Kaito's Perspective
The silence of Kaito's room was absolute, a fortress against the chaotic noise of the day. The unwanted spectacle of Hoshino's apology, the prying eyes that had followed him and Hikari like shadows—it was a form of social static he had spent years engineering his life to avoid. Now it clung to him, an irritating buzz beneath his skin.
He sat at his perfectly ordered desk, but his focus was broken. The equations in his textbook blurred into meaningless symbols. The quiet was disrupted not by sound, but by the memory of sound: the gasp of the classroom, the strained tone of Hoshino's voice, the following whispers that felt like physical touches.
His phone, lying screen-down on the blotter, buzzed. A single, blunt vibration. Then another. Then a rapid, insistent series of them.
He turned it over.
Aiko: Emergency sibling alert.
Aiko: My university group chat is active. A friend's younger sister attends Sakuragaoka. She reports that the Ice Prince and the Rebel Queen survived a public execution-by-apology from the Student Council Princess. Explain.
Aiko: Correction. What did she do. Details. Now.
Kaito stared at the stark text on the bright screen. The gossip had not merely spread through his school. It had traveled through the intricate web of siblings and connections, leaping across the city to his sister's university. A strange, weary sensation settled over him—part frustration, part reluctant acknowledgment. Of course Aiko would hear. Little escaped her network.
His replies were characteristically economical.
Kaito: It was not an execution. It was an unnecessary public display.
Kaito: Hoshino overstepped her authority. She apologized. The matter is resolved.
Aiko: Resolved. A fascinating word. It suggests closure. My sources suggest spectacle. Were you stoic? Was your friend poised for violence? I require data.
He could almost hear her voice, a mix of concern and unabashed curiosity. Her interest was not in the drama for its own sake, but in the proof it offered that the walls around her brother were being tested, perhaps even breached.
Kaito: It was disruptive. She apologized during class. I informed her it was a performance. She later apologized in a private setting.
Aiko: Private setting. Specify.
Kaito: The rooftop.
Aiko: Your rooftop. She knows your rooftop. The narrative complexity increases. So the Princess is dethroned and seeking redemption. And your friend? How is she navigating her new status as one-half of the school's most scrutinized pairing?
Kaito's fingers hovered over the screen. How was Hikari navigating it? He had observed her practiced indifference, the sharp line of her back as she walked through the stares, but also the subtle tension in her shoulders that spoke of a constant, weary awareness. He typed slowly, admitting something he would only ever admit to Aiko.
Kaito: We are managing it. It is inefficient.
Aiko: Inefficient. You are a unique individual, little brother. Listen. This is progress. It is loud, and messy, and socially taxing, but it is progress. It means the connection is tangible. The entire student body is a witness. You can no longer conceal it in library corners. So cease trying to administrate the situation and simply inhabit it. Also, when you next see her, relay this message: Anyone who can compel Hoshino Shizuka to a public apology and withstand my brother's particular brand of intensity has my professional admiration. A meeting is mandatory.
He placed the phone back on the desk, screen down. The room was silent again, but Aiko's words did not dissipate. 'It means the connection is tangible.' The rumors, the invasive stares—they were irrational data points. But they were data points that existed because of a verified fact. His sister, from her distant, socially intelligent vantage point, had performed a cold analysis of the day's events and delivered a surprising conclusion: the chaos was a sign of strength.
Hikari's Perspective
The Tanaka apartment was quiet, but Hikari's mind was not. She lay on her bed, violin case propped against the wall, staring at the ceiling. The day played on a relentless loop behind her eyes—the shock of Hoshino's entrance, the bow, the crushing weight of dozens of stares, Kaito's cold correction. Performance.
A different kind of heat burned in her cheeks now, not from shame, but from a delayed, simmering anger at the sheer audacity of it all. And beneath that, a quieter, more unsettling feeling: exposure. Her friendship with Kaito, their hard-won, quiet understanding, had been put on a stage without her consent.
The buzz of her phone was a welcome distraction. She glanced at the screen.
Kenji: So. I hear you and your study buddy caused a national incident today.
She snorted, a small, real sound in the quiet room.
Hikari: It wasn't us. It was her.
Kenji: Details are fuzzy. My source just said 'the Vice President bowed and cried in class and Sato Kaito looked like he wanted to freeze time.' Which, honestly, is the most dramatic thing I've ever heard associated with you. I'm impressed.
Hikari rolled her eyes, but a faint smirk touched her lips. Kenji's tone was light, teasing, but she could read the underlying concern.
Hikari: It was stupid. Now everyone's staring more.
Kenji: Let them stare. They're staring because they don't get it. They're staring at a fact they can't explain. The loner and the king. It doesn't compute. It bothers them. That's their problem, not yours.
She read his words twice. It doesn't compute. That was it exactly. Their friendship was an error in the school's social code. The system was glitching, and everyone was trying to debug it by watching them.
Kenji: For what it's worth, anyone who makes a girl like that apologize in public must be pretty serious about defending their territory. Your Kaito's got a spine. I approve.
Hikari: He's not 'my' Kaito.
Kenji: Sure. And my shoes aren't under your bed. Look, just… ride it out. The gossip will find something new to chew on next week. Until then, enjoy the confused looks. You earned them.
Before she could reply, another notification popped up. An unknown number.
Unknown: This is Aiko. Kaito's sister. He gave me your number. I hope that is acceptable. He is a terrible narrator. I wished to say: anyone who can endure a public apology from the Princess and my brother's glacial demeanor in a single day has my utmost respect. Welcome to the spotlight. We should have ramen again. All four of us.
Hikari stared at the message. Kaito had given her his sister's number. Or vice versa. It didn't matter. The action itself was a threshold crossed. She was no longer just a name in his school life; she was a contact in his family's phone. Aiko's message was neither pitying nor overly excited. It was a statement of fact and an invitation—a recognition that she was now part of a larger, slightly chaotic equation that included Kaito.
She typed back, her fingers feeling clumsy.
Hikari: Okay.
A single word, but it felt like signing a treaty. The ripples from the day's quake had spread far beyond school. They had reached siblings who analyzed it with keen interest and offered not worry, but a strange, bolstering pride. The unseen friendship was now seen, dissected, and surprisingly, championed. And as Hikari looked from Kenji's teasing texts to Aiko's direct invitation, she realized the stares at school were just surface noise. The real reverberations—the ones that mattered—were happening here, in the quiet of their homes, in the messages of the people who actually knew them.
(End of Chapter 20)