The corridors of the main building were unusually quiet that afternoon.After seeing Satō off, Ayanokōji tried to slip away unnoticed, but fate—or perhaps inevitability—had other plans.
"Wait," came a calm, measured voice from behind him.
He stopped, sighing softly before turning around. Standing there was Chabashira-sensei, her usual steel façade cracked just enough to reveal something rare—nervousness.
She looked strangely fragile, like a soldier about to walk into battle knowing the odds.
"Ayanokōji," she said quietly, "come with me. The headmaster wants to see you."
He frowned faintly, reading her tone. "The headmaster?"
Her lips tightened. "...And someone else."
Something in her voice told him this wasn't a meeting he could refuse.
They arrived before a heavy, oak door marked Principal's Office.Chabashira paused for a moment—took a quiet breath—then knocked twice before entering.
Inside, the air felt heavy. A subtle scent of polished wood and paper filled the space, the kind that carried years of tradition and authority.
At the center stood the Principal, a man in his sixties, his forehead glistening with sweat. Standing beside him, radiating silent pressure, was another man—tall, composed, and coldly dignified, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit.
The moment Ayanokōji entered, both Chabashira and the principal bowed deeply toward the suited man.
"P-Please forgive the delay, Ayanokōji-sama," the principal stammered, bowing lower still.
The man did not reply. He simply turned, his eyes landing on his son.
Ayanokōji Kiyotaka met his gaze with quiet stillness.
It had been nearly a year and a half since he last saw him—Ayanokōji Kiyotaka Senior, the man known only as Father to some, and to others, the architect of the White Room.
The principal mumbled another apology before excusing himself, leaving with visible relief. Chabashira followed suit, though not before giving Kiyotaka a nervous glance, as if silently apologizing.
When the door closed, the silence felt absolute.
"I didn't expect you to come," Kiyotaka said first, breaking the silence.
His father's expression didn't change. "You didn't think I would? After your little stunt?"
"I've been busy," Kiyotaka replied calmly. "Besides, I promised some friends I wouldn't stay too long."
At that, his father's lips curled into a faint, disdainful smirk. "Friends? Someone like you… making friends?"
Kiyotaka said nothing.
The man straightened slightly, removing a folder from his briefcase and setting it on the table. "You know why I'm here. You've overstayed your freedom, Kiyotaka. It's time to come home."
"Home?" he repeated quietly. "You mean the White Room."
His father's tone turned sharp. "Your place of birth. The cradle that made you. Don't pretend otherwise."
He tapped the folder. "Your withdrawal papers. Already approved. All that's missing—" he raised his eyes, cold and piercing "—is your consent."
Kiyotaka's gaze flicked down to the papers, then back up. "You want me to sign."
"I expect you to," his father replied.
"I won't."
The elder Ayanokōji's expression didn't twitch, but his gaze hardened. "You think this is about what you want?"
"I think it's always been about what you want," Kiyotaka said evenly.
For the first time in years, Kiyotaka looked directly into those eyes—razor sharp, dissecting, almost inhuman. The same gaze that had broken countless students under his command. It wasn't just authority; it was dominion.
His father's voice was low, controlled. "Do you understand what you've done? You've tarnished years of work. You were ordered to remain on standby. Instead, you ran away."
Kiyotaka exhaled slowly. "Then it seems I've done something no one else dared to."
The man's lip twitched. "A parent correcting his child's mistakes isn't tyranny. It's responsibility."
Kiyotaka's reply came sharp and calm: "A parent who ruins their child's life for selfish reasons doesn't deserve the title."
For a fleeting moment, something flickered behind the man's eyes—anger, perhaps. Or wounded pride.
"You dare speak to me like that?" he hissed.
"I only speak to you like this," Kiyotaka said, "because you've never spoken to me as a father."
The silence stretched taut between them—sharp enough to cut.
His father's expression shifted, adopting a quieter menace. "Do you remember Matsuo?"
Kiyotaka blinked. "...The butler?"
"Yes," his father said. "The man who betrayed me—who convinced you to enroll in this farce of a school."
Kiyotaka's eyes narrowed faintly. "What about him?"
"He's dead."
The words hung heavy in the air.
"He was punished, of course," his father continued, tone clinical, detached. "Eternal unemployment. His son blacklisted from every school in Tokyo. But the guilt… was too much. He took his own life recently."
Kiyotaka said nothing, though his fingers tightened slightly.
"Before he died," his father said coldly, "he begged me to spare his son. Begged until his last breath. Tell me, Kiyotaka—does that move you? Or do you still lack the capacity to feel?"
Kiyotaka looked down, then met his father's eyes again. "If what you say is true… then it gives me even more reason to stay. To make his sacrifice mean something."
His father's tone sharpened. "Don't delude yourself. You're the reason he died."
"Then let me bear that weight," Kiyotaka said quietly.
His father paced slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "You've changed. The school has infected you."
Kiyotaka tilted his head slightly. "Maybe. But perhaps that's what you feared most."
"Your arrogance is astounding," the man sneered. "You think this world will teach you more than the White Room did?"
"I learned more here in one year than a lifetime in the White Room," Kiyotaka said. "Not in knowledge, but in experience."
His father stopped pacing, turning sharply. "You've become talkative. The school's influence, no doubt. But remember this—everything you are, everything you know, came from me."
"Not everything," Kiyotaka said. "You made me intelligent, yes. But you never taught me freedom. You never taught me choice. And that's what I came here to find."
The elder Ayanokōji's voice dropped to a low growl. "Freedom? Do you even understand the word? The world doesn't reward freedom—it crushes it."
"Maybe," Kiyotaka said softly. "But I want to see it for myself."
