth — about the two of them, about what the estate really was for them. But she could throw him off course. Just enough.

They weren’t even done with the salmon when the next course arrived — delicate seared scallops resting on a bed of pea purée, dotted with edible flowers and a drizzle of truffle oil that smelled like secrets in the air.  The plates looked like art, but none of them truly tasted it. 

Riri had barely taken a bite, her fork hovering as if weighing her appetite against the unspoken heaviness in the room. Kira, as usual, was methodical, slicing her portion into impossibly precise slivers, but barely chewing, her focus elsewhere.

Arkadi set down his fork with deliberate care, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips, one that never quite reached his cold eyes.

“You’ve done remarkably well at St. Dominic’s. Rising through the ranks so swiftly… It’s not something I expected, but it’s impressive.” His tone was smooth, measured, carefully flattering. “I had thought pairing you with Kira would be beneficial — a way to balance your talents.”

His gaze flickered toward Kira, who stiffened imperceptibly. Her jaw clenched, but she said nothing, the practiced mask of composure barely concealing the tension beneath.

Arkadi’s eyes returned to Yumeko, the smile now a fraction colder.

“But Riri… is different. A worthy heir. I think it’d be much suitable for the two of you to cultivate a… friendship.”

Arkadi’s eyes returned to Yumeko, his voice lowering just enough to suggest something beyond mere politeness.

“So I’d like to propose something for the next break. You and Riri — together. There’s potential in that partnership. It could be… a worthy investment. I believe it would benefit you both greatly.”

His smile sharpened, but the words lingered in the air, heavy with implication.

“Of course, Kira will be elsewhere. Somewhere more suited for her skillset.”

At that, Kira’s eyes flicked sharply toward Arkadi, a flash of anger — quickly swallowed — darting across her face. Riri’s posture tightened, a shadow of worry flickering in her eyes as she glanced briefly at Yumeko, who met her gaze but said nothing.

Across the table, the atmosphere thickened, as if the words themselves were binding chains tightening around them all.

Yumeko’s mind sharpened, peeling back the layers of Arkadi’s polished invitation.

Arkadi’s words were carefully chosen, but the meaning beneath them was clear. This was no simple invitation — it was an attempt to draw Yumeko into his orbit, to claim her as another piece on his board. 

The move away from Kira was deliberate, once seen as weak, she had been the tool meant to break Yumeko, but now she was being pushed aside. Riri, however, was different — his new heir, the rising power he sought to strengthen through alliances. Yumeko wasn’t being offered a partnership so much as a leash, tethered to Riri’s rise and Arkadi’s control.

She studied Arkadi’s face — the faintest glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

Yumeko’s voice was steady as she replied, carefully neutral.

“I’ll take it into consideration.”

Arkadi’s smile widened, pleased with her answer, but Yumeko caught the cold calculation behind it.

Kira’s silence was a sharp contrast to the polished smile she wore — a practiced mask that barely concealed the storm beneath. From across the table, Yumeko could feel it, as if Kira’s frustration radiated outward, an undercurrent of controlled jealousy rippling through every gesture, every breath. She wasn’t one to lose composure easily, especially not in front of their father, but the subtle shifts spoke volumes. 

Kira was being demoted in this quiet power play, pushed aside like a pawn, no longer the favored heir but a reminder of what Arkadi deemed weak.

Beside her, Riri sat rigid and withdrawn, the very picture of obedience, but there was no mistaking the tension etched across her face. She wasn’t a willing participant in this arrangement. The forced proximity between her and Yumeko, the unspoken implication of alliance, felt like shackles rather than opportunities. 

Riri already had Mary — her own choice, her own bond — and the last thing she wanted was to be used as a tool to bind Yumeko closer, to corral power into Arkadi’s vision. Yet she kept her lips sealed, knowing that speaking out would only provoke more control, more manipulation.

And so the silence stretched across the table, a battlefield of restrained emotions and unvoiced rivalries. Yumeko watched, understanding everything without a word needing to be said — the subtle, painful shifting of power, the jealousy hidden behind composed faces, and the fragile grip each of them held in this game ruled by Arkadi’s will.

As Arkadi’s voice once again filled the room with power plays, Yumeko’s mind slipped away from the polite facade of the dinner. She imagined a quiet revenge, one as cold and precise as the veins of poison that would course unseen through his body.

In her mind, she was already reaching out, fingertips brushing the rim of his glass, a small tablet concealed in the palm of her hand. No one would notice — a subtle gesture, practiced and precise. The toxin would slip silently, invisibly into the wine, mingling with the rich scent, waiting.

She pictured Arkadi raising the glass, his smile smug and unguarded. That first sip would be the last taste of his hubris, the moment his empire began to unravel.

Inside him, the poison would spread — no agonizing wait, but just long enough for him to have hope of being saved. It would strike the heart first, crushing pride with a vice grip. His hands would tremble, the glass slipping from his grasp to shatter on the polished floor, shards glinting like fractured power.

Arkadi’s face would blanch, eyes wide with the shock of betrayal not seen coming, as his breath caught and fell short. 

He’d try to rally, to speak, but no words would come. His chest would tighten, the throne of his influence crumbling into dust beneath him.

Guards would rush in too late, his empire slipping through their fingers like smoke.

Yumeko imagined the look in his eyes — the flicker of pure, unyielding fear as he realized his fate was sealed by the very person he thought he had under control. There’d be no mercy, no chance for redemption. Just the cold, beautiful justice of a poison unseen.

And when it was done, when Arkadi’s light faded, a heavy silence would settle over the room. Not the silence of mourning, but the silence of victory — her victory.

She only snapped back when Arkadi gave her a window of opportunity.

“Excuse me. I will be back in a second.”

Arkadi’s words hung in the air a moment longer before he abruptly stood and excused himself to the comfort room, leaving Yumeko with only the faint clink of his glass echoing on the polished table. The moment felt suspended — the pause before a storm she could almost taste on her tongue.

Her eyes drifted instinctively to Arkadi’s untouched wine. The same glass she’d imagined so many times, the glass that held the power to end this twisted game.

Fingers twitching, she glanced around, catching the faintest movement from the corner of her vision. Kira’s eyes, sharp and calculating, locked on the glass too — and then on Yumeko’s.

Without a word, Kira leaned in, her voice low but urgent. “Riri, go get my coat. It’s in my room.” The command was subtle, but Riri rose immediately, obedient and unaware of the unspoken tension.

Kira’s gaze never left Yumeko’s. “Are you going to do it now?” She asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Yumeko hesitated, voice fragile. “I’m thinking about it.”

Kira’s eyes lingered, then she nodded as if accepting an unspoken pact. “I have to use the ladies’ room. I’ll be back.”

She slipped away without another glance. Yumeko sat still, alone with the weight of silence and the cold gleam of the wine glass before her.

The moment Kira walked out of the dining hall, something cracked in Yumeko.

She was alone now. Arkadi's glass still sat there, tall and cruel, half-filled with a rich red vintage that shimmered in the low golden lights like blood under candlelight. Yumeko stared at it. Not blankly. Not idly. 

No, she stared like a wolf with blood on its teeth, like a girl who has walked too far to pretend she’s not already deep in the woods.

It would be easy. Her palm already had the poison hidden in it — just a turn, a click, and a flick of the wrist. She’d done it before — though a bit differently. She could do it again.

Her pulse climbed, heartbeat knocking in her throat, loud and thundering like it wanted to tear itself out. There was nothing stopping her. Not the guards. Not Riri, who was gone. And not Kira — especially not Kira, who had just looked her in the eyes and walked out the door.

That was consent. That was permission. That was Kira saying do it.

And that — that — was what broke Yumeko apart.

She wasn’t trembling, but something in her felt frayed, delicate, like a blade’s edge seconds before shattering.

Kira's letting me. Just like she said she would.

She clenched her fists beneath the table. The betrayal she felt had no name — because it wasn't betrayal of love or alliance or blood. It was betrayal of the thing between them. The fragile, unspoken maybe. 

The possibility that all this darkness they swam in hadn't yet swallowed them whole.

Because if Kira could let her do this — if Kira could step aside and let her murder her father, the man who held her by the throat her whole life — then that meant Kira was willing to sever what they had, too.

Not just willing. Ready.

And God, Yumeko hated him more for that than anything.

Her gaze dropped to the wine again.

She imagined it.

Arkadi returning, arrogant and smug, picking up the glass. She imagined the stem between his fingers, how he’d swirl it, how his lips would curl over some meaningless toast — to power, to legacy, to the Timurov name. Whatever.

She imagined his throat tipping back.

She imagined the poison sliding down with the wine — and how quickly it would work. How his body would twitch. How he’d spasm and knock the glass over, spill the rest like blood across the ivory cloth. How his eyes would widen in realization. How he’d look to Kira and Riri, shocked, betrayed. How he’d look at her.

How Yumeko would meet his gaze and not flinch.

She’d watch the life drain from his face. Watch as all that power turned to nothing in his veins. And even as the room erupted into chaos, she would stay seated, still and quiet and victorious.

She could do it.

But… she looked again at the door Kira had walked through.

What would it cost?

Kira had said nothing, hadn't begged her not to do it. No tears, no arguments. 

And then she’d walked away.

She’s being given permission to kill her monsters, and be punished for it after.

Because even if Kira had given her the silence as approval — Yumeko knew.

Kira would never forgive her.

