The classroom was louder than usual that morning. The moment Sayori stepped through the door, she felt a restless ripple in the air. Whispers traveled from row to row, flowing toward the back of the room with a strange, pointed curiosity. Kunon was in his usual spot. His back was straight, his shoulders tense. His gaze was fixed out the window, looking as though he had no organic connection to this chaotic adolescent energy surrounding him.
He had arrived earlier than everyone else again.
Of course he had.
As Sayori reached for her bag, Sakura collapsed into the chair next to her with a dramatic sigh. "If there's a surprise history quiz today, I'm dropping out and moving to the mountains."
"You say that every week, Sakura," Sayori said, placing her notebook on the desk at a millimetric angle. "And yet, here you are."
From the front row, Kyoko tilted her head slightly over her shoulder. Her eyes were as sharp as radar. "It's not a quiz."
Sakura leaned in immediately. "How do you know?"
"The folders in the teacher's hand. They don't look like test papers. They're much thicker."
At that exact moment, the door opened. When Mr. Handa, the History and Sociology teacher, walked in, the hum of the classroom died down like a radio being unplugged. He adjusted his glasses and set the heavy folder on his desk.
"We are starting a long-term project," he said in a clear, non-negotiable voice. "It will account for thirty percent of your final grade."
A muffled groan rose from the back rows, followed by a heavy silence. Thirty percent was a margin that left no room for error.
"You will work in groups of three. The topic: Adaptive Systems in Modern Society. Technology, psychology, defense structures, environmental models... the perspective you choose is entirely up to you."
Sayori had already pulled out her pen and started noting down potential subtopics. Kunon, however, didn't even budge.
"I will be assigning the groups," the teacher added.
Sakura gripped Sayori's arm tight. "Please, don't let it be someone useless who'll be a burden. Don't let them make me... I mean, you, do all the work."
The names began to be read. With every new group, chairs scraped and whispered protests rose. Then, the teacher's voice caused the orderly structure in Sayori's mind to pause for a heartbeat.
"Sayori. Kunon. Sakura."
The air shifted. The atmosphere of the classroom condensed around those three names for a moment.
Sakura slowly turned her head toward Sayori, her eyes wide. "Do you think this is fate, or a punishment for my past sins?"
Sayori didn't answer. She only listened to the creak of the chair from the back row. Kunon stood up. There wasn't a trace of emotion on his face—no dissatisfaction, no approval. With calm, long strides, he came over and stood before their desk.
Sakura looked at him with a weak, nervous smile. "This... is going to be quite educational, I think."
The three of them formed a makeshift circle around Sayori's desk. Sayori opened a clean page in her notebook. Her mind was already in analytical mode.
"First we define a direction, then we distribute tasks," Sayori said, rhythmically tapping the back of her pen against her chin.
"We haven't even picked a topic yet," Sakura murmured.
"Efficiency requires sequencing, Sakura. You can't build a roof without a foundation."
Kunon crossed his arms and leaned against the windowsill. "Adaptive systems. Most groups will choose technological evolution or AI. Entirely predictable."
Without looking up, Sayori asked, "Do you have a better suggestion?"
"Human behavior under pressure," Kunon said. His voice was as clear as footsteps echoing in an empty hallway. "Survival and mental adaptation in hostile environments."
Sakura raised her eyebrows. "Isn't that a bit... dark and intense for a school project?"
"It's original," Kunon said, cutting her off.
Sayori turned her gaze to him. The idea was sharp, different, and far outside the ordinary patterns the teacher expected. She felt the gears in her mind turning rapidly.
"What's your argumentative framework?" Sayori asked, her tone challenging.
"Observation. Case analysis. Behavioral patterns in moments of crisis."
"You're assuming access to valid and in-depth data for that kind of analysis. I can't risk a thirty percent grade on superficial internet articles."
Kunon's eyes narrowed. "I don't assume. I prepare."
Their eyes met. As their gazes collided in mid-air, Sakura felt forced to intervene. She clapped her hands.
"Okay, okay! Before this turns into a silent war, let's decide. I think it's a cool topic. Better than boring tech trends."
Sayori tapped her pen lightly on the desk. "It has potential."
"So?" Kunon said.
"So, if it's done properly, it works. As long as it's structured, evidence-based, and presented solidly."
Kunon simply nodded. "Naturally."
"Naturally?" Sayori hadn't expected such a quick concession.
Sakura threw both hands up. "Settled! We're doing hostile people and survival tactics."
They both turned and stared at her blankly.
"You know what I mean," Sakura muttered with a shrug.
By lunch break, they had sketched out the rough outlines of the project. The division of labor fell into Sayori's domain: she took charge of the research structure and the writing. Kunon would provide the theoretical framework and concrete case studies. Sakura chose the visual design, presentation dynamics, and the aesthetic layout of the report.
"You're good at visuals and persuading people," Sayori said.
Sakura beamed with pride. "I am the aesthetic and social backbone of this group."
Kunon gave her a brief, expressionless look but said nothing.
As the three of them walked toward the dorms after school, there was a strange, fragile harmony between them. However, the silence was heavier than Sakura could bear.
"Kunon," Sakura said, unable to help herself. "Have you ever done a group project before?"
"Yes."
Sakura waited. "Is that it? Where, when, how did it go?"
"Yes."
Sayori sighed softly. "Don't waste your breath, Sakura. He's on a syllable-saving diet."
Kunon walked with his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Unnecessary explanation is mental clutter."
"Clarity requires explanation," Sayori countered instantly.
Sakura physically stepped between them. "I'll remind you we're on the same team right now. Don't bite each other."