"You had a blank year," his father said suddenly. "A gap in your conditioning. My mistake. One that created this… illusion of individuality."
"Then it seems your greatest mistake gave me my humanity," Kiyotaka said.
His father's eyes flashed. "Don't mistake rebellion for humanity."
"Then what should I call it?" he asked. "You designed me to be perfect. But even perfection needs to ask why."
The elder man's composure cracked, ever so slightly. "I gave you everything!"
"No," Kiyotaka said, meeting his gaze firmly. "You gave me nothing but emptiness."
His father straightened again, voice regaining its icy calm. "The White Room has resumed operations. And this time, there will be no interference. The next generation will surpass even you."
"Then why are you still here?" Kiyotaka asked. "Surely one of them is good enough."
His father's eyes hardened. "None. None possess your talent. Your potential. You were the masterpiece, Kiyotaka. My legacy. You don't get to throw that away."
Kiyotaka's reply came quietly: "Then maybe it's time you stop chasing perfection. It's already destroyed enough people."
For the first time, his father's expression twisted with something raw—frustration, disbelief, even pain.
"How can you, of all people, talk like this?" he asked. "This school is nothing but rubble. These students are trash. Do you think they'll ever stand beside you?"
"I hope they do," Kiyotaka said. "That's what I want to find out—whether humans can ever be equal."
Just then, the door opened.
A man in his forties entered, wearing a calm smile and an aura of quiet dignity. His presence immediately diffused the tension, like a cool wind through smoke.
"Forgive the intrusion," he said politely. "I see I've arrived at a delicate moment."
"Sakayanagi," the elder Ayanokōji said, tone colder than ever. "It's been a long time."
"Seven or eight years, I believe," the man replied, bowing slightly. "It's good to see you again, sensei."
He turned to Kiyotaka, smiling. "And you must be Kiyotaka. I've heard much about you."
Kiyotaka recognized the name immediately—Sakayanagi, the new chairman of the school board, and father to Arisu Sakayanagi of Class A.
"Please," Sakayanagi gestured toward the seats. "Both of you, have a seat."
Reluctantly, they sat—Kiyotaka beside Sakayanagi, his father opposite.
"I hear you intend for Kiyotaka to withdraw," Sakayanagi began, tone courteous.
"That is correct," the elder Ayanokōji said coldly. "I expect the school to cooperate."
Sakayanagi's smile didn't waver. "Parents may have influence, yes. But a valid reason must accompany any expulsion. What is yours?"
"He enrolled without my permission."
The chairman folded his hands. "High school isn't compulsory, and all expenses here are government-funded. We value student autonomy above all else."
Kiyotaka watched in silence as Sakayanagi spoke, his words deliberate, unwavering—unlike the principal earlier, who had crumbled under pressure.
The elder Ayanokōji's tone turned sharp. "You've changed, Sakayanagi. The obedient subordinate I once knew would've agreed instantly."
Sakayanagi's expression softened, but his eyes held firm. "I still respect you, sensei. But I also intend to carry out my father's vision for this academy."
"And admitting him was part of that vision?"
"Yes," Sakayanagi said simply. "Because I believed in it."
The elder Ayanokōji frowned. "Don't lie to me. I know the entrance exam process is merely ceremonial."
Sakayanagi's smile faded slightly. "Then you already know that I personally approved his admission."
The silence thickened again.
Finally, Sakayanagi said quietly but firmly, "Kiyotaka is a valued student here. I will protect him as long as he wishes to stay. Even against you, sensei."
His father's hands clenched slightly. "You're making a mistake."
"Perhaps," Sakayanagi said, "but it's mine to make."
The elder Ayanokōji stood, his aura sharp again. "You'll regret this. I'll find another way."
Sakayanagi inclined his head. "As long as you abide by school regulations, we have no issue."
A faint sneer tugged at his lips. "I assure you, I'll play by your rules."
He turned toward his son. "This is the last time we'll meet here."
Kiyotaka looked at him evenly. "Then maybe next time, you'll visit as a parent, not a warden."
"Once is enough," his father said coldly.
Without another word, he left. The door shut behind him with a soft click.
For several seconds, neither Sakayanagi nor Kiyotaka spoke.
Then the chairman sighed, rubbing his temples. "Every time that man visits, the air itself gets heavier."
Kiyotaka exhaled softly. "I'm used to it."
"I imagine you are."
Sakayanagi leaned back, regarding him with genuine kindness. "You've had to live under that shadow for too long. But I meant what I said—here, you have my protection. As long as you stay within the rules, no one can touch you."
Kiyotaka nodded faintly. "Thank you."
Sakayanagi smiled. "You remind me of your father sometimes. But unlike him, your eyes still hold curiosity. Keep that. It's something even geniuses forget to value."
He paused, then asked casually, "Tell me—how is my daughter doing?"
Kiyotaka's eyes flickered. "Arisu Sakayanagi. She's doing well. Ambitious. Intelligent."
Sakayanagi chuckled softly. "I expected as much. She has… your father's eyes, sometimes. Determined. Dangerous."
Kiyotaka tilted his head. "Did you know about me before I enrolled?"
"Of course," Sakayanagi said warmly. "I've been watching you for some time, ever since your father sang praises of his perfect creation."
"I see."
"Keep studying, Kiyotaka. Learn everything you can—from books, from people, from the world. I can't reveal everything, but I'll tell you this: as long as you walk your own path, this school will protect it."
Kiyotaka stood, bowing slightly. "Thank you for your honesty, Chairman."
Sakayanagi returned the nod with a smile. "Do your best, Ayanokōji-kun. And remember—your story doesn't have to be written by anyone else."