Chapter 11: The Night We Chose Each Other (Part 1)

Chapter 11: The Night We Chose Each Other
“We didn’t promise perfection, We promised to stay, even when it hurts.Especially then.” - Adam & Akane

The heavy iron school gates groaned as they swung shut, the sound muffled by the low, rhythmic thrum of evening traffic and the distant, melodic cries of street vendors folding up their stalls. The day had finally loosened its grip, leaving behind a sky the color of a fresh bruise.

Adam rolled his shoulders, feeling the dull ache of the afternoon’s practice echoing through his frame. Beside him, Akane caught the movement, her eyes sharp even in the fading light.

“Don’t tell me you’re sore already,” she teased, a playful glint in her sideways glance. “The festival hasn’t even started, and you’re already falling apart?”

“I’m fine,” Adam replied, the words a practiced reflex.

She hummed, a sound of pure skepticism. “That’s not an answer.”

“It literally is.”

Akane let out a bright, melodic laugh that skipped over the pavement. “You’re impossible.”

They drifted into a brief silence, the kind that felt heavy with things unsaid. Suddenly, Akane slowed her pace, dancing a few steps ahead before pivoting on her heel. She began to walk backward, facing him with an expression of mock-seriousness.

“Okay,” she said, leveling a finger at the center of his chest. “Confession time.”

Adam didn’t miss a beat. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

She leaned in, invading his personal space until he could see the amber flecks in her eyes. “You enjoyed it today.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion, or a very good imitation of it. “Enjoyed what?”

“The attention.”

“I didn’t.”

“You smiled,” she countered, her grin widening.

“I did not.”

“You did! It was tiny, barely a twitch, really, but it happened. I saw it.”

Adam looked away, his gaze fixing on a flickering streetlight. “You’re imagining things.”

Satisfied with the slight shift in his posture, Akane stepped back into stride beside him. “You know, people are starting to talk.”

“Minato talks about everything,” he muttered. “It’s his primary function.”

“Not just him,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “Even the upperclassmen were whispering. Someone called you ‘a waste of talent.’”

He scoffed, a short, sharp sound. “Rude.”

She bumped her shoulder against his, a light, grounding touch. “They meant it as a compliment, you dummy.”

“Still rude.”

The bustling main road gave way to a quieter residential street, lined with modest houses and the soft, electric hum of vending machines. The sky had deepened to an ink-stain indigo, the first stars poking through the haze like hesitant thoughts. Akane clasped her hands behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels as she walked.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked, her tone shifting.

“You already are.”

She rolled her eyes at the ceiling of the world. “About Komamura.”

Adam’s pace didn’t falter, but his jaw set into a hard, angular line. “What about him?”

“Minato wanted to jump him today,” she said softly. “Hikari, too. Even Ryusei said something… remarkably violent.”

Adam snorted. “That tracks.”

“You told them it was just old stuff,” she continued, watching him closely. “That you don’t care.”

“I don’t.”

Akane stopped dead in her tracks. Adam took two more steps before realizing the anchor had been dropped, and he turned to face her. She was studying him, searching for the cracks in his armor the way she always did when she wasn't satisfied with a half-truth.

“You don’t care,” she repeated slowly, “or you don’t want to?”

The joking mask Adam wore finally slipped, leaving his expression raw and strangely tired. “The past doesn’t deserve that much energy,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It already took enough.”

Akane’s expression softened instantly. She took a tentative step closer, the space between them shrinking.

“…Okay,” she said. “But if it ever comes knocking again..”

“I’ll handle it.”

She shook her head, a small, sad smile touching her lips. “Wrong answer.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You don’t handle things alone anymore,” she said gently. “That’s kind of the deal when you collect friends. We’re part of the overhead.”

He stared at her, caught completely off guard by the sincerity in her voice. Then, quieter: “You make it sound like I planned that.”

She smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. “You didn’t. That’s why it worked.”

