Chapter 27 — The Eyes That Remembered
Ren sat in the quiet of the library long after the final bell had rung.
Most students had already gone home. Only the sound of the ceiling fan and the occasional page turning filled the air.
He traced a finger along the edge of a book — an old volume on cognitive resonance and perception. It wasn't part of the regular school curriculum. In fact, it wasn't supposed to be here at all.
The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. "She really didn't change much…"
He meant Rimuru.
The thought slipped out before he could stop it.
---
When he first saw her again — standing at the classroom door, smiling that too-easy smile — he'd almost convinced himself it was déjà vu. But the more he watched her, the more the illusion frayed. Her presence carried weight — the kind that bent the edges of reality without meaning to.
He shut the book gently, eyes distant. "Same laugh. Same eyes. Same chaos following right behind."
But something about her felt… incomplete. Like part of her was still fractured, missing, maybe intentionally hidden.
And that's what worried him most.
---
He reached into his bag, pulling out a folded photograph. It was old and faded — three figures standing in front of a broken gate.
One of them was him.
One was Rimuru.
And the third — the one between them — had a blurred face.
He frowned. "Still can't see her, huh?"
The photo shimmered faintly, as if reacting to his voice. Then it burned out — the image vanishing into thin air like smoke.
Ren sighed. "Figures."
He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. "So, they really did erase her again…"
---
The sound of footsteps drew his attention.
He turned — but no one was there.
Only the faint flicker of light from the far corner of the room, where a mirror leaned against the wall. The reflection in it wavered, slightly off-beat from reality.
Ren's eyes narrowed. "You can stop hiding."
The reflection rippled. A faint chuckle answered him.
> "Still perceptive, aren't you?"
And then — she stepped out.
Rimuru.
But not quite the one he'd seen at school. Her expression was sharper, her eyes colder — more like the version of her he remembered from before.
"Couldn't resist spying, could you?" he asked quietly.
Rimuru tilted her head. "You've been digging again."
"You made it too easy," he said. "Your disguise fooled the others, not me."
She smiled faintly. "You always did see through me."
The silence that followed was heavy — full of words neither of them wanted to say.
---
Finally, Ren broke it.
"Tell me something, Rimuru. If she remembers everything — will she survive it this time?"
Rimuru looked away, her hair fluttering with the wind from an open window.
"I don't know," she admitted softly. "But if I tell her the truth now, she'll break faster."
"So you'll lie again?" he asked.
Her voice turned distant. "If it keeps her alive, then yes."
Ren stood slowly, stepping closer. "You think that's protection. But it's guilt."
That made her flinch — just barely.
He noticed.
"She trusted you once," he said quietly. "Even when the world fell apart. You were her anchor then."
Rimuru's laugh was hollow. "And now I'm her chain."
---
The lights flickered again.
Rimuru looked toward the door. "We can't talk here. The distortion's listening."
Ren smirked faintly. "Since when does that stop you?"
"Since it started remembering my voice," she replied.
He paused. "It's learning?"
Rimuru's gaze darkened. "It always learns. That's what makes it dangerous."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Rimuru turned, opening the window.
"I have to go," she said. "Stay away from mirrors tonight."
Ren folded his arms. "And what will you do?"
She looked back, her grin returning — faint but familiar. "What I always do."
He sighed. "Laugh first, question later?"
"Exactly."
And with that, she stepped into the night — fading like static into the dark.