Kaito placed the pen down with a soft click, its purpose served. He pushed the completed application form back across the desk toward Tanaka-sensei, the motion smooth and final. The transaction was complete.
Tanaka-sensei picked up the form, a triumphant glint in his eye. "Excellent. The club meets every day after school in room 2-B, at the end of the old building's second-floor hallway. I suggest you head there now. It would be inefficient to delay the start of your 'remediation,' wouldn't you agree?"
Kaito offered no reply. He simply stood, gave a perfunctory nod that served as a dismissal, and walked out of the faculty office. The low hum of the school's social ecosystem met him in the corridor. Students laughed in loud, uneconomical bursts of energy. A couple stood by a locker, their proximity inefficient for hallway traffic, their conversation punctuated by illogical fluctuations in tone and expression. Kaito observed it all as one might observe the Brownian motion of particles in a fluid—random, chaotic, and fundamentally uninteresting.
His path to the old building was direct. He navigated the crowded halls with an innate understanding of foot traffic patterns, finding the optimal route to minimize unnecessary social friction. The old building was quieter, the air cooler. The scent of aged wood and chalk dust replaced the smell of cafeteria food. It was a place of forgotten clubs and underfunded electives.
He found room 2-B at the very end of the hall, as promised. The door was slightly ajar. A simple, hand-painted wooden sign hung beside it. It read: "Student Counseling Club." Below the main text, in smaller, neater letters, someone had added: "Your problems are safe with us." Kaito registered the statement as an unsubstantiated claim designed to elicit an emotional response of trust.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was the physical embodiment of everything he found inefficient. It was cozy. Sunlight, softened by clean lace curtains, illuminated a space filled with mismatched but comfortable-looking furniture. A low table was surrounded by a plush sofa and several armchairs. A bookshelf in the corner overflowed with books, their spines a chaotic jumble of colors. A small kettle sat on a side table next to a collection of mismatched teacups. The air smelled faintly of brewed tea and old paper. It was a room designed for comfort and conversation, a stark contrast to the sterile, orderly world Kaito inhabited.
Three figures occupied this space.
The first, a girl with long, dark hair tied back in a neat ponytail, stood to greet him. She possessed an air of calm authority and wore the pristine uniform of a third-year. Her expression was polite and welcoming, but her eyes held a serious, dutiful light. This, Kaito deduced, was the club president.
"Hello," she said, her voice clear and pleasant. "Can we help you?"
Before Kaito could respond, a second figure bounced up from one of the armchairs. She was a first-year, her uniform still crisp, her short hair framing a face alight with boundless energy and curiosity. Her eyes, wide and bright, scanned Kaito from head to toe.
"A new member? Are you here to join?" she asked, her voice a cheerful burst of sound.
The third figure was an inert variable. She was, Kaito noted with a detached sense of observation, identical to the second girl, presumably her twin. She was curled up in the largest armchair, her face turned away from the door, a blanket draped over her shoulders. Her breathing was slow and even. She appeared to be asleep.
Kaito directed his attention to the president. "Tanaka-sensei sent me," he said, his tone flat. "I am to join this club." He held out the application form, which Tanaka-sensei had given back to him.
The president's polite smile tightened almost imperceptibly as she took the form. She scanned it, her eyes widening slightly at his name. The whispers about the "logical anomaly" in the second year had clearly reached the upperclassmen.
"Ishikawa Kaito-kun," she said, recovering her composure. "I see. Welcome to the Student Counseling Club. I am the president, Hoshino Yuki." She gestured to the energetic twin. "This is our first-year member, Akamatsu Ren."
"Nice to meet you!" Ren chirped, giving a small, enthusiastic bow.
Yuki then gestured to the sleeping form. "And that is her sister, our vice president, Akamatsu Rin."
Kaito gave a single, curt nod to acknowledge the introductions.
"Our club exists to help students navigate the difficulties of school life," Yuki continued, launching into what was clearly a well-practiced speech. "We provide a safe, confidential space for anyone to discuss their problems, whether they're about academics, friendships, or personal struggles. We believe that by listening with empathy and offering sincere support, we can help everyone find their own best path forward."
Her voice was filled with a genuine, earnest passion. Kaito listened to the words, but they registered as little more than white noise. Empathy. Sincerity. Support. They were abstract, unquantifiable concepts. Flawed data.
When she finished, an expectant silence filled the room. Yuki and Ren were looking at him, waiting for a response. A word of agreement, a question, some sign of engagement.
Kaito offered none.
He scanned the room, his gaze settling on an empty armchair in the far corner, a position that offered a clear view of the room's entrance while being removed from the central cluster of furniture. It was the most strategically sound position.
Without another word, he walked past them, his footsteps silent on the worn wooden floor. He sat down in the corner chair, placed his bag beside him, and leaned his head back, closing his eyes.
He had fulfilled the initial requirements of the agreement. He had joined. He was present. Now, he would observe.
The cheerful atmosphere in the room evaporated, replaced by a sudden, palpable tension. Ren looked from Kaito's silent form to Yuki's stunned face, her energetic smile faltering. Yuki stared at the new member who had just joined her club, a boy who had built a wall of ice around himself in less than a minute.
The quiet ticking of a clock on the wall was the only sound that dared to break the awkward, heavy silence.