Not because she loved Arkadi. No, that man had never made space for love. But because Yumeko would’ve taken something from her — the final act, the final control. Because killing him now would be ending something Kira hadn’t finished. And more than anything, Yumeko knew Kira hated being robbed of power.

But Yumeko didn’t care about power right now. 

She just… wanted her.

And if she did this, she’d lose her.

The weight of that made her vision blur. It felt like drowning — and not the desperate, flailing kind. The quiet kind. The kind where you let yourself sink, where you stop kicking, stop hoping.

She could do it.

And she would walk out alive.

But Kira?

She would never come back to her.

Never.

And Yumeko knew herself well enough to know she wouldn’t survive that.

So she just sat there.

Poison unmoved. Arkadi’s glass untouched.

All that hate burning a hole through her ribs.

And when the door finally opened again and Arkadi strolled back in, smug and unknowing, Yumeko only smiled at him. Practiced. Polished. The smile of a girl who’d always known how to survive a battlefield.

And maybe that’s all this dinner was. Not a family reunion. Not a meeting of allies.

Just a battlefield.

And tonight?

She chose not to draw blood.

Because, as it turns out…

She’s willing to postpone the win, just to keep the queen.

Chapter Text

Dinner ended like it always would in a house like this — formally, politely, with silver scraped against porcelain and no one daring to make the first move to leave. When Arkadi finally set down his utensils, a butler was already stepping in to clear his plate. Kira and Riri rose with him, like clockwork.

Then he turned to Yumeko.

"It’s quite late." Arkadi said, voice smooth and practiced. “You’ll stay the night, of course.”

It wasn’t a question.

Yumeko smiled. Tilted her head, even. “Of course. Thank you.”

But she saw it. The layers. The move beneath the words. This wasn’t hospitality — it was theater. Another play in Arkadi’s long game. Keep her close, surround her with opulence, feed her glimpses of what being in his favor could look like. Power, influence, security. 

The illusion of choice.

There was no kindness in his offer. Just strategy.

“There’s already a room prepared for you.” He continued. “Just across from Riri’s.”

Of course there is.

And then, the checkmate move. “Riri, be a dear and escort Yumeko there.”

The words echoed in her mind, dragging with them the weight of every moment that came before. The reshuffled seats at dinner. The compliments. The unsubtle silences. This night had been crafted, stitched together with perfect precision to paint her into Arkadi’s vision.

It was all so painfully obvious — Arkadi was pairing her with Riri, piece by careful piece.

Riri nodded her head once.

Yumeko’s eyes flicked toward her. Perfect posture. A flicker of something sharp in her throat she swallowed down. She didn’t want this. That much was clear. But what she wanted didn’t matter, not here. Not to Arkadi.

And Kira…

Kira didn’t even look at her. She stood still as stone with that too-perfect smile on her face, as though any show of feeling would be seen as a weakness. But Yumeko saw it. She always did. The crack running beneath her perfectly still expression. The wall she was forced to become. Arkadi hadn’t just stolen Kira’s voice tonight — he was erasing her seat at the table.

Arkadi dismissed them with a nod, and Kira turned first, disappearing down the hall. Riri moved next, gesturing for Yumeko to follow her. And so she did.

Their footsteps were hushed, swallowed by the carpet. The lights here were softer, golden and quiet, but the silence felt heavy.

When they reached the wing, Riri paused by a door and gestured towards the door, indicating that’s Yumeko’s.

Yumeko looked across the hall. The door to Riri’s room stood just a few steps away. Of course this was the plan.

Yumeko turned back to Riri. There was tension in her shoulders, but not surprise. Riri knew this too. 

Knew exactly what their father was trying to build. An alliance. A bond. A future.

Not for them. For him.

“Good night.” Riri said.

Yumeko nodded, eyes lingering on her for a second too long. “Good night.”

Then she stepped inside.

But only for a moment.

Because barely a breath after closing the door behind her, Yumeko stepped back out.

Her footsteps padded softly across the hall. She paused in front of the door opposite hers, stared for a second, then lifted a hand and knocked.

Once.

Twice.

No answer.

She waited.

Still nothing.

So she turned the handle and opened the door anyway.

And for the first time, she saw Riri without the mask.

No stiff shoulders. No poised silence. No ice-princess elegance polished for display. Just Riri, sitting on the edge of her bed in an oversized t-shirt, her hair slightly undone, eyes bare and rimmed with something softer than exhaustion — fragility. Like she was holding herself together by the thin thread of solitude.

Riri’s eyes widened at the sudden intrusion, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look surprised.

“Sorry.” Yumeko said immediately. “I should’ve waited. Should I leave?”

Riri stared for a second longer before she shook her head.

So Yumeko entered, closing the door gently behind her. There was no pretense in her now. No teasing, no sidestepping, no mask.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

Riri nodded.

Yumeko took a seat on the bed. Not too close — just enough that if either of them shifted slightly, their arms would brush. It felt like the right kind of distance. Respectful. Careful. Real.

Riri wasn’t a talker. Mask or no mask, that didn’t change. But she listened. Always had. And now, in this room that smelled faintly of linen and quiet, she was listening again.

Yumeko exhaled.

“You know I won’t accept Arkadi’s invitation, right?”

Another nod from Riri. No trace of surprise.

“But are you going to be okay if I don’t?” Yumeko asked gently. “I mean, if he — if Arkadi — does something? Because of it?”

Riri’s reply was quiet, but steady. “I can handle myself. You should be more worried about what happens to you when you decline.”

And that — God, that felt real. Not an exaggerated threat. Just the truth of what it meant to refuse Arkadi Timurov.

Silence fell between them then. Heavy, but not uncomfortable. More like a pause in the middle of something fragile. Yumeko stood slowly, meaning to let Riri rest, meaning to leave before she overstayed what little comfort she could give.

“Yumeko.” Riri said suddenly.

Yumeko turned.

Riri was still sitting, her hands loosely curled on her lap. Her voice was softer now, almost uncertain. “Can you tell me the truth? About you and Kira?”

Yumeko blinked. “What about us?”

Riri’s eyes lifted. For a second, she looked like a little girl — wide-eyed and a little scared, asking to be let into a room she’s never been allowed to enter.

And in some way, maybe that’s exactly who she was.

Yumeko returned to the bed, sitting down again. She didn’t close the gap between them — didn’t have to. Riri already seemed closer somehow.

“It’s complicated.” Yumeko said quietly. “Too complicated to explain tonight.”

Riri gave a small nod. “You don’t have to explain everything. Just… something.”

Yumeko hesitated. “Did you ask her?”

“Only once.”

Yumeko’s heart skipped. She remembered. That conversation. Behind the doors. The one where Kira said Yumeko wasn’t important. The night that nearly undid her.

She swallowed, the memory still sour.

“Well…” Yumeko said, voice gentler now, “Maybe you should ask her again. Just once more. And when she answers — if she answers — you can ask me again too. If you still want to.”

Riri didn’t respond right away. She stared ahead, expression unreadable, but then she nodded again. That same quiet way she always did.

Yumeko leaned in. Slowly. Gauging.

And Riri — stoic, still, reserved Riri — parted her arms slightly.

So Yumeko wrapped her own around her, careful and warm, holding her like a friend. Maybe like something more than that, but not in the way Arkadi wanted.

Just something true.

“Thank you.” Riri murmured, small and sincere.

And that’s when the door opened.

Without a knock.

Because of course she didn’t knock.

“Riri, have you seen—”

Kira stood in the threshold, her eyes sweeping the scene — Yumeko’s arms around her sister, the faint imprint of something delicate and quiet between them — and for a second, everything in her froze.

Yumeko pulled back instinctively.

Riri turned.

Kira didn’t speak.

But God, her silence did.

Kira turned fast — too fast — but Yumeko was faster.

Her fingers wrapped around Kira’s wrist, and with a twist of her body, she pulled her back into the room and slammed the door shut with her own weight pressed against it. It wasn’t forceful. It wasn’t angry. It was desperate.

Kira stilled.

She didn’t struggle, didn’t even speak. She just looked at Yumeko.

And not with rage.

No, what stared back at Yumeko was worse. Far worse.

It was hurt — deep, cavernous hurt that clung to her eyes like shadows. The kind of hurt that didn’t shout or accuse. It simply existed, quietly, but consuming all the same. Pain so dense it weighed down the air.

And Yumeko’s heart — her very soul — fractured.

She took a breath, shaking.

“Kira.” She said softly. “I think you misunderstood. That was nothing. I wasn’t— We weren’t—”

But Kira just stood there.

Staring.

Still broken.

Yumeko stepped forward, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, and reached out a hand — hoping, maybe foolishly, that her touch could fix this. That it could soften that look in Kira’s eyes, give her an anchor, something to hold onto.

Kira stepped back.

Just a single step. But it said everything.

“I—” Yumeko faltered, arm still half-outstretched.

Riri rose to her feet, cautious. “We were just talking. That’s all—”

But before she could finish, Kira lifted a finger.

Sharp. Commanding.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a quiet demand.

Silence.

And Riri fell silent. Her lips pressed together. Her eyes dropped. Her voice stolen in one motion.

Kira said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

She reached for the door.

And this time, Yumeko didn’t stop her.

Because Kira’s hand was trembling. And her eyes looked like they were already drowning. Somewhere cold. Somewhere lonely.

