Author's Note:This chapter has two versions of the same apology. One is bullshit. One is real. Watch which one Kaito writes first.
POV: Kaito Endo
Word Count: ~1,900
Kaito stared at the blank piece of paper on his desk like it was a personal insult.
Sunday evening. Twenty-four hours since Ayumi's manifestation. Less than twelve hours until he had to be at school with a written apology that was supposed to be "real" and "meant."
He'd written seventeen drafts.
All of them were garbage.
Draft one had been the kind of corporate non-apology he could've submitted to Principal Ishida—technically hitting all the required points while meaning absolutely nothing. I apologize for my actions and any distress they may have caused. I recognize that my behavior was inappropriate and will strive to make better choices in the future.
Bland. Safe. Completely hollow.
He'd crumpled it after three sentences.
Drafts two through seven had tried different angles—humor, deflection, minimization, over-the-top dramatics that turned the whole thing into performance. All the defense mechanisms he'd spent nine years perfecting, deployed with surgical precision to avoid actually being vulnerable.
Those had gone in the trash too.
Drafts eight through twelve had been attempts at genuine honesty that had somehow come out worse—either too much information about his own damage, or not enough acknowledgment of what he'd actually done to her, or phrased in ways that made it sound like he was asking for sympathy instead of offering a real apology.
He'd burned those. Literally. Held them over his desk lamp until the paper caught and he had to drop them in his metal trash can before the smoke alarm went off.
Drafts thirteen through seventeen had been—
Actually, he didn't want to think about those. They'd veered into territory that was too honest, too raw, and he'd torn them up before he could finish writing.
Now it was 9 PM, and Kaito was staring at draft eighteen with the growing certainty that he had no idea how to do this.
How did you apologize to someone you'd deliberately humiliated? How did you put into words that you understood exactly how violating it had felt, exactly how the laughter had made her want to disappear, exactly how the memory would probably replay in her head at random moments for months?
How did you admit that you'd known all of that when you planned the prank, had calculated it precisely, and had done it anyway because making someone else uncomfortable was easier than sitting with your own discomfort?
The mist tried to manifest around his fingers, responding to frustration he didn't want to examine.
Kaito shoved it down and picked up his pen again.
Dear Ayumi,
No. Too formal. Like he was writing to a business associate.
Ayumi,
Better. More direct.
I'm sorry for what I did on Thursday. The prank with the air pressure device was
He crossed that out. Started over.
What I did on Thursday was
Crossed out again.
This was impossible. Every sentence he wrote sounded either too casual or too stiff, either minimizing what he'd done or drowning in unnecessary details, either—
A knock on his bedroom door made him jump.
"Kaito?" Aunt Yuki's voice, muffled through the wood. "Can I come in?"
He shoved the crumpled drafts deeper into his trash can and flipped the current attempt face-down. "Yeah."
The door opened and his aunt stepped in, still wearing her work clothes even though it was Sunday. She must have gone into the office for overtime again. Her eyes went immediately to his desk, taking in the scattered pens, the face-down paper, the general air of frustrated defeat.
"Homework?" she asked.
"Something like that."
Aunt Yuki moved closer, and Kaito resisted the urge to cover the paper more thoroughly. She wouldn't read it without permission—she'd been careful about boundaries since he'd come to live with her six years ago—but her presence made him feel exposed anyway.
"I got a call from Principal Ishida on Friday," she said after a moment. "About the suspension. And the apology you're supposed to write."
"Yeah. I'm working on it."
"Seventeen attempts says you're doing more than just working on it." She gestured at the trash can. "That's a lot of false starts for a simple apology letter."
Kaito's jaw tightened. "It's not simple."
"No," Aunt Yuki agreed quietly. "I don't imagine it is."
She sat down on the edge of his bed, and Kaito recognized the posture. This was going to be A Conversation, whether he wanted it or not.
"You know," she said, "your mother used to do the same thing. When she had to write something that mattered—grant applications, research papers, anything that required her to be genuinely honest about what she was thinking—she'd go through dozens of drafts. I'd find crumpled papers all over her study."
Kaito's hands clenched. "I don't want to talk about her."
"I know you don't. You never do." Aunt Yuki's voice was gentle but firm. "But Kaito, you're so much like her. Brilliant, curious, capable of incredible things. And absolutely terrified of being vulnerable with anyone."
"I'm not terrified—"
"You've written seventeen drafts of an apology letter because you can't figure out how to be honest without feeling exposed. That's fear, Kaito. And I understand it. But running from vulnerability just makes you lonely."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Kaito stared at his desk, at the face-down paper, at the evidence of his inability to just write a simple apology like a normal person.
