Iruka didn't follow the others.
That was the first decision he made that night—and the one that mattered most.
The school had emptied after the Guardians' departure, tension bleeding slowly out of the halls like heat from cooling stone. Teachers ushered students home. Doors closed. Lights dimmed.
But Iruka stayed.
He stood alone in the corridor where it had happened, hands in his pockets, staring at the place where the air had bent.
Not broken.
Bent.
He exhaled through his nose.
"…So that's what correction looks like."
The word bothered him.
Correction implied something had gone wrong long ago.
Iruka crouched, fingers brushing the floor tiles. They felt normal now—cold, solid, indifferent. But he remembered the weight. The way his chest had tightened when the Guardians arrived. The way Simuya's light had vanished like it had never belonged to her.
He clenched his hand.
That wasn't authority, he thought.
That was permission being revoked.
A sound echoed behind him.
Not footsteps.
A shift.
Iruka straightened immediately, shoulders squaring. "School's closed," he said. "If you're lost, you—"
The corridor wasn't there anymore.
The walls stretched, then thinned, like a reflection pulled too far. The floor beneath his feet softened into something like misted stone. The lights overhead dimmed until they resembled stars seen through fog.
Iruka froze.
"…Okay," he muttered. "That's new."
"You noticed faster than I expected."
The voice came from his left.
A man stood a few paces away, hands relaxed at his sides. He wore a dark coat, rain-damp at the edges, like he had stepped out of a memory instead of a storm. His posture was casual—but deliberate, like someone who never wasted motion.
Iruka's instincts screamed.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The man studied him, head tilted slightly. Not judging. Measuring.
"Hideo," he said. "And you're not supposed to be here."
Iruka bristled. "Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you."
A faint smile touched Hideo's mouth. Not amused. Not hostile.
"Good," he said. "That means you're paying attention."
Iruka glanced around. The corridor—if it still was one—seemed endless now, stretching into pale distance. No doors. No exits.
"Did you bring me here?" Iruka asked.
Hideo shook his head. "No. You stepped sideways on your own."
Iruka swallowed. "I didn't feel anything."
"Exactly."
That answer chilled him.
Hideo turned, walking a few steps down the stretched hallway. The space adjusted around him, accommodating his presence like it remembered him.
"You felt the Guardians," Hideo said. "But you didn't freeze. You didn't look away. And you didn't mistake them for saviors."
Iruka frowned. "Is that a test now?"
Hideo stopped.
"It's always been a test," he replied. "Most people just fail quietly."
Iruka's jaw tightened. "If this is about the sword—about Tobi—"
"It's not," Hideo interrupted. Then, after a pause, "Not only."
Iruka felt the weight of that settle.
"…Then why me?"
Hideo finally looked directly at him.
"Because you're standing between belief and obedience," he said. "And you noticed when light became pressure."
The words hit uncomfortably close.
Iruka remembered Simuya's expression. The way she'd looked entitled to judgment.
"I don't like bullies," he said flatly. "Divine or not."
Hideo's smile returned—this time real, but thin. "Good. The world needs fewer kneeling witnesses."
The corridor began to shift again, edges blurring.
Iruka felt a tug in his chest—not pain, not fear.
Direction.
"Wait," he said. "What is this place?"
Hideo turned away, already fading slightly, like ink dissolving in water.
"A place where people end up," he said, "when they're about to matter."
The world snapped.
Iruka stumbled forward—and caught himself against a locker.
The school corridor was back. Normal. Silent.
His heart pounded.
"…Damn it," he breathed.
Far away, he felt it—a faint echo, like steel brushing memory.
Not his.
But close.
Iruka straightened, eyes hardening.
"So that's how it is," he muttered. "You don't warn people."
He started walking.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Then I won't hesitate."
Somewhere between memory and ruin, Hideo paused.
And for the first time in a long while—
He looked satisfied.
Morning came wrong.
Not darker. Not quieter.
Just… incomplete.
Ren's desk was still empty.
Again.
Mizumi stared at it for a full ten seconds before standing up.
"That's it," she said. "I'm done pretending this is normal."
Mai Ayase looked up from her phone. She hadn't said a word all morning—but she hadn't relaxed either.
Her fingers were tense, grip too tight for someone just scrolling.
"You feel it too," Mai said.
Mizumi nodded. "Like someone took a step and forgot to land."
Across the room, Sumi sat still, hands folded on her desk.
She hadn't slept.
Not because of fear—but because every time she closed her eyes, she felt something pulling. Not at her body.
At her attention.
Tobi stood near the window, arms crossed, jaw tight.
The Dark Dragon Sword wasn't with him.
That scared him more than carrying it.
"He's not skipping," Tobi said quietly. "And he's not hiding."
Iruka leaned against the wall, eyes sharp. "Then he's
Somewhere he can't answer."
They all looked at him.
Iruka didn't flinch. "I had a… conversation last night."
Mizumi raised an eyebrow. "You say that like you talk to voids regularly."
"I didn't say it was friendly," Iruka replied. "But it was intentional."
Sumi finally spoke.
"…Is he in danger?"
The room went still.
Tobi opened his mouth—
—and closed it again.
"No," he said after a moment. "Not like you're thinking."
Mai frowned. "Then what kind?"
Tobi met her gaze.
"The kind where someone starts remembering things they were never meant to carry alone."
That landed.
Hard.
Iruka exhaled slowly. "So this isn't a search party."
Tobi shook his head.
"It's a reminder," he said. "Before the past finishes waking up."
Mizumi clenched her fists. "Then we move. Today."
No dramatic agreement.
No speeches.
Just quiet understanding.
Sumi stood, smoothing her uniform.
"I know how to listen," she said. "If he's still himself… he'll answer."
Mai picked up her bag, eyes distant. "And if something answers instead—"
"I'll know," she finished softly.
Iruka straightened.
"Then we don't split up," he said. "And we don't rush."
Tobi nodded.
Because rushing was how swords cut the wrong thing.
Outside, the wind shifted direction.
And far away—
Ren paused mid-step.
Not because he heard his name.
But because, for the first time since the past touched him—
He felt something coming toward him.
Not chasing.
Not pulling.
Walking.