And God, Yumeko didn’t know how to reach her there.

The door clicked open.

And then Kira walked out.

Yumeko stood in that heavy silence for just a second too long, until the knot in her chest threatened to drag her down entirely.

She pushed off the door and followed. Her feet moved faster than her thoughts.

“Kira!” She called, sharp with ache.

Kira stopped mid-step.

She didn’t turn, but her voice rang out over her shoulder — precise, controlled, laced with something Yumeko could barely stand.

“Practice proper manners.” Kira said, cold and flat. “We are in my father’s home.”

Yumeko’s breath hitched.

His home.

Not hers.

The walls felt tighter.

Kira walked again, and Yumeko didn’t chase her this time.

Because chasing meant hoping. And tonight, hope already tasted like ash.

She stood there in the hallway, watching Kira’s silhouette recede into the darkness of the Timurov mansion.

And all she could think — all she could feel, rattling in the marrow of her bones — was the same bitter truth again and again:

She was watching Kira walk away.

Again.

And it still wasn’t her fault.

But, God, did it feel like it was.

Yumeko stood in the hallway, still trembling from the wreckage Kira left in her wake, her fingers curled loosely into her palm like maybe if she held herself tight enough, she wouldn’t fall apart completely.

But before returning to her room, she stopped in front of Riri’s door.

She knocked once.

Then waited.

The silence behind the wood felt endless, like the house itself was holding its breath.

And then, the door cracked open.

Riri stood there, no words on her lips, just sorrow in her eyes — big and glassy, rimmed red like she’d been keeping tears at bay for a while, her jaw tight, her back straight. 

Still in control. 

Still holding on.

The Timurov specialty.

And yet Yumeko could see it — how close Riri was to shattering.

There was something so unbearably human about it. About how Riri refused to let those tears fall. About how she stood there, her entire face trying to say she was fine when the rest of her was caving in.

God.

“I’m sorry.” Yumeko said, voice barely above a whisper.

Because what else could she even say?

It wouldn’t change what happened.

It wouldn’t undo the way Kira raised her finger to silence her own sister. Wouldn’t pull back the heaviness in Kira’s stare. Wouldn’t undo the way they had all quietly broken apart like fault lines cracking silently under pressure.

Yumeko swallowed, the words lodging in her throat like thorns. “I know I just made the gap between you and her worse. I didn’t mean to…”

Still, Riri didn’t speak.

She didn’t look angry.

Just… tired.

Hollowed out in a way that was worse than rage. Worse than heartbreak.

Yumeko’s heart clenched painfully. Riri had looked at her like she wanted the truth earlier. Like she wanted to be let in. And Yumeko had offered only pieces. Slivers. Now, it was too late. The silence had grown between them too.

Riri nodded once — slow and mechanical.

Not forgiveness.

Not anger.

Just… acknowledgment.

Like she understood the apology. But understanding didn’t mean it could fix anything. Didn’t mean things could go back.

And then Riri closed the door.

Not in malice.

Just… in resignation.

And Yumeko stood there, staring at the wood.

This family was so good at shutting doors — physical ones, emotional ones, all of them. The Timurovs had made an art out of distance. Out of masking the ache. Of turning it into quiet compliance.

The same ache that sat in Kira’s eyes before she walked away.

The same ache in Riri’s now, just dressed a little differently.

Yumeko turned slowly, her limbs heavier than they should be, and walked back to her own room.

The hall felt wider this time.

Colder.

And somehow, even lonelier than before.

Because it wasn’t just about the shattered moment with Kira.

It was this, too.

This quiet devastation of being a reminder — to both sisters — of everything that had gone wrong.

When Yumeko entered the room again, the silence greeted her like a long-lost friend. But it was no comfort — just a reminder of everything she didn’t say, everything she didn’t do. She shut the door behind her, the soft click of it echoing louder than it should’ve. She let herself stand there for a moment, trying to gather what little strength she still had. She was empty. A husk.

But then she saw it.

Laid out carefully on the edge of her bed was a folded set of clothes. At first, she didn’t register what it was. Her mind had been too frayed, too broken by the weight of the night. But when her fingers touched the fabric, memory flooded her all at once.

These weren’t just any clothes.

These were Kira’s. A soft, oversized black pullover with sleeves too long for Yumeko’s arms, and worn-in grey sweatpants that hung too loose on her hips. Clothes she used to steal and wear all the time during the break at the Russian estate. Clothes that still, even now, held the faintest traces of the perfume Kira always wore — a crisp, cold lavender scent with something darker buried beneath it.

These were her favorite. Not because of how they felt, but because of who they came from. Because when she wore them, she felt like she belonged somewhere. Like she belonged to someone.

And now they were here.

Kira had been here. Kira had come to find her. And instead, Yumeko had hurt her.

It didn't matter that it was a misunderstanding. It didn't matter that Riri was just a girl trying to understand what had broken between her and her sister. That hug hadn’t meant anything — but God, it had still broken Kira. Yumeko saw it in her eyes. That bone-deep ache, the kind that doesn’t scream but just quietly stays — always there, always watching, always waiting to devour.

Yumeko crumpled to the floor.

There were no sobs at first. Just shaking. Just a small, bitter laugh that cracked halfway through her throat. She curled in on herself like she was trying to disappear into the rug, and then the tears came. 

Hot and silent. 

There was something humiliating about this kind of grief, the way it collapsed her from the inside. She had come to this house with a plan. She was supposed to end Arkadi Timurov tonight. She had imagined it again and again — how his last breath would taste like betrayal, how powerless he’d look as the poison took him from within.

And she didn’t do it.

Not because she was weak. But because when it came down to it, she wasn’t ready to lose Kira. 

Kira, who still came to her room. Who left behind the clothes she knew Yumeko loved, like a silent truce. Kira, who broke the way only someone who loved too much could break.

And now Yumeko had both failed and lost.

With shaking fingers, she stripped out of her dress and pulled on Kira’s clothes. It was like muscle memory. The sweater engulfed her immediately — too long, too soft, too familiar. 

It smelled like memory. 

It smelled like loss. 

And still, she wrapped herself in it like it could somehow undo the last few hours.

She climbed into the bed that was too wide and too cold, just like the one in the Russian estate. But back then, Kira had been just down the hall. And now, Yumeko didn’t know if she’d ever be close again.

She curled up against the pillow, clutching at the hem of the sweater like it could hold her together.

So much for a night of victory.

She had come to end a monster.

Instead, she ended up breaking the only thing that mattered.

And tomorrow… 

God, tomorrow is still coming.

When Yumeko woke the next morning, it was as if sleep hadn’t touched her at all.

She blinked slowly, vision adjusting to the soft gray light filtering through the heavy curtains. Her body ached, not from the softness of the mattress, but from the grief she’d worn to sleep. It clung to her like the sweater still wrapped around her — Kira’s sweater. It felt heavier now. Like the fabric remembered last night too.

She didn’t move at first. Just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, unmoving. The space felt unfamiliar in the way expensive things always did — pristine, quiet, soulless. She hated it. Hated the way it looked like a room in a catalog and not a place anyone would choose to rest their heart. But what was she expecting? This house had always been a monument to Arkadi’s ego. Nothing here was designed to feel like home.

She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, staring blankly as the stillness threatened to pull her back under. But eventually, she forced herself to sit up.

And that’s when she heard it — a knock on the door.

For one fragile second, her heart stuttered with hope.

A knock.

And she hated that her first instinct was disappointment.

Kira would have entered without ceremony, without permission, without hesitation. And Yumeko would’ve teased her for it and Kira would’ve stood there like she owned the room. Because in some strange way, she always did.

But this wasn’t her.

“Come in.” Yumeko said, her voice hoarse and flat.

The door opened smoothly, and in stepped Riri, composed as ever, mask in place like it had never fallen. But Yumeko knew better now. She’d seen behind it. Seen the girl underneath — all young and lost and painfully alone.

“We’ve been excused from all our classes today.” Riri said gently, as if her words might tip the balance. “Father said it would be more efficient for us to rest and establish a… bond. Here.”

Efficient. That word. Arkadi used it like it was sacred.

Riri stepped closer, tone still polite, careful. “I came to ask what you’d like for breakfast. I’ll inform the chef.”

Yumeko didn’t answer.

She didn’t care about breakfast.

Instead, she asked. “Where’s Kira?”

There was a beat — just the briefest pause — but it was enough.

Yumeko saw it in Riri’s shoulders first. The subtle drop. The flicker of hesitation in her hands.

Then Riri looked down. A quiet betrayal of the control she always kept. “She already left.” She said softly. “A few hours ago. She said she wanted to ensure everything at school remained… intact.”

Yumeko swallowed hard. It tasted bitter.

Of course she did.

That was Kira. Always slipping back into duty the second she was wounded. Putting on armor instead of bandages. Ensuring the world stayed in place even when she was falling apart inside.

Controlled. Composed. Contained.

The words clanged against Yumeko’s chest like a verdict.

She hadn’t even waited for morning. She’d just… left.

Yumeko had lost her. And Kira, in true Kira fashion, made sure the loss looked clean, like it hadn’t mattered at all.

But it did.

Yumeko let the silence settle after Riri’s quiet explanation. Her fingers curled slightly in the thick fabric of Kira’s sweater — her favorite one, the one that always felt like warmth, even now when it clung to her like mourning cloth.