They resumed their walk, their shadows stretching long and thin across the asphalt. They walked closer now, their arms brushing with every few steps, yet neither moved away. The neon glow of Hayasaka Mart finally bled into the street ahead.

As they neared the entrance, Akane’s steps slowed, a rare hint of shyness surfacing. “You can leave if you want. My mom can be… intense.”

Adam tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk returning. “Scared for me?”

She snorted. “Scared for you surviving dinner.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

“Oh?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Like what?”

He deadpanned, his face a mask of solemnity. “Your teasing.”

She gasped, clutching her heart in mock-agony. “I am delightful!”

“That’s certainly one word for it.”

She laughed, reaching for the door, but before her hand could touch the glass, a voice cut through the air like a warm bell.

“Akane!”

Akane froze. Adam straightened instinctively, his shoulders squaring.

Yumi stood at the entrance of the mart, her apron tied in a crisp bow. Her eyes locked onto Adam with the surgical accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.

“Oh,” she said, her expression blooming into a bright, knowing smile. “Adam-kun.”

Adam bowed low. “Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded once, a quick, decisive movement of approval. “Good. You’re staying for dinner.”

Adam opened his mouth to offer a polite excuse.

“No,” she added, waving a dismissive hand before he could utter a word. “Don’t even try to argue.”

Akane leaned in toward his ear, whispering through her teeth as she struggled to contain her laughter. “Told you.”

Adam let out a long, defeated sigh, but the tension had bled out of his frame, replaced by a strange, quiet calm.

“…Thank you for having me.”

Yumi beamed, stepping aside to usher them in. “Shoes off. Plates are already out.”

The transition from the cool evening air to the interior of the shop was instant. As the door clicked shut, the heavy, clinical silence of the street was replaced by a wave of domestic warmth. It smelled of seasoned broth, floor wax, and the subtle, metallic tang of the refrigerated cases, the scent of a life lived in the spaces between work and home.

The bell above the door gave one final, cheerful chime.

“Dad!” Akane’s voice rang out, vibrating with a familiar energy. “I’m home!”

Adam stood just inside the threshold, his boots feeling suddenly too heavy on the polished floor. Before he could even adjust his grip on his bag, from the shadow of the back room, a man emerged, methodically wiping his hands on a faded towel.

Kenji Hayasaka wasn’t a tall man, but he occupied the space with the effortless authority of someone who knew exactly where he stood in the world. His eyes were sharp, scanning Adam with an assessment that was clinical but not unkind. After a heartbeat of silence, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“So,” Kenji said, his voice a low rumble. “You’re the reason my daughter’s been smiling at her phone lately.”

“Dad!” Akane sputtered, her face instantly rivaling the color of the shop’s red signage.

Adam didn't flinch. He offered a bow that was measured, deep, and perfectly respectful. “I’m Adam. Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

Kenji chuckled, tossing the towel onto a nearby counter. “Calm kid. I like that.” He glanced at Akane, a teasing glint in his eye. “At least he’s not loud.”

“That’s because he’s hiding it,” she muttered, avoiding her father’s gaze.

“I’m standing right here,” Adam replied evenly.

Yumi appeared from behind the counter, her hands already busy arranging bowls on a heavy wooden tray. “Enough interrogating, Kenji. Both of you, wash your hands. Dinner’s losing its heat.”

Kenji stepped aside, gesturing Adam toward the back sink. “Kitchen’s yours. Just don't break anything.”

Adam washed his hands with careful, methodical movements, his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows and was gazing at his scars and decidied to wear a long sleeve for tomorrow for the festival. As he dried his hands and rolled his sleeves back to its full length, he found himself observing the rhythm of the house, the way Kenji checked the inventory on the shelves out of habit, the way Yumi hummed a nameless tune while she plated the food, and how the store felt vibrantly alive even with the ‘Closed’ sign flipped.

