-AURORA ACADEMY OF EXCELLENCE, SAPPORO, HOKKAIDO, JAPAN-
-1:42 PM, NOVEMBER 3, 2017 — LAST PERIOD-
The soft murmur of the classroom blended with the distant hum of winter wind outside. The afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows of Aurora Academy of Excellence, catching on dust motes and the crisp pages of open textbooks.
Ichika Komori sat quietly at her desk, her posture perfect as always. But her mind… wasn't fully on the lesson.
Not today.
Not after yesterday.
"Arakawa…"
His name echoed in her thoughts—soft, uncertain, lingering longer than it should.
Red eyes.
Quiet voice.
Cold expression that somehow didn't feel cold.
Ichika pressed her pen lightly against her notebook.
Why… did he come to Aurora Academy?
Why is he so familiar to her?
The bell rang—clear, bright, and final.
"Alright, class dismissed," the teacher called.
Students hurried out, chatting, gathering books, adjusting ties. Ichika stood, packing her bag neatly and stepping into the hallway.
She meant to head toward the front gate.
She really did.
But then—
She saw him.
Rikuu Arakawa.
Walking alone. Hands deep in his pockets. Gaze low.
He moved with that same quiet presence—like someone who didn't want to be noticed but inevitably was.
He turned down a different hallway.
One she'd almost never walked through.
Ichika blinked.
Then followed.
Not close enough to be obvious.
Just far enough to keep him in sight.
They passed classrooms, bulletin boards, and a row of snow-dusted windows… until Rikuu stopped at one door—
THEATRE ARTS CLUB.
Ichika froze.
Arakawa… attends a club?
He didn't hesitate.
He opened the door and slipped inside.
Ichika, heart fluttering for a reason she didn't want to name, stepped silently toward the doorway.
She peeked in.
The room was dim, lit only by stage lights shining against a small performance platform. A few students chatted near a set of props, but the moment Rikuu entered—
Someone called out.
"Arakawa! You're early today."
Rikuu shrugged. "Whatever. What scene are we running?"
A script was tossed his way. He caught it effortlessly, flipping it open with a glance that seemed far too practiced for someone who supposedly didn't care.
The stage lights brightened.
Rikuu stepped forward.
Ichika's breath caught.
His posture shifted—shoulders relaxing, eyes sharpening, expression changing completely.
He wasn't cold anymore.
He wasn't distant.
He became the character on the page.
"No one else will fight for you," Rikuu said, voice low and steady.
"Not in this world. Not even fate."
His delivery was flawless—calm, raw, and frighteningly real.
A classmate gasped in admiration.
Another whispered, "He's the best we have."
Ichika couldn't move.
She hadn't expected… this.
She hadn't expected someone so rough, so distant—
to shine like fire under stage lights.
When Rikuu took a breath, he looked older. Brighter.
Almost… free.
And then Ichika understood.
He wasn't just good at acting.
He loved it.
It was written in the way he held the script—
in the way he exhaled like he'd found a place he could finally breathe.
He didn't need to tell her.
She could see it.
Ichika pressed a hand lightly to her chest, feeling a warmth bloom there—quiet but unmistakably real.
He has a dream.
And it's beautiful.
She stepped back from the doorway before anyone could notice her, her scarf brushing softly against her coat.
Outside, snow drifted against the windows—silent and cold.
But inside Ichika's chest, something warm flickered.
A quiet blaze beneath the ice.
Something she didn't yet understand…
but couldn't ignore.