She gave Riri a faint nod, pushing herself to speak despite the thickness in her throat. “Anything would be fine.”

Riri nodded once in return, still quiet, still masked. “A maid will come and let you know when breakfast is ready.”

“Thanks.” Yumeko murmured, not looking up.

Riri left as softly as she came. No click of shoes, no weight in her footsteps — the perfect Timurov exit. Smooth. Controlled. Quiet.

The door shut, and Yumeko let herself breathe.

She moved to the window, lowering herself into the cushioned chair nestled just beside it. Her eyes scanned the stretch of land outside — manicured lawns, statues that looked like they belonged to gods long dead, paths that twisted like a maze meant to trap.

To someone else, this would look like paradise. A sanctuary. A kingdom.

But Yumeko knew better. She could feel the cold through the glass.

To the world, this was wealth. Power. Prestige.

But to the two girls raised within its walls — Riri and Kira — it was something else entirely. Something that wore the skin of luxury but breathed like a cage.

This place, for all its glittering sprawl, felt like a prison. Its gates might be open to the world, but Yumeko could see the bars in every polished floor tile, hear the locks in every quiet nod of obedience, feel the chains in the way no one ever raised their voice unless Arkadi allowed it.

And somewhere in this house, Kira had woken up hours before the sun, and she left.

No goodbye. No message. No soft apology nor even the cold edge of blame.

She just disappeared. Again.

And Yumeko had no one to blame but herself.

Two nights ago, Kira had shattered her heart with silence.

Last night, Yumeko shattered hers with a gesture.

Different weapons. Same wound.

She let her eyes fall to the freshly cut grass outside, lips trembling as she leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Maybe this was what fate looked like — not sudden or sharp, but a slow erosion of all the ways they’d ever tried to reach for each other.

Maybe this was fate telling them to stop trying.

Because every time they got close, something cracked. Something broke.

And maybe that was the universe’s way of protecting them. Tearing them apart before they destroyed each other entirely.

But even then, Yumeko couldn’t help the ache that bloomed under her skin.

Because walking away might hurt less than staying — but it also meant letting go of even the smallest hope of reconciliation. Of forgiveness. Of whatever they could still be.

And Yumeko didn’t want to give that up.

Not yet.

Not when the pain of watching Kira walk away was still more bearable than imagining a future where Yumeko never got to see her again.

Breakfast was quiet.

Not the soft, peaceful kind of quiet, but the cold kind. The kind that felt like an echo. An absence. Like the room had been hollowed out and left standing only for the sake of appearance.

Yumeko and Riri sat across from one another at the long, polished table, a grand spread laid out before them — eggs, sausages, freshly baked pastries, a plate of sliced fruits far too neat to be natural. The food was warm. The plates were full. But everything felt distant. Like a meal prepared for people who weren’t really there.

Neither of them spoke. Forks clicked gently against china. A chair creaked once. The ticking of a nearby clock rang louder than it should.

Everything was still.

Everything was empty.

And when they both finally finished, Yumeko placed her fork down, wiped her mouth slowly, and spoke for the first time since she sat down.

“Can we go back now?”

Riri looked up at her, her expression unreadable beneath the mask secured across her features. She nodded once. “Get your things. I’ll let the chauffeur know.”

Yumeko didn’t wait for anything else. She stood with a soft scrape of her chair against the floor, muttered a quiet thank you, and practically sprinted out of the dining hall.

Her heart thudded hard as she reached the guest room — not because she was rushing to escape the Timurov estate, but because she couldn’t bear to stay in it any longer. The walls pressed down too heavy. Every corner reminded her of what didn’t happen, and worse — of what did.

She grabbed her purse in one swift motion, scooping up the dress she’d worn the night before. Her heels were near the door. She slipped them on without a second thought, letting her bare ankles brush the hem of Kira’s sweatpants. The sweater hung slightly off her shoulder — too soft, too familiar — and yet none of it felt strange.

Not even the absurdity of it all. A girl in heels and stolen — or was it lent? — loungewear, hair still tangled from sleep and soul fraying at the seams.

She left the slippers on the side of the room. And she didn’t look back — not at the bed, not at the window, not at the place where her resolve collapsed just hours ago.

All that mattered now was that she could leave.

Back to campus. Back to noise. Back to anything that wasn’t this.

Back to where the pain might not lessen, but at least it wouldn't echo.

Chapter Text

Riri stepped out of the car first.

Even in the early light of St. Dominic’s campus, she looked composed — mask in place, posture perfect, the very picture of a Timurov heir. She opened Yumeko’s door without a word, and Yumeko stepped out, clutching her purse and the folded fabric of last night’s dress.

Riri was turning to leave when Yumeko spoke.

“How are you and Kira?” she asked. The question hung heavily between them.

Riri stilled for only a moment, then turned her head. Her gaze didn’t linger — this wasn’t a conversation they could have here — but it was long enough. Enough for Yumeko to see it.

It’s not well. It’s not okay.

And Riri, who never showed anything, didn’t even try to deny it.

Yumeko didn’t wait for more. She could already feel the tremble in her hands. Her heels clicked against the pavement as she turned and ran, loungewear billowing, hair still unbrushed, eyes darting.

She went back to the council office — empty. No Kira. Not even the ghost of her perfume in the air. The curtains were drawn, the door slightly ajar, but no one was there. Not even a trace.

She ran through the garden where Kira liked to sit with a book she never really read, a space she claimed for herself with quiet elegance. But the seat was vacant. Dew still clung to the petals, untouched.

Her last hope — the gambling hall.

The double doors of the gambling hall swung open with that familiar creak, the same one Yumeko had come to associate with bloodlust and ambition. But today, the air was different — thicker. Not with tension. With assumption.

The hum of the crowd dulled slightly as she stepped inside. Eyes flicked to her — sweatpants a little too long at the hem, heels clicking on polished marble, yesterday’s dress clutched like a flag of surrender in her hands. She looked out of place, and worse, she looked like a story.

Above her, one of the two massive screens flashed and shifted. The leaderboard stood proud and unforgiving on the left. But on the right, the screen changed, cycling through the top trending side bets of the day. And there it was, bold and taunting:

RIRI TIMUROV AND YUMEKO JABAMI WILL GO PUBLIC NEXT WEEK

Yumeko stared at it for a long second. The hall was still buzzing, but it all blurred into static. The weight of it sat in her gut like a brick: no matter what the truth was, people didn’t care. They only wanted the version with blood or scandal. And if they couldn’t have death, they’d take betrayal.

She turned, scanning the hall — and spotted Runa, sitting cross-legged atop a poker table like it was her throne.

“Runa.” Yumeko called, her voice sharper than she meant.

Runa’s grin was slow, cat-like. “Yumeko. Looking cozy.”

Yumeko didn’t flinch. “What the hell is going on?”

Runa tilted her head, eyes flicking up to the screen. “Oh, that? The streets are talking, babe. You and lil’ Timurov left together last night. Came back together this morning. You’re in her clothes, holding last night’s dress, in heels. In St. Dominic’s, that’s a billboard.”

Runa then showed her a photo of her and Riri, exiting the Timurov car this morning. She was in the loungewear. Riri had the door half-open, expression unreadable beneath her signature mask. It looked… intimate. It wasn’t, but perception didn’t need permission.

Yumeko’s fists clenched around the fabric in her hands. “It’s not true.”

“Doesn’t have to be.” Runa said simply, swinging her legs. “It’s more fun when it isn’t. Everyone’s placing bets. Half the council’s hedging.”

Yumeko’s stomach churned. It wasn’t just the embarrassment. It was the implication — that she was being paired off again with Riri. Like Arkadi’s dinner hadn’t been enough. Now even the school was playing matchmaker, rewriting her life into a spectacle. Again.

And somewhere out there, Kira had to be seeing this.

The thought made her throat burn.

She stepped away from Runa without another word. Her heels echoed louder than before, each click a scream in the silence she carried. She had to find Kira.

Before this story calcified into truth. Before this side bet took root in more than just the screens.

Before it was too late.

Yumeko wandered the halls of St. Dominic’s with no real direction, no plan except to find Kira. But no trace of her. It was like she vanished.

Maybe she had.

Maybe Yumeko was the reason.

She stood at the top of the stairs for a long time, debating. Should she go to Kira’s room? Just knock, just ask to talk? 

Two days ago, everything felt like possibility.

And now?

She stood there, paralyzed, pulse throbbing in her throat, with nothing but hesitation and longing.

She couldn’t do it. Not like this.

Because what if she knocked, and Kira didn’t answer?

Worse — what if she did, and it wasn’t with warmth, or tired laughter, or that quietly amused “You again?”

What if she opened the door and looked at her like a stranger?

She held back. Maybe Kira needed the space. Or maybe Yumeko just wasn’t ready to be shut out completely, not yet.

Yumeko stepped back.

Just one step. But it felt like a chasm.

So she turned around, heels clacking against the floors of St. Dominic’s, returning to her dorm like a soldier retreating from a war she didn’t even want to win anymore.

When she opened the door, Mary was there — sitting cross-legged on her bed, scrolling on her phone with that calm that always bordered on dangerous.

Yumeko placed her things down on the desk — the purse, the dress from last night — carefully, like laying down pieces of something broken. Then she crossed the room slowly, the soft rustle of Kira’s clothes against her skin grounding her even though everything else felt like air.

She stopped in front of Mary. “Hey.” she said softly.