A small movement caught his eye. A pair of wide, curious eyes peeked out from behind a crate of bottled drinks.

“…Is he scary?” a small voice whispered.

Adam crouched instinctively, bringing himself down to the child's eye level. He didn't force a smile; he just kept his expression steady. “I don’t think so,” Adam said calmly. “Are you?”

Sora blinked, taken aback. “…No.”

“Then we’re even.”

Sora studied him for a long, silent moment, searching for any hint of a lie. Finally, he nodded with the gravity of an old soul.

Adam offered his hand. 

Sora shook it with exaggerated, business-like seriousness. 

Dinner was a spread of simple, generous comfort: golden karaage, steaming mounds of rice, miso soup with silken tofu, and sharp, crunchy pickles. Adam ate slowly, his movements precise.

“This is really good,” he said, his voice sincere. “Thank you.”

Yumi’s eyes softened instantly, a mother’s pride blooming in her expression. “Don't be shy. Eat more.”

Kenji leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on Adam as he set his chopsticks down. “So, Adam-kun. What’s your last name?”

The temperature in the room seemed to shift. Akane paused mid-bite, her chopsticks frozen. Even she realized then that she hadn’t asked.

Adam didn’t hesitate. He met Kenji’s eyes directly. “Tsuda.”

Kenji’s brow lifted just a fraction of a millimeter. “Tsuda, huh.”

“Is that… bad?” Sora asked, his mouth half-full of rice.

Kenji smiled again, though this time it held a note of quiet amusement. “No. Just rare.”

Yumi tilted her head, her curiosity gentle. “You don’t talk much about your family, do you?”

“I don’t have much to say,” Adam replied. He didn't offer a mask of sadness or a deflection; it was a simple statement of fact. No pity followed his words, only a quiet, communal understanding that settled over the table.

The conversation drifted into easier waters, school rumors, the daily grind of the store, Sora’s increasingly creative excuses for failing math, and Akane’s legendary ability to forget her chores.

After the plates were cleared, Sora reached out and tugged at Adam’s sleeve. “Can you help me with a game? It’s hard.”

Adam glanced at Akane. She nodded encouragingly.

The two of them sat on the floor, the glow of the television flickering across their faces. Adam played with a quiet focus. He didn’t dominate the game or show off; he played just well enough to keep it competitive, letting Sora claim victory once, then twice.

Sora beamed, pumping a fist in the air. “You’re actually good!”

Adam shrugged. “You just have to learn the patterns.”

By the time the evening news began to drone in the background, Sora was swaying, his eyelids drooping.

“Big brother Adam,” he mumbled, leaning his head back against the sofa, half-asleep. “You can sleep in my room.”

Adam opened his mouth to decline, to offer to take the floor or the couch.

Yumi beat him to it, her tone final. “He will.”

Kenji smirked, crossing his arms. “Family rules, Adam-kun.”

Adam looked at the small boy, then at the two parents who had opened their door to a stranger without a second thought. He sighed, a soft, defeated sound that carried a hint of warmth.

“…Alright.”

The house had finally settled into a quiet rhythm. The kitchen was dark, Sora was a mess of limbs and soft snores in his room, and Yumi and Kenji had retreated to their own quarters, leaving only the low, electronic hum of the living room.

The TV flickered, casting a blue, rhythmic light against the walls. A familiar face suddenly filled the screen, the high-definition resolution capturing every calculated detail.

Kyoma Arashi.

Adam’s posture shifted instantly. The relaxed slope of his shoulders vanished, replaced by a razor-edged sharpness. He didn't move, but his eyes narrowed as they fixed on the screen.

The reporter’s voice was hushed, almost reverent, as if speaking of a deity rather than a man. "From humble beginnings to the wealthiest man in the nation, Kyoma Arashi continues to reshape the country through innovation, employment, and philanthropy..."