"What if I don't know how?" he asked quietly. "What if I've spent so long deflecting and joking and building walls that I don't remember how to just... say what I mean?"
"Then you practice," Aunt Yuki said. "You write it badly at first, and then you try again, and eventually you get better at it. Like anything else." She stood, moving toward the door. "But Kaito? The girl you're apologizing to—she deserves to hear the truth. Not the version of you that's funny and clever and keeps everyone at arm's length. The actual truth about why you did what you did and what you're going to do differently."
She paused at the door.
"Your mother used to say that the hardest part of being smart was learning when to stop being clever. Sometimes the simplest answer is the honest one."
Then she was gone, and Kaito was alone with draft eighteen and the ghost of advice from a woman he'd spent nine years trying not to think about.
The simplest answer is the honest one.
He picked up his pen.
Started over.
Monday morning, 7:45 AM.
Kaito stood outside Ayumi's homeroom with an envelope in his hand and the uncomfortable certainty that he was about to make everything worse.
The letter inside was two pages. Handwritten, because typing it had felt too impersonal. No corrections, because he'd forced himself to write it straight through without second-guessing every word.
It was probably terrible.
It was definitely honest.
And Ayumi was going to read it and either accept it or tell him to fuck off, and either way he'd have to live with the consequences of actually being vulnerable for once in his life.
The door to her homeroom opened and students started filing out—first period was about to start, everyone heading to their respective classes. Kaito caught sight of Ayumi near the back of the group, talking quietly with Mina Yoshida about something.
She looked tired. Like she hadn't slept well. Like maybe she'd spent Sunday processing the fact that supernatural powers were real and her life would never be normal again.
Kaito knew that feeling.
Their eyes met across the hallway.
Ayumi's expression shifted—surprise, then wariness, then something that might have been resignation. She said something to Mina and broke away from the group, walking toward Kaito with her bag clutched tight against her side.
"You actually wrote it," she said when she was close enough that other students wouldn't overhear.
"Said I would." Kaito held out the envelope. "Real one. Like you asked."
Ayumi took it, turning it over in her hands like she was checking for traps. "You could have just written whatever Principal Ishida wanted and called it done. Submitted something generic and moved on."
"Could have," Kaito agreed. "Didn't."
"Why not?"
The question was genuine, not accusatory. Like she actually wanted to understand what had changed between Thursday's prank and Monday's apology.
Kaito thought about Aunt Yuki's words. About his mother and vulnerability. About seventeen crumpled drafts and the growing realization that deflection was easier than honesty but left him completely alone.
"Because you were right," he said quietly. "What I did was terrible. And if you're going to be on our team—if we're going to trust each other in actual life-or-death situations—then you deserve better than corporate bullshit and non-apologies."
Ayumi studied his face for a long moment, looking for the lie, the performance, the angle.
She wouldn't find one. For once, Kaito wasn't performing.
"I'll read it," she said finally, slipping the envelope into her bag. "But I'm not promising anything. Not about accepting the apology, not about joining your team. I need to think."
"Fair."
"And Kaito?" Ayumi's voice was quiet but firm. "If this is another joke—if you wrote something cruel or mocking or designed to humiliate me again—I will make you regret it in ways that don't involve reporting you to the principal."
"It's not a joke," Kaito said. "I promise."
The first bell rang. Students started moving faster toward their classes.
Ayumi turned to leave, then paused.
"Saturday," she said without looking back. "Your substance. When my mom appeared in the kitchen. It manifested without you consciously calling it. Why?"
Kaito blinked, surprised she'd noticed. "Defensive response. Happens sometimes when I perceive a threat."
"My mom isn't threatening."
"No," Kaito agreed. "But the situation was. Unknown person entering a space where someone was vulnerable. My subconscious responded before my conscious mind processed that there was no actual danger."
Ayumi was quiet for a moment. "Your power really does come from your need for control, doesn't it? Barriers between yourself and anything that might hurt you."
"Yeah."
"Must be exhausting. Always being on guard."
"It is," Kaito admitted. "But it's better than the alternative."
"Which is?"
"Letting people in and discovering they leave anyway."
The words escaped before he could stop them—too honest, too raw, exactly the kind of vulnerability he spent most of his life avoiding.
Ayumi turned to look at him properly, and something in her expression shifted. Not quite sympathy, but understanding. Recognition of a familiar fear.