Mary didn’t look up immediately. Just gave a quiet, “Mmh?”

Yumeko hesitated. “You know it’s not true, right?”

Mary looked up. Studied her. For a second, her face was unreadable — a thousand thoughts crossing like shadows. Then she sighed through her nose and gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I know.” She said simply, and patted the spot beside her.

Yumeko sat down, slow. Her knees almost gave out from exhaustion — physical, emotional, all of it.

She leaned forward, elbows on her thighs, hands clasped. “I can’t find her.” She said.

Mary didn’t need to ask who.

“Checked everywhere. Gardens. Council office. Gambling hall. Even thought about her room but… no. I couldn’t.” She laughed bitterly. “I’m not even sure if she’d open the door.”

Mary tilted her head, watching her closely. “You’ll figure it out.”

Yumeko swallowed. “I don’t know how.”

That was the truth of it — sharp and clean.

Mary was quiet. Then, with a shrug, she spoke. “You’re both stubborn. You’re both smart. And you both obviously can’t stay away. That’s enough to start from.”

Yumeko’s throat tightened. Her fingers curled into fists on her lap.

“When I went there last night, I had a whole different expectation of what would happen.” She said, voice barely above a whisper. “And now… I don’t know how it all led to this.”

“You didn’t cheat.” Mary said. “You didn’t lie.”

“I still hurt her.”

“Then fix it. When you can.” Mary’s voice was gentle now. “That’s all any of us can do, Yumeko.”

Yumeko let out a shaky breath and leaned her head back, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know if she’ll let me.”

Mary didn’t answer that. She didn’t need to.

Because just two days ago, she and Kira were laughing in front of a mirror, sharing makeup, trading teasing comments about their dresses. Kira had zipped her up with careful fingers and soft eyes. Yumeko had brushed her fingers up Kira’s slit, higher than she thought Kira would let her. They were close enough to brush shoulders, to grin like nothing in the world could ruin it.

And now?

Now she was sitting in loungewear that used to be Kira’s, staring at the floor with a heart too full of guilt and a mouth too empty for apologies.

So much could fall apart in two days.

So much already had.

The knock came softly, almost like an afterthought, but the door opened before either of them could get up. It was Riri — perfectly composed, posture flawless, even though her eyes looked just a little glassy.

Mary looked up, surprised for only a second, and then softened. “Hey…” She said gently.

Riri gave a small nod. Her eyes flicked briefly to Yumeko, then dropped, like she wasn’t sure if she was even welcome here. Mary simply patted the space beside her, and Riri took it, sinking down beside her with a kind of tired grace that said everything before her mouth even opened.

“I just…” Riri’s voice came quiet at first. “I know the rumors are bad.”

Mary blinked slowly, saying nothing.

“I don’t want you to believe them.” Riri’s hand reached out — hesitant, almost shaking — but Mary met it halfway, fingers lacing through hers. “I don’t want you to ever think that I look at someone else, that I’d ever want someone who isn’t you. It’s not Yumeko. It will never be Yumeko. It’s you, Mary. Only you.”

Yumeko looked away, awkward in her own dorm, sitting on Mary’s bed, stuck in this raw display that felt like it should be private. And yet… she didn’t move. Part of her couldn’t. She owed it to both of them, to witness this. To see the way Riri finally shattered the quiet she’d been keeping all night.

Riri looked at Mary again. “You’re it for me. I know I’m not good at saying these things. I don’t even know if I’m doing it right. But I need you to know, I choose you. And I will keep on choosing you. Even if it means fighting my father. I know I don’t… I can’t really, right now. But I will, Mary.”

Mary blinked. Once. Twice. And finally let herself lean into Riri, pressing her head to the girl’s shoulder. “You better.”

“I haven’t spoken to her.” Riri said suddenly, turning to Yumeko. “She’s been ignoring me since last night. I only found out she left because I asked around.”

Yumeko let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Great. That makes two of us.”

Silence fell again. But this one wasn’t tense. It was just… heavy. Shared.

All three of them sat there, on one bed, not touching, not speaking.

Wallowing.

Because the truth was — they were tired. Of the weight. Of the silence. Of the masks.

And in the quiet, they wished, if only for a moment, that none of it had ever happened.

That they were just three girls, in a dorm room, in a school that didn’t demand blood for power.

That maybe love didn’t have to feel like war.

But next morning came anyway. And with it, the world resumed like it hadn’t cracked open the night before. Like heartbreak wasn’t still blooming quietly in the corners of their ribs. At St. Dominic’s, power didn’t wait for healing — it demanded presence. Composure. 

So Yumeko dressed, steeled herself, and slipped back into the council chambers like nothing was broken. The performance had to go on, even if the ache hadn’t left her chest.

The round table in the student council chamber buzzed with energy. Snacks passed hands, chairs scraped on marble, and laughter flowed far too easily for a group supposedly meeting about disciplinary actions. But no one cared about infractions today. Not when the newest gossip bloomed louder than any scandal.

Runa leaned back, crunching on a caramel. “You’re both killing me. I’ve got cash riding on you not going public — don’t make me poor.”

Dori, eyes glinting with glee, added. “I’ve got the opposite. Honestly, if you two want to drop a surprise kiss in the courtyard later, I’ll take you out for dinner.”

Laughter bubbled up.

Suki, ever the instigator, propped her chin on her palm. “Let’s be real. The hallway entrance in loungewear and heels? That’s a dead giveaway. Just lean into it already.”

Even Chad chuckled. “You two got the whole school in heat.”

Mary stiffened immediately. “Can we not?”

But the teasing didn’t stop. Dori was already tossing the comment back like a volleyball.

“We’re just saying what everyone’s thinking. Riri’s glowing, and Yumeko… well, she’s Yumeko.”

A few giggles scattered. Riri, mask perfectly in place, remained quiet — but Yumeko saw it, the tiniest twitch in her jaw, the stiffening of her fingers where they clutched the edge of the table. She was tensing, but not responding. Not defending. Not correcting.

Mary, again, stepped in. “You’re making it uncomfortable for them. It’s not funny anymore.”

Runa shrugged. “Sorry, Mary. Just jokes.”

But the atmosphere thickened.

Yumeko, determined not to crumble, leaned back in her chair and painted on her best flirtatious smile. “Honestly, I should’ve worn something more scandalous. Just to keep everyone entertained.”

Laughter erupted again. Someone whistled.

She played her part. Beautiful, poised, untouchable.

But God — it hurt.

Kira sat directly across from her, eyes fixed somewhere just beyond the room. No glances. No tension. No hint of a clenched jaw. Just stillness. Absolute silence.

Like none of this mattered.

Like Yumeko didn’t matter.

And it destroyed her.

Now Kira sat like a stranger. A statue with Yumeko's heartbreak carved into its silhouette.

Yumeko wanted to scream. She would’ve taken rage, jealousy, even a petty jab. 

God, she would’ve taken an arrow to the heart.

Anything. Anything but this unbothered nothingness.

Because anger meant care. Fury meant connection. Indifference? It was the cruelest cut.

She let the council’s banter wash over her. A few more barbs, a few more smirks. Yumeko joined in again — always perfectly timed. One more playful line, a tilt of her head, a sparkle in her eyes. She didn’t even know what she said anymore.

All she could think was:

Say something, Kira. Anything. Please.

But Kira didn't look up.

Didn't speak.

Didn't twitch.

And across the table, Riri sat poised, her body taut, her silence louder than any shout. She hadn’t corrected anyone. Hadn’t denied anything. But Yumeko saw the way she sat straighter, held her breath — like waiting for a blow that never came. Or maybe, bracing for the fallout that already had.

When Mary’s hand found hers under the table, Yumeko squeezed once — hard. It grounded her. Reminded her she wasn’t hallucinating this nightmare.

But the ache inside her didn’t lessen.

It roared.

Kira’s voice cut through the laughter like ice cracking across glass.

“Alright.” She said, calm and clipped. “That’s enough.”

Not sharp. Not annoyed. Just… impassive. Like she was ending a topic that had overstayed its welcome on the agenda.

The room stilled. A few awkward coughs, someone sipped their coffee. The teasing sputtered out without protest — no one ever argued when Kira shut things down. Not because she yelled, but because she never needed to.

But Yumeko knew her.

She knew the way Kira’s tone sharpened when she was jealous, how her lashes fluttered once too long when she was holding back words. She knew what anger looked like on Kira Timurov — it was icy, yes, but never indifferent. Never like this.

And right now, there was nothing in her voice.

Nothing in the way she continued to sift through papers, lean back into her chair, perfectly collected. Her expression unreadable, movements efficient.

As if nothing hurt her.

As if nothing had happened at all.

The meeting trudged forward, voices droning in and out. Scheduling this. Disciplinary notices that. Budget approvals. Field trip proposals. The usual noise of student politics. But Yumeko heard none of it.

Because all she could focus on was Kira.

How she turned her pen in elegant loops between her fingers.

How she spoke when needed, crisp and neutral.

How her eyes never — not fucking once — looked at Yumeko's.

How she still looked like the most beautiful thing in the room.

Still devastating in her control.

Still graceful in her coldness.

And Yumeko hated it. She hated how she could be watching someone break her in half and still find her beautiful. She hated how Kira could sit there, still and untouched, while she herself was unraveling behind carefully built smiles.

How could she not care?

How could she act like this meant nothing?

