The corridor was empty — only the echo of footsteps and the fading light of sunset sliding across the floor.
Ayanokōji walked slowly, hands in his pockets, gaze calm and distant.
But beneath that stillness, thoughts churned — precise, sharp, unrelenting.
Ichigo Kurosaki.
The transfer student who moved as if he had already lived through a hundred battles.
When the others laughed, his face didn't change.
When he spoke of pain, there was no exaggeration — only fact.
A man who doesn't imagine. A man who remembers.
Ayanokōji stopped by the window.
From there, he could see the schoolyard — students drifting toward the dorms, their shadows stretching long in the orange light.
Everyone here played a role.
The weak pretended to be diligent.
The strong hid behind indifference.
But Ichigo… didn't pretend at all.
And that, Ayanokōji thought, made him dangerous.
He let out a quiet breath and glanced at his own hands.
The memory of Ichigo's words echoed softly in his mind:
"The candle doesn't lie."
A person who doesn't fear pain cannot be controlled.
And one who can't be controlled… cannot be predicted.
He began walking again, his steps silent on the polished floor.
Each motion, each thought catalogued itself — like lines in an invisible report only he could read.
Observation: Subject — Ichigo Kurosaki.
Risk level — undetermined.
Recommendation — continued surveillance.
For a moment, as he passed another window, a faint reflection caught his eye — a flicker of red, like the tongue of a flame.
He turned sharply. Nothing there. Only the dying sun and the whisper of the wind.
Still, the image lingered in his mind — the trace of something burning where it shouldn't exist.
Perhaps I should keep watching him, Ayanokōji thought.
Or perhaps… I should find out why he's really here.
He moved on, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance.
Behind him, in the dark reflection of the glass, a faint glimmer remained — red, fleeting, like fire pretending to be light.