"Read the letter," Kaito said before she could respond. "Everything else is in there."
Then he walked away toward his own classroom, leaving Ayumi standing in the hallway with an envelope that contained two pages of the most honest thing he'd written in nine years.
The mist coiled anxiously around his fingers the entire way to class.
He shoved it down and tried not to think about what Ayumi's face would look like when she read what he'd actually written.
Tried not to imagine her crumpling it up and throwing it away.
Tried not to care that for the first time in years, he'd actually told the truth and now had to wait to see if it mattered.
The letter sat in Ayumi's bag through first period, second period, lunch.
She could feel it there like a weight, like something alive waiting to be acknowledged.
Finally, during study hall in the library, she pulled it out.
The envelope was plain white, her name written on the front in handwriting that was surprisingly neat for someone whose personality was deliberately chaotic.
Ayumi opened it carefully, unfolding two pages of lined paper covered in that same neat script.
And started to read.
Ayumi,
I don't know how to write this without it sounding like excuses, so I'm just going to tell you the truth and hope that's enough.
What I did on Thursday was cruel, calculated, and designed specifically to humiliate you in the worst way I could manage without causing physical harm. I spent three days building that device. I calculated the exact PSI needed to create maximum impact without injury. I chose the timing, the angle, the target area—all of it was deliberate.
You asked me why I did it. The real answer is that I saw you looking perfect and controlled and I wanted to break that for a few minutes. Not because you did anything to me. Not because I actually dislike you. But because watching someone else lose control meant I didn't have to sit with my own lack of control.
That's a terrible reason. It doesn't excuse what I did. It just explains it.
The truth is that I create chaos because chaos is something I can engineer. I can plan pranks, calculate outcomes, control the variables. What I can't control is the fact that my mother died nine years ago and my father died six years ago and I have no idea how to process that except by making sure I'm the one creating the disruption instead of being disrupted.
You didn't deserve to be part of that. You were just there, and I made you a target because targeting someone else meant not targeting myself.
I'm sorry. Actually sorry, not just saying words because I got caught. I'm sorry for violating your space. I'm sorry for making you feel humiliated and exposed. I'm sorry for the laughter and the way that memory probably replays in your head at random moments.
I can't take it back. I can't undo the harm. All I can do is tell you that I understand exactly what I did and why it was wrong, and promise that I won't do it again.
If you decide to join our team, I'll respect your boundaries. If you decide you can't trust me because of what I did, I'll understand that too.
Either way, you deserved a real apology. This is me trying to give you one.
—Kaito
Ayumi read it twice.
Then a third time, looking for the performance, the angle, the place where his words shifted from genuine to manipulative.
She didn't find it.
The letter was raw and honest and uncomfortable in ways that made her believe it was real.
He'd admitted to deliberate cruelty. Hadn't minimized or deflected. Hadn't asked for forgiveness or made it about his pain instead of hers.
Just... told the truth.
Ayumi folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into the envelope.
Her hands were steady. No golden glow. No transformation threatening at the edges of her control.
But she could feel the essence there, coiled beneath the surface. Waiting for the next emotional spike. The next moment when her carefully maintained composure cracked.
She thought about Takeshi's words. Thirty-seven days until the trials begin.
Thought about being alone when they started.
Thought about being on a team with people who understood what it meant to carry weight that exhausted you, to build walls that isolated you, to adapt until you forgot who you actually were.
Ayumi pulled out her phone and opened her messages.
Found Takeshi's contact.
Hesitated.
Then typed: Where's the training tonight?
The response came almost immediately: Old gymnasium rooftop. 7 PM. Does this mean you're joining?
Ayumi stared at the message for a long moment.
Then typed: It means I'm coming to one training session. We'll see after that.
That's all I'm asking. See you at 7.
Ayumi pocketed her phone and picked up her chemistry textbook, trying to focus on balancing equations when her entire world had just fundamentally rebalanced.
The letter stayed in her bag.
The decision stayed uncertain.
But at 7 PM, she'd be on that rooftop.
And maybe—just maybe—she'd find something there that felt less like losing herself and more like discovering who she actually was underneath all the adaptation.
Maybe.
[To be continued in Chapter 8...]
Author's closing note:Kaito mentioned both his parents dying but only gave real detail about one death. Notice what he avoided? Also—count the number of drafts he wrote. That number comes back. Everything connects sometime soon
Drop a comment if Kaito's letter hit you. Real vulnerability is hard to write—let me know if it landed 🖤