They had shared something. Maybe undefined, maybe too fragile to name — but it was real. Yumeko was certain of that. So how could Kira sit there now, lips soft with gloss, spine straight with dignity, eyes fixed on paperwork — like shit didn’t hit the fan?

Every passing second widened the void.

And Yumeko sat there, still playing her part, still smiling at a joke here and nodding at a point there. But her eyes never strayed far from Kira.

She watched every blink. Every shift.

Looking for something.

Anything.

But Kira never once looked back.

And it hurt more than any insult ever could.

The chairs screeched as the council began to scatter, easy laughter and unfinished jokes trailing behind them like perfume in their wake. Runa and Chad were still arguing about side bet odds, Suki had his arm casually slung over Rex’s shoulder as they exited, and Dori gave Mary a quick side hug on her way out, whispering something that made her roll her eyes but smile. And yet… none of it felt like it touched the center of the room.

Because the three still seated there — Yumeko, Riri, and Kira — felt carved from something colder.

Riri shifted slightly, fingers brushing over the hem of her blazer, waiting. 

Yumeko placed a hand on her arm. “Could you give us a moment?”

Riri didn’t speak. She just stood and left. No questions asked.

Kira didn’t move.

She didn’t even acknowledge Yumeko. Not a glance. Not a breath that changed.

“Kira.” Yumeko said, careful not to let her voice shake.

A hum. Barely audible. Distant. Acknowledgement in the loosest possible form.

“I was hoping we could talk.”

Kira’s gaze didn’t lift from the papers she wasn’t really reading. “About what?”

Yumeko inhaled. “What you saw. The other night.”

“I see a lot of things.” Kira replied evenly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Kira—”

“If this isn’t about council business, I don’t see the point.”

Yumeko’s jaw tightened. “It’s not council business, but it is important.”

Kira shrugged once, and for a second Yumeko wondered how someone could make apathy feel so cruel. “Then perhaps you should bring it up with someone who has the capacity for small talk.”

Yumeko stood from her seat. “You think this is small talk? You think I’m doing this for fun?”

“You tell me.” Kira’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t dip. It stayed flat. A perfect, polished blade dulled only by disinterest. “From what I hear, you’ve had a rather eventful weekend.”

Yumeko didn’t take the bait. “You saw us, Kira. I know what it looked like but I’m telling you—”

“I know what it looked like.” Kira cut in. “And I also know that if it doesn’t concern school policy, it’s irrelevant to this room. I suggest we stick to what’s relevant.”

“Kira, stop pretending like it didn’t affect you.” Yumeko said, louder now. Desperate, but not yet breaking. “Just say something — anything. Be mad at me if you want. Just feel something.”

But Kira’s walls were made of steel and protocol.

“If you’re finished, I have class.” She said, already standing and gathering her things.

She walked past Yumeko without a glance, her heels clicking like punctuation marks that ended a sentence Yumeko never got to finish.

And all Yumeko could do was watch her go.

Until she couldn’t. Until standing still felt worse than rejection. Until silence felt like slow death.

She moved toward the door — ready to chase, to call out, to beg if she had to. But Riri was already there, waiting outside like she knew Yumeko would come out, like she knew she’d try. Her hand caught Yumeko’s wrist, gentle but firm. And when Yumeko turned to her, Riri didn’t speak. She just gave her a look. Quiet. Knowing. Soft, but filled with weight.

Not now.

That’s what the look said.

And maybe it hurt more because it was right.

Yumeko turned her head and looked back toward the hallway where Kira had disappeared. She hadn’t even turned back. No glance. No pause. Nothing.

Three days. Three days of watching her walk away.

Day one, she had wondered when will I stop hoping she’ll come back?

Day two, she had thought how do I undo what I didn’t mean to break?

And now — today — all she could think was:

How hard do I have to chase someone who doesn’t want to be found?

Because that’s what it felt like. A chase. Not the kind that was thrilling or romantic, not anymore. This one left cuts on her palms from reaching too hard. Left bruises in her chest from hoping too much. 

Every time Kira turned away, it felt like the finish line moved farther out of reach. Like she was running toward a door that was always closing — always just a little faster than her feet could carry her.

And maybe that was the point. Maybe Kira didn’t want to be caught.

But Yumeko couldn’t stop.

It was the exact opposite of what she needed to learn.

She should be practicing how to let go.

She should be building armor, walls, distance.

She should be walking away from someone who wouldn't even give her a real conversation.

Instead, all she could think about was how much harder she had to try.

How many more times she had to show up, even if she was met with a closed door and a cold stare.

How many more days she could survive loving someone who refused to let her in.

Because no matter how cold Kira got, how composed, how indifferent.

Yumeko still saw her.

She still saw the hurt. The ache behind the mask.

And God, she still wants to kiss them away.

Yumeko had never been good at letting go. Especially not when it came to Kira Timurov.

Because letting go meant losing the only person who had ever made her feel like home.

It meant surrendering the one thing in this ruthless, blood-soaked world that ever felt real. It meant giving up on something that — despite everything — still mattered more than power, more than pride, more than any goddamn council seat.

And so she just stood there.

Frozen. In the hallway that reeked of prestige and control.

Her heels felt like anchors. Her heartbeat, like a clock ticking too loud.

And somewhere down that hall, Kira kept walking.

Back straight. Head high. Indifference in every step.

Further and further.

And all Yumeko could do was watch her go.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Chapter Text

It began the day after that council meeting.

Yumeko didn’t give herself time to think — not really. Because if she let herself linger on Kira’s indifference, she might start believing it. And she couldn’t afford that. Not when she knew it wasn’t true.

So she waited by the elevator on Kira's floor.

And when Kira stepped out, cold and regal and quiet as ever, Yumeko simply fell into step beside her. No fanfare. No apology. Just her presence. Steady. Warm. Unwelcome — for now.

Kira didn’t say a word. She didn’t even glance her way.

Yumeko, on the other hand, didn’t shut up.

Not about anything important — no, not yet. She knew better than to come out swinging with the thing that broke them. So she talked about the newest scandal in the second-year dorms. A professor’s horrible taste in shoes. Rex and Suki’s latest argument that may or may not have ended with someone crying — plot twist: it was neither Rex nor Suki.

And still, Kira said nothing.

She didn’t ask Yumeko to leave, though. Didn’t stop her from walking her to class. She just walked — a single line of silence separating them like a moat. And when they arrived, Kira stepped inside without looking back.

Yumeko was ten minutes late to her own class.

She didn’t care.

The next day, she did it again.

And again.

And again.

For a week straight, she was there in the morning, trailing behind or beside her like some chatterbox shadow. At first, Kira picked up her pace. The house pets flanked her more closely, tried to box Yumeko out. But Yumeko had always been good at slipping into spaces no one invited her into.

Eventually, Kira stopped hurrying away.

Eventually, Kira’s house pets pulled back, sensing she was no longer a threat to Kira’s mood. Just… there.

Eventually, Kira let her walk beside her. Still quiet. Still closed. But she didn’t flinch when Yumeko matched her step. Didn’t pull away when Yumeko’s fingers brushed against hers while they walked, or when she casually adjusted the strap of her bag.

And then, one morning, Yumeko took the bag altogether.

Kira blinked.

Just once. No protest. No command. She simply watched as Yumeko slung the weight over her own shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. The aides stood nearby, uncertain, rendered obsolete.

Yumeko smiled like nothing was unusual. “Don’t worry.” She said breezily. “I like carrying your baggage.”

Kira didn’t laugh.

But she didn’t stop her either.

So Yumeko talked — about nothing, about everything — and Kira listened, or didn’t. Yumeko never knew. But that didn’t matter.

Because she showed up. Every single day.

And even when Kira refused to meet her halfway, Yumeko walked the whole goddamn path. Willingly.

Because sometimes, chasing someone wasn’t about the finish line.

It was about reminding them that they’re worth chasing in the first place.

It was a Wednesday when Kira finally spoke.

The halls of the west wing were quiet that morning — a rare lull between bells, with the crisp hush of spring air slipping in from the arched windows. Kira was walking slightly ahead, her pace as precise as ever, and Yumeko caught up in three easy strides.

She was halfway through a story about how she almost fought a third-year over the last almond croissant when Kira came to an abrupt stop.

Yumeko nearly ran into her.

Kira turned. Her eyes were sharp, expression unreadable, but her voice — her voice was the softest it had been in days.

"What are you doing?"

Just that. No venom. No ice.

Yumeko blinked once. Twice. Then smiled. Slow. Playful. Coy.

“What does it look like?” She tilted her head. “Escorting my favorite Kaichou to class. Carrying her things. Providing riveting entertainment along the way. I’m doing public service.”

Kira stared at her, unimpressed. “You’re late to your own classes.”

Yumeko shrugged. “Academic sacrifice.”

Kira’s jaw tightened, just a fraction. “Yumeko.”

The way she said her name — low, careful — made something tug in Yumeko’s chest. She forced the lightness back into her voice, like armor.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” She teased. “I do a lot of things. Most of them excellent.”

Kira exhaled — not a sigh, not quite. Just a careful breath that sounded a little too measured to be natural.

“I’m not in the mood to play games.”

“And yet…” Yumeko said, stepping closer. “You haven’t told me to leave.”

Kira looked at her then. Really looked. Her expression didn’t crack — not yet — but her fingers flexed slightly where they hung at her sides, like something was starting to tremble underneath all that steel.