At seven in the evening, they gathered in the dorm room. This time, Sakura hadn't come in her pajamas; she wore a neat tracksuit. She looked at Sayori proudly as she entered. "I learned my lesson from last time's trauma."
Kunon was sitting at the edge of the desk, his laptop already open. The screen light defined the sharp lines of his face. Sayori arrived with three mugs of chamomile tea and set them on the desk.
"We'll work for two hours straight," Sayori said, settling into her chair.
Without looking away from the screen, Kunon said, "Three hours."
"Two and a half."
"Fine."
Sakura took her mug and sat cross-legged on the rug by the edge of the bed. "You two are like representatives of two rival countries at a peace talk."
"We are defining parameters," Sayori said, organizing her notes.
"Without parameters, there is only chaos," Kunon added.
Sakura took a sip of her tea. "You're dangerously compatible, do you realize that?"
As the work began, the room was filled for a while only by the clicking of keys and the rustle of paper. Sayori was writing, Kunon was scanning data on his screen and placing it before her, and Sakura was digitally adjusting the color palette of the slides.
An hour later, Sayori stopped, rubbing her temples. She tapped the tip of her pen on the note paper Kunon had placed in front of her. "This example is too general. You've just written 'perceptual narrowing during crisis.' What's the source?"
"It's a conceptual reality," Kunon said.
"It lacks a source. You need to give me an article, an author, or an experiment number."
"It's not necessary. The situation itself is self-explanatory."
"It is necessary, Kunon."
Kunon finally looked up from the screen. His eyes held an stubborn glint rather than fatigue. "You don't trust any information unless an authority validates it, do you?"
"I don't trust it without a solid foundation," Sayori said, standing her ground. "That is the scientific method."
"If you constantly drown the impact in dry data, the emotional weight of the message weakens. The reader only sees numbers and misses the feeling."
"A message without data is just a hollow story."
Sakura rested her chin on her hands, her eyes darting between them like she was watching a tennis match. "This is seriously fun. Please, continue."
Sayori ignored Sakura and leaned slightly toward Kunon. "The committee won't take us seriously if we don't maintain the structure."
Kunon leaned toward her as well, the distance between them closing. "If you don't create an emotional intensity and a sense of reality, no one will remember what you said once the presentation is over."
A heavy silence hung in the room. Two different worldviews were colliding over a small desk.
Sakura suddenly jumped up. "Stop! You're both right. Kunon, you bring a strong instinct and a striking reality. Sayori, you're building the skeleton to keep it standing. Merge them."
Sayori leaned back and thought. She tapped her fingers on the desk. "A semi-theoretical, semi-documented structure... Acceptable."
Kunon studied Sayori's face for a few seconds. Then he gave a slight nod. "Accepted."
As the hours passed, the sharp bickering softened, replaced by a strange cooperation. Corrections were made mutually. Sentences passed through Kunon's filter and became sharper; they passed through Sayori's pen and gained substance. Neither was fully relinquishing control, but they had begun to fill each other's gaps.
As it neared ten-thirty, Sakura stretched her arms with a wide yawn. "Admit it, you two actually enjoy arguing with each other."
"We are just working," Sayori said, continuing to look at the screen.
"We are arguing," Kunon said at the same time.
Sakura giggled. "You're straight-up flirting."
Both of them froze in the same second.
"What?" Sayori said, her voice louder than intended.
Sakura threw her hands up innocently. "I didn't say anything!"
Kunon continued writing calmly as if nothing had happened, but the air in the room changed instantly, a sudden invisible weight descending.
A few minutes later, Sayori reached toward the center of the desk to grab one of the reference books. At the same time, Kunon reached for the book to turn the page.
Their fingers collided.
This time, they didn't pull back instantly like they had in the morning. For a second—maybe a tenth of a second—they just stayed there. It was warm. An unexpected contact.
Sayori cleared her throat and pulled her hand back quickly. Kunon said nothing, but he looked away from the book and fixed his eyes on Sayori's for a moment. Whether there was a warning or an acceptance in that look, Sayori couldn't tell.
By the end of the night, the core thesis of their project was on paper.
Sayori read the sentence aloud: "Adaptation is not a sign of weakness, but the ultimate survival form developed against hostile systems."
Kunon watched her silently. For the first time, there was a faint spark of satisfaction in his eyes.
Sakura started packing her things. "This actually turned out powerful. And I survived another night without the Ice King's wrath."
Kunon didn't react to the comment.
As Sakura headed for the door, she leaned toward Sayori and whispered: "He doesn't look at you the way he looks at the rest of the class."
Sayori didn't answer; she just pushed her friend out the door.
When the door closed, that familiar silence returned to the room. However, this time it didn't feel like a front line. It was more of a post-ceasefire stillness.
Kunon stopped in the middle of the room as he walked toward his bed. His back was to Sayori.
"You argue well," he said briefly.
"I don't back down," Sayori said, tidying the desk.
"I know. That's a good thing."
After a short pause, Kunon lay down on his bed and turned away.
Sayori stayed at the desk for a few more minutes. She was placing the notes in a folder before turning off the light. As she straightened the papers Kunon had left, her eyes caught his draft notebook at the bottom. It was half-open.
She shouldn't have looked.
No touching personal belongings.
But the handwriting on the paper stopped her. This wasn't one of the "theoretical" case studies they had just discussed. There was no title. Only short, jagged notes.
Day 12: External stimuli completely cut off.
Day 14: Distortion in threat perception. Hunger.
Day 17: Subject 4 gave up.
Day 21: I adapted.
Sayori's breath hitched in her throat. Her fingers hovered over the paper. This wasn't an article summary. This wasn't a history lesson.
This was a journal entry written in the first person.
And on the other side of the room, the boy lying in the dark wasn't just doing a project; he was putting his own past on paper.