Kenji, standing near the doorway for a final check of the room, nodded appreciatively at the broadcast. "That man built half this city," he remarked, his voice full of a worker's begrudging respect. "Hard to find a street he hasn't touched."

Akane leaned back on her hands, watching the flickering images. "Dad admires him a lot," she said softly, glancing at Adam. "I think half the country does."

Adam said nothing. His silence was a physical thing, heavy and cold.

On screen, the camera panned to Arashi stepping out of a sleek, obsidian-black car. He was flanked by a phalanx of security, moving through a sea of flashing cameras with a gaze that was entirely unreadable, cold, distant, and absolute.

Adam’s jaw tightened, the muscle feathering beneath the skin. He stared at the man on the screen, not with admiration, but with a silent, burning recognition.

“...Tomorrow’s guest,” Akane said, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she noticed the sudden tension radiating from him.

Adam finally looked away, the light from the TV dying in his eyes.

The living room was cast in the flickering, low-saturated glow of the television.The volume had been bled down to a soft murmur, some music video playing out a sequence of washed-out colors and lingering close-ups. Neither of them was actually watching. Adam and Akane stayed Whereas  the rest of the family went to sleep

Akane shifted on the floor, her legs stretching out before she leaned back again, her movements restless. Her shoulder brushed Adam’s arm, not hard enough to be a collision, but too deliberate to be an accident. It was a silent probe, a question asked in the space between them.

Adam noticed. He always noticed. But he remained as he was, back against the couch, one knee pulled up, hands resting loosely on the floor. He was a study in stillness, looking for all the world like he was listening to a frequency only he could hear.

Akane’s gaze drifted to his hand. His fingers were long and relaxed, resting inches from her own.

Too close.

She swallowed, the sound loud in her own ears. Her pinky finger twitched, a tentative, nervous scout testing the air near his knuckles. Nothing happened. He didn’t retreat; he didn’t even blink.

Emboldened, she let her fingers slide against his. This time, the contact was warm and undeniable.

Adam’s eyes shifted instantly. He tracked the movement down to their joined hands, then looked up at her face. Akane’s cheeks were already burning, her eyes wide with the panicked adrenaline of someone who had just jumped from a great height and hadn't hit the ground yet.

“…You okay?” he asked, his voice a low, private vibration.

She nodded too quickly. “Mhm.”

They stayed like that. Adam didn’t pull away. Instead, slowly, almost thoughtfully, he shifted his hand, turning his palm upward so their hands fitted together properly. Skin to skin. No rush. No claim. Just a quiet, mutual grounding.

Akane’s breath hitched in her throat.

“You’re doing that thing,” he said, a ghost of amusement touching his voice.

“What thing?”

“Pretending you’re not nervous.”

She huffed, trying to reclaim some of her dignity. “I’m not.”

He tilted his head, studying her as if she were a complex puzzle he was finally beginning to solve. “Your ears are red.”

“…Traitor,” she muttered, touching her ear instinctively.

He smiled. It wasn’t wide or smug; it was soft and startlingly real. They sat in that shared gravity, the space between them shrinking inch by inch as Akane leaned closer. The music video ended. Another began. Neither of them looked at the screen.

She turned toward him fully now, close enough that the warmth of her breath fanned across his skin.

“Adam…”

“Yeah?”

Her eyes dropped to his lips.

His breath stilled. For the first time that night, Adam moved, not away, but toward her. It was a subtle shift, enough that his shoulder brushed her cheek.

“Akane,” he murmured, his voice steady but threaded with a new, sharp tension, “if you keep looking at me like that...”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to steal something.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Maybe I am.”

The silence stretched, thick and expectant. He didn’t stop her. Akane leaned in, moving with agonizing slowness, giving him every chance to back out. Her lips hovered just shy of his, so close she could feel the steady beat of his heart through the air between them.

Adam didn't move. He didn't rush her. He just watched her, his eyes dark and intent, looking quietly undone.

Another inch. Just one.