“I thought I made myself clear.”

“You did.” Yumeko said softly now, the teasing dropping from her voice like a silk ribbon. “Crystal. You’re not talking about anything outside of council business. Got it.”

Kira’s eyes didn’t leave hers.

“So?”

“So…” Yumeko echoed, smiling sadly. “I figured if you won’t talk to me, I might as well keep talking to you until you do.”

Silence.

Heavy. Taut.

Kira broke it with a question — the quiet kind, the kind that held a knife in its ribs.

“And what do you expect to happen, Yumeko? That if you keep walking beside me, I’ll forget what I saw?”

Yumeko didn’t flinch.

“No.” She said. “I expect nothing from you.”

That made something flicker in Kira’s expression — barely there, a crack in the surface.

“I’m just here.” Yumeko added. “Because I want to be. Because I’m hoping that someday… you’ll let me explain. But until then, I’ll keep walking beside you. Even if all I get is silence.”

Kira looked away first.

She didn’t say another word.

But when she started walking again, she didn’t take her bag back.

Yumeko adjusted it on her shoulder and followed.

One step behind.

Still chasing.

Chasing was easy when there was a rhythm. When Kira walked the same path at the same hour. When Yumeko could follow without disrupting the fragile peace that hung between them. 

But peace is a fragile, breakable thing — and habits, even the ones rooted in longing, could falter for just a second. 

And sometimes, a second was all it took to ruin everything.

Yumeko didn’t mean to forget.

Honestly. She didn’t.

She was just talking — flirting, teasing, the usual empty sweetness — with Ryan in the hallway. It wasn’t anything. Just noise to fill the quiet, to distract herself from the ache. The laugh she gave him was hollow, a well-trained habit. Her mind had been elsewhere the whole time.

It always was lately.

And then she felt it.

Like a ripple in the air. Like the hallway itself had shifted.

She turned.

There, a few paces away, was Kira — perfect posture, house pets in tow, eyes unreadable. She had just turned the corner, like she always did at this hour, like Yumeko should have remembered.

And for the briefest second, she stopped walking.

Just a second.

But it was enough. Enough to let Yumeko know she’d been seen. That Kira saw her there with Ryan, laughing, smiling like she hadn’t been spending the last few days trailing behind her like a ghost.

And then — Kira turned.

No words. No acknowledgment. Just pivoted on her heel and walked away, her house pets following dutifully behind like nothing had happened.

Yumeko’s stomach dropped.

She didn’t even excuse herself from Ryan — she just ran.

He said something behind her. She didn’t catch it — it’s not like it was important.

Her shoes clicked too loudly against the marble as she chased the girl she had once never had to chase at all. She caught up, breathless, heart clawing at her chest, and reached for the nearest house pet holding Kira’s bag, trying to take it from him.

“I’ve got it.” She said quickly.

But the house pet recoiled, hands tightening around the strap, eyes flicking — terrified — to Kira.

That told her everything.

So she stepped in closer, past the invisible guards Kira never needed but always had. “Kira…” She said softly. “Tell him I can carry it.”

No response.

“Kira.” Yumeko tried again. “Please.”

Silence.

And then finally — finally — Kira spoke.

“Stop.”

Yumeko stilled. “I— I didn’t mean to. I just— Ryan came up and—”

“Don’t.”

The word cut through her like a blade.

“Kira—”

“Stop.”

This time it wasn’t even sharp. It was cold. Blunt. Final.

The hallway seemed to quiet itself. Even the students passing slowed, sensing something simmering just beneath the polished surface.

Yumeko stepped closer anyway.

“I didn’t forget on purpose.” She tried again. “I just got caught up—”

“Stop following me around.” Kira said, her voice low and controlled. “Stop inserting yourself where you don’t belong. Stop trying to fix something that—”

She paused. Just a flicker. Just long enough for Yumeko to hope she wouldn’t say it.

“—that was never yours to fix in the first place.”

And that… that shattered something.

Yumeko didn’t know what to say. For all her silver tongue, her playful charm, for all the sweet nothings and dangerous dares she threw out like knives — she had nothing now.

“I just thought…” She tried, but the words were already trembling. “I thought we were okay. I thought if I kept showing up—”

“You thought wrong.”

And it wasn’t even cruel. It was worse — it was indifferent.

Yumeko stared at her. At the girl who once smiled so softly against her lips, who laughed into her shoulder, who held her in the cold halls of the Timurov estate like she was the only warmth left in the world.

Now she looked like ice and felt just as cold as the snow outside the Timurov estate that winter.

So Yumeko nodded. Once. Twice. Swallowed down the sting scratching up her throat.

“Okay.” She said. Quiet. Hollow. “I’ll stop.”

She turned before her voice could crack. Before her hands could shake.

The hallway she had raced through only moments ago now felt like it stretched for miles.

She didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But something in her felt split down the middle. A clean break.

And as she walked away, head bowed just enough to hide the fracture in her mask.

What sucks even more is that she didn’t have to look to see that Kira didn’t look back.

Not even once.

Yumeko stopped chasing Kira after that.

And the next day, she didn’t wait by the hallway. Didn’t carry her bag. Didn’t try to speak. Didn’t try to catch her eyes across the council table or brush fingers by accident. Yumeko didn’t follow Kira to class. She didn’t even linger.

She stopped.

Not out of pride. Not because the ache had dulled. Not because she wanted to. 

She stopped because Kira asked her to. In her own cutting, elegant way, Kira had made it clear: she didn’t want to be followed. She didn’t want to be chased. She didn’t want Yumeko.

So Yumeko listened.

No more games. No flirtation. No playing coy in the halls or leaning against the door of Kira’s last class with a crooked smile and a teasing remark. She came to the council meetings on time, sat in her assigned chair, did her tasks with quiet precision. She raised motions, passed votes, and left. No drama. No extra stares. No hoping Kira would look her way. 

Just routine.

Just duty.

She told herself it was what Kira wanted. That respecting her space meant staying in her lane. That it wasn’t fair to keep forcing herself into someone’s orbit when that person clearly wanted to escape gravity.

But the worst part — the part that clawed at her every time she walked past Kira in the halls, every time their shoulders passed without touch — wasn’t that she’d been pushed away.

It was that Kira didn’t seem to notice.

Not when Yumeko stopped walking beside her. Not when she no longer carried her bag. Not when she vanished from the hallway where they used to meet. Kira didn’t look around. Didn’t double back. Didn’t ask anyone where Yumeko had gone.

If Kira had built walls, then Yumeko had finally stopped knocking.

She told herself it was strength.

But God, did it feel like surrender.

Still, Yumeko did what she was told. She can’t keep chasing someone who’s not willing to stop running away.

She wasn’t sure when silence started feeling heavier than the noise. 

It hung in her room like fog — thick, constant, suffocating. The ache didn’t scream anymore, it whispered, coiling around her ribs in the dead of night. There were no more words left to give, no more glances to offer, no more waiting by the corner for someone who would never stop to look. 

Yumeko had resigned herself to stillness, to the quiet rhythm of doing what was expected, even if it tore at her. And just when she thought the night would pass without disruption.

There was a knock on the door.

Yumeko didn’t expect company. Mary was out — off somewhere with Riri, probably — and it was late enough that no one should be bothering her unless it was urgent.

She opened it slowly.

Suki stood there.

No Rex. Just him tonight. Clean blazer, neat hair, the usual glint in his eyes — practiced charm wrapped in honey and poison.

“Yumeko.” He greeted smoothly. “Didn’t think you’d be in.”

She offered a half-smile. “It’s a school night.”

That plastic smile of his didn’t waver. “May I come in?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He stepped past her like he owned the floor, eyes already surveying the room like he was picking up emotional fingerprints off the walls. She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms crossed, trying not to betray how on edge she suddenly felt.

“You’re not with Rex tonight.” She said casually.

“And Mary’s not here.” He replied, poking around her desk. His fingers brushed lightly over the rim of the tea kettle. “Earl Grey. How quaint. Is it for one, or are you expecting her?”

Yumeko let a beat pass. Then smiled. “I’m not waiting for anyone.”

“Shame.” He poured himself a cup without asking. “I always think tea’s best when it’s shared. Brings out the truth in people.”

She arched a brow. “So that’s why you’re here? Digging for truth?”

“Call it curiosity.” Suki said, taking a sip and then grimacing slightly. “You’re not as generous with sugar as you are with secrets.”

“Maybe I ran out of sweetness.”

He chuckled. “Not from where I’m standing.”

Yumeko tilted her head, keeping her expression unreadable, flirty in a detached kind of way. She knew how to play this game. Banter and posture and careful omission.

But Suki didn’t come for fun.

He sat on Mary’s desk chair, legs crossed, eyes sharp now despite the lazy way he swirled the tea.

“So…” He began. “You and Kira are doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The one where you both pretend the other doesn’t exist.” He smiled thinly. “It’s entertaining, really. You’d think no one would notice, but, well… we do.”

Yumeko shrugged. “Maybe we’re just trying something new.”

Suki clicked his tongue. “See, I find that hard to believe. One night, you two are the talk of the gala — dancing like it was choreographed, whispering like the world didn’t exist. The next morning, poof. Vanished. Then a week of you trailing after her like a loyal little stray. Cute, by the way. Now? Nothing.”

