The wind at night was light.
Not still—just suppressed.
Air between the main district buildings split and rejoined in silence. When it passed along the outer walls of the academic building, it slid close to the surface. Over the gymnasium roof, it lifted, then dropped again. By the time it curved around to the side of the old school building, it had already lost any clear direction, leaving only a trace of cold.
Most of the lights in the main district were off.
The tall street lamps remained on.
Light fell straight down from above, dividing the ground into rigid, cold-toned rectangles. Beyond those shapes, everything sank quickly into shadow. The edges of the field were indistinct. Tree shadows crouched low. Buildings in the distance were reduced to outlines.
The old school building stood behind the main structure.
A deliberately preserved strip of darkness lay between it and the lit zone of the main district.
Its exterior color had completely vanished into the night.
Only its silhouette remained.
Windows were aligned in rows—black voids, one after another. Not a single one emitted light.
Seven stood in the shadows.
No unnecessary movement.
The cameras were well concealed.
Embedded between the eaves and the decorative lines of the wall. Small. Matte-finished. Difficult to notice at a glance.
Seven did not look up directly.
His gaze skimmed along the wall as he moved.
When the wind brushed across the metal casing, there would be the faintest flicker of cold reflection.
Brief.
Enough.
He calculated the rotation range in his mind.
The cameras swept left and right at fixed angles. The rhythm was even. The time from one extreme to the other remained consistent.
There was a slight pause before each limit.
Less than two seconds.
Two seconds.
For him, enough.
Seven moved along the wall.
Stride minimized.
Not deliberately softened—
but weight lowered.
Knees absorbed the impact.
The soles of his shoes made no distinct echo.
First blind spot.
Entered.
A flicker of cold light passed at the edge of his vision.
The second was diagonal.
He did not wait for it to fully turn away.
At the instant the camera crossed its midpoint, he pressed closer to the wall.
His body slipped into the rotation's dead angle.
Fluid motion.
No pause.
No fabric cutting through air.
The air itself barely disturbed.
He reached the outer wall.
Flat.
No balcony.
No exposed pipes.
No protruding window frames.
Fine grains in the cement surface pressed into his palm.
Seven raised his hand.
Placed it against the wall.
Cold.
No search for grip.
Full contact.
Friction between skin and surface amplified.
The tip of his shoe braced against a narrow strip of shadow at the base.
Body aligned.
Chest nearly against the wall.
Breathing shallowed under pressure.
Left foot lifted.
Not a jump.
A lift.
Weight transferred to both hands and the right foot.
Right foot pushed.
Not explosive.
Upward.
His body slid along the wall.
Just as adhesion nearly failed, the left foot rose and pressed in.
Hands shifted upward.
Fingertips tightened.
Body stabilized.
Every movement required precision.
Even the slightest deviation—
and he would separate from the wall.
His breathing remained steady.
The second-floor window was nearly flush with the wall.
No outward structure.
Seven stopped half a meter below the frame.
No sway.
He turned his head slightly.
Felt the wind.
The curtains were thick.
From outside, no light could be seen—because the fabric sealed everything completely.
But there was a faint inward curl in the airflow.
The window was not fully locked.
Right foot pressed again.
The fingers of his left hand slid into a narrow inner seam of the frame.
Barely enough space for the pads.
Force concentrated at the fingertips.
Knuckles tightened.
Muscle lines subtly drew taut beneath the sleeve.
His body hung.
Right hand followed.
Stabilized.
He did not push the window immediately.
Paused.
One second.
Listened.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No chair legs scraping.
Silence.
The back of his hand nudged the window.
The track made almost no sound.
Maintained regularly.
The curtain clung to the inside.
Heavy fabric hanging straight down.
Seven lifted his leg and stepped in.
His body paused at the sill for half a second.
Confirmed the interior height.
Released.
Landed.
The floor was covered in thick carpet.
Impact absorbed.
Soft underfoot.
The next second—
light flooded in.
Bright white.
His pupils contracted briefly.
The interior of the old school building was completely different from its exterior.
The central area had been opened up.
No classroom partitions.
No dividing walls.
A corridor circled the perimeter.
Metal railings painted in dark tones.
Under the lights, the metal looked thin and cold.
Seven stepped to the railing.
Looked down.
The open space on the first floor occupied most of the structure.
Sofas formed a semicircle.
A table sat at the center.
Dark tablecloth.
Bottles arranged neatly.
Clear glass held pale gold liquid.
Dark bottles carried a deep red through their bodies.
Some were still sealed with wax.
Some already opened.
An ice bucket embedded with crushed ice.
The edges of the cubes had not fully melted.
Glasses scattered.
Thin-rimmed stemware.
Heavy-bottomed tumblers.
Slender glasses with bubbles still clinging to the base.
Condensation beaded along the sides.
Droplets slid slowly down the glass.
Food was arranged precisely.
Cold cuts with clean edges.
Fruit peeled and fanned into arcs.
Small portions of roasted meat on white porcelain plates, surfaces glistening with oil.
Nuts in shallow bowls.
A mixture of scents—
alcohol,
fruit sweetness,
residual heat of fat.
Smoke lingered in the air.
Under the lights, it spread slowly.
People sat on the sofas.
Except for the man at the center—
the rest were all female students.
They occupied different positions.
Some leaned back.
Shoulders relaxed.
Some leaned forward.
Elbows on knees.
Some held glasses.
Fingertips resting at the rim.
Uniform jackets loosened.
Shirt collars opened by one or two buttons.
Hair fell over their shoulders.
Light caught in the strands, scattering into fine reflections.
Their posture was not chaotic.
Just—
loose.
On the larger central sofa—
the man reclined.
One leg draped casually.
A girl on each side leaned close.
Their shoulders touched his arms.
A cigarette rested between his fingers.
The ember burned quietly.
Ash had not yet fallen.
The entire floor was silent.
Outside—dark.
Inside—bright.
Curtains sealed off all external sight.
The light turned inward only.
Seven stood on the second floor.
Not hiding.
The light outlined his figure.
A few seconds.
Someone looked up.
Eyes met his.
A glass halted midair.
Fingers tightened.
For a moment, even the smoke seemed to freeze.
No scream.
No one stood.
The man lifted his gaze as well.
Level.
Unhurried.
The girls beside him shifted slightly to either side.
Natural movement.
Clearing space at the center.
No one spoke.
Seven's fingers tapped lightly against the railing.
A crisp metallic sound rang out.
It spread through the open space.
All eyes focused.
Seven spoke.
"Sorry to interrupt, senior."
His tone was calm.
Like an ordinary greeting.
His palm pressed against the railing.
Skin tight against cold metal.
His body leaned forward.
Toes left the ground.
Center of gravity flipped.
The hem of his clothes lifted slightly in the air.
Light fell from above.
His shadow stretched for an instant.
His entire body passed over the railing—
and dropped.