Yumeko leaned back against the wall, cool smile intact. “People drift.”

“Mmh.” Suki hummed. “People don’t flirt with Ryan in the hallway if they’re just fine.”

Her jaw didn’t tighten. She didn’t blink. She just smirked.

“Ryan’s cute. You jealous?”

“You think I care?” Suki laughed. “I just like patterns. You break them, and I wonder why. And the whole Riri thing? That was a fun plot twist.”

“Was it?”

“Oh, very. People still think something happened.”

Yumeko sighed, exaggerated. “People think a lot of things.”

“Sure.” He said. “But you usually love people thinking about you. You feed off it. Yet lately, you’ve been… quiet.”

“I’m evolving.”

“Into what, exactly?”

Yumeko gave him a look, feigned innocence and coy deflection all in one. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would, actually.” He leaned forward, eyes a little too gleeful. “You know what’s more interesting than a girl who causes drama? A girl who stops. That’s when you know something real happened.”

“Maybe I got tired.”

He grinned. “You? Never.”

She sighed and took the tea from him, sipping it absently. “You’re reading too much into things, Suki. There’s no grand mystery. No scandal to uncover.”

“See, now you’re offending me.”

“Aw, don’t pout.”

“I’m serious.” He said, standing. “We’re all friends, Yumeko.

“Friends-adjacent.”

Suki ignored her and continued. “And I pride myself on being in the know. So when something this juicy goes radio silent, it’s personal.”

She walked him to the door, still smiling, still calm. “Then I guess you’ll have to be patient.”

Suki’s eyes flicked over her, as if he could find a crack in her expression. “I’ll find out. One way or another. You know that.”

“I know.” She said sweetly. “That’s what makes it fun.”

He grinned again, but there was a glint in his eye now — curiosity laced with warning. “Sleep tight, Yumeko.”

And then he was gone.

She locked the door, leaned her back against it, and let out a long, slow breath.

God. That was Suki.

And for all the fake smiles and sweet nothings he spun, Yumeko knew better. Everyone did. Suki didn’t just knock for tea. He came to pull threads, to unravel people. And no matter how light his tone, there was always something sharp behind his eyes — always hunting.

She was scared.

Because if anyone could put the pieces together, it was him. And it wasn’t just about what happened at Arkadi’s mansion, or the rumors, or even her and Kira. 

It was everything. All of it. All the tangled feelings and the choices she couldn’t take back.

But then, a quieter part of her whispered: He didn’t find anything last time.

He’d threatened her before, circled like a shark, waiting for blood in the water. And still, nothing. She came out whole.

So what could he possibly find now?

Yumeko pressed her palms to her face and tried to believe that was true. Tried to believe she wasn’t already bleeding.

There was a knock on the door. Again.

“Yumeko?” Came Mary’s muffled voice from the other side. “Open up. I left my key.”

She was still shaken from Suki’s visit, still unsettled by the invisible residue of his smile, the veiled threats tucked behind honeyed words. Her hands trembled a little as she unlocked the door, forcing herself to breathe through the coil of anxiety that hadn’t quite let go.

She pulled the door open.

Mary stood there, arms crossed, looking unimpressed. “Seriously?”

“Sorry.” Yumeko said, offering a sheepish smile. “Force of habit.”

Mary snorted. “You lock me out like I’m the threat?”

Before Yumeko could answer, her gaze shifted — and that’s when she saw her.

Riri. Standing just behind Mary, arms loose at her sides, mask on. Present. Silent.

“Oh.” Yumeko said, defaulting to playfulness, anything to hold the tension at bay. “Look at you. Walking your girl home like a perfect little knight. You two moving in or just making me feel single on purpose?”

It was light, airy, a little jab wrapped in honey. Classic Yumeko.

But Riri didn’t laugh.

She stepped forward slowly, eyes meeting Yumeko’s.

“How are you, Yumeko?” She asked. Soft. Sincere.

Yumeko’s breath stuttered.

She tried — God, she tried — to flash another quip, another coy grin, anything to maintain the illusion. But something about the way Riri asked. The way she looked at her like she actually wanted to know. Like the answer mattered.

It cracked her wide open.

Her breath caught. Her vision blurred. Her fingers curled into the fabric of the sweater she still hadn’t stopped wearing — Kira’s.

“I…” She started, then choked on it. “I don’t—”

And then she crumbled.

It hit all at once — like a dam breaking, like all the walls she’d built to keep herself upright had finally caved under the weight.

She sank to her knees, tears already streaking her cheeks, sobs punching out of her chest too fast to control. Her voice came in gasps, ugly and raw.

“I’m sorry.” Yumeko whispered, her voice cracking as the tears fell, unrestrained, unstoppable. “I’m sorry— I didn’t— I didn’t mean to— God, I’ve been trying so hard.”

Mary was kneeling beside her in an instant, arms wrapping around her without hesitation. “Hey, hey— shh— it’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything.”

But Yumeko shook her head. “I do. I have to. I have to say it somewhere or I’ll explode. I’ve been pretending for days, and it’s— fuck, it’s exhausting.”

She looked up at them, eyes red and shining.

“I miss her.” She said, voice breaking again. “I miss Kira so much it physically hurts. And I know— I know she doesn’t want to see me. I know she doesn’t care. But I do. I care. And it’s killing me.”

Mary’s hand found hers. Riri’s fingers hovered, then gently rested atop Yumeko’s knee, grounding.

“She won’t even look at me.” Yumeko continued. “She doesn’t say a word. She acts like I was nothing. Like everything between us meant absolutely nothing to her. And I get it— I do— I hugged Riri, I didn’t get to explain, she saw it, she made her judgment, and she walked away. But I’ve been trying to fix it. I’ve been trying every single day, and she never let me.”

“She’s hurt.” Riri said softly.

“I’m hurt too.” Yumeko snapped, then immediately winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just— I’m tired. I’m so tired. I wake up and pretend to be fine. I show up to meetings, smile, flirt, make jokes — like it doesn’t feel like I’m falling apart inside.”

Mary leaned closer, her voice firm but kind. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to make it your problem. Or hers.” She said, nodding toward Riri. “I didn’t want to be a burden. And part of me thought… maybe if I just kept trying, Kira would soften. That she’d let me in again. But now I don’t even know if I should hope anymore.”

Silence fell over them.

The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable — just heavy. Full. Shared.

Then, Riri spoke again, quiet but unwavering. “You’re not a burden.”

Yumeko laughed — short and sharp. “You’re sweet. But I’m a walking headline. I caused a rumor, I made Kira angry, I dragged both of you into this mess, and now the entire school thinks I’m some tragic seductress who threatens a girl and fucks her sister.”

Mary sighed. “You didn’t do any of that. The school did. Gossip did. And Kira’s silence isn’t your responsibility.”

“But it feels like it is.” Yumeko whispered. “Everything I’ve done lately has been for her. Every step. Every word. Just… trying to get her to finally look at me. And when she finally did…”

She trailed off.

“What happened?” Mary asked gently.

Yumeko swallowed hard.

“She told me to stop.” She said. “Told me to stop following her. And I listened. I stopped. Because I thought maybe… respecting her space would make her see I wasn’t trying to hurt her. But it’s like she didn’t even notice. She didn’t even notice I was gone.”

Riri’s hand tightened slightly.

Yumeko exhaled a trembling breath. “She didn’t even notice.”

Then, barely a whisper — more confession than statement:

“I walked away. It should’ve felt good, it’s supposed to be strength. But no, God, no. This feels like death.”

Mary and Riri didn’t say anything.

They didn’t have to.

They just held her.

And for the first time in weeks, Yumeko let herself be held. Let herself be seen. No more pretending. No more charming deflections or dazzling smiles.

Just truth.

Just heartbreak.

Just her.

And the room, dim and quiet, held the ache between them like something sacred.

Chapter Text

Yumeko didn’t talk about it — not to Mary, not to Riri, not even to herself if she could help it. The breakdown she had in their dorm room felt like a crack in a dam she immediately regretted letting go. So now, she sealed it shut, not to hide it, but only to let it heal on its own.

She didn’t look at Kira anymore. Not at meetings. Not in the halls. Not even when she wanted to. And God, of course, she still wanted to. But she played by Kira’s rules.

No contact. No glances. No chasing.

She was quiet now. Polished. Civil.

And it hurt like hell.

She attended every council meeting. Participated when asked. Carried no drama, started no tension. Just did what needed to be done. Let the ache bleed in silence.

Because Yumeko wasn’t trying to force herself to move on. She wasn’t doing that thing people did — faking healing until they believed it. No, she was letting the pain stay as long as it needed. Letting it eat through her in waves, duller now, but still there.

It wasn’t peace. Not yet. But it was quiet.

And in that quiet, another storm brewed.

Because as her heart slowly healed from the mess that was Kira Timurov, her mind returned to the reason she came to St. Dominic’s in the first place.

Justice.

Revenge.

Retribution for the parents she lost.

Michael’s father, Ray — the first. The easiest to find. All it took was patience, pressure, and one final push. And now he was gone. But Ray had never acted alone. He was one of many.

Arkadi.

Suki’s mother.

Runa’s father.

Dori’s twisted parents.

They were next. They all had blood on their hands.

Yumeko never blamed their children. Not even now. They hadn’t held the knives. They hadn’t orchestrated the explosion that took her parents from her. The sins weren’t theirs to pay for.