Buzz.

The vibration of Akane’s phone in her pocket was like a gunshot.

She froze. The spell shattered. She pulled back with shaky breath, fumbling for the device, her face a chaotic map of frustration and embarrassment.

Adam exhaled a long, slow breath, a faint, rueful laugh catching in his throat. “Saved by technology.”

She shot him a glare. “Don’t tease.”

She checked the screen. Ellie: We need to talk.

Akane’s expression shifted, the softness of the moment hardening into something complicated. She typed a quick reply.
Akane: Okay. After the festival tomorrow.

A beat.

Ellie: Okay.

She locked the phone and let it drop into her lap. Adam was watching her, his sharp eyes reading the change in her posture. “You alright?”

She nodded, then surprised him by squeezing his hand tight. “Yeah,” she said. “Just… later stuff.”

He accepted that without pressing. It was the way they worked. They sat in the quiet for a few more heartbeats before Akane suddenly leaned in and pressed a quick, firm kiss to his cheek. It was soft, sudden, and smelled faintly of the soap from earlier.

Adam stiffened, his eyes widening. “Akane...”

She was already scrambling to her feet, her cheeks blazing. “Good night kiss!”

Adam’s face warmed despite himself. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck to hide the heat. “…You’re dangerous.”

She laughed, the sound bright and victorious. “You love it.”

He looked back at her, his gaze steadying. “Yeah. I do.”

Her smile softened, the bravado fading into something more tender. She reached out, offering him a hand to help him up. “Come on. Big day tomorrow.”

He took her hand. As they turned off the lights and the living room fell into shadows, Adam looked back once at the spot on the floor where they had sat.

Tomorrow would be loud, chaotic, and full of the world. But today had been gentle. And for now, that was more than enough.

...

Adam woke before the sun had even considered breaking the horizon. It wasn’t an alarm that pulled him from sleep, but the internal clock of a body that never quite learned how to rest.

The Hayasaka house was silent, but it was a lived-in silence, the kind that felt warm rather than hollow. In the bed beside him, Sora was a tangle of limbs and blankets, one arm flung dramatically over his pillow as if he were mid-battle in a dream. Adam sat up slowly, his movements surgical, careful not to disturb the boy or the unfamiliar room.

He stretched, the familiar tension in his shoulders yielding to a single, sharp roll. He checked his phone. No notifications, just the stubborn, colorful icon of the group chat sitting on his home screen, a small, digital reminder that he wasn't as solitary as he used to be.

He slipped out of the room, the floorboards barely creaking under his weight.

In the living room, the world was cast in a pale, pre-dawn blue. Akane was already there, her hair tied in a loose, messy knot, a hoodie three sizes too big for her frame swallowing her shoulders. She was staring out the window, a glass of water held between her palms.

“You’re up early,” she said, her voice a soft rasp. She didn't need to turn around to know it was him.

“So are you.”

She offered a faint, tired smile to the glass. “Festival nerves.”

Adam leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. “You’ll be fine.”

She turned then, her eyes searching his in the dim light. They were soft, dancing with a familiar playfulness. “You say that like you’re not the one competing in half the events today.”

Adam gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’ll survive.”

She stepped closer, her voice dropping into the intimate range they’d discovered the night before. “You know my parents will tease me forever if you come home with a mountain of medals.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It is.”

They shared a quiet laugh, the kind that didn't need volume to be felt.

The morning quickly dissolved into the controlled chaos of breakfast. After Sora officially declared Adam his "Festival Good Luck Charm," Adam stepped onto the porch to lace up his shoes.

“I should go home and change,” he said, looking back at Akane. “Meet you at school?”

She nodded, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Don’t be late, Tsuda-kun.”

Adam paused, his hand on the doorframe. He looked back at her, his expression flat but his eyes narrowing. “…You’re enjoying that.”

She grinned, bright and unapologetic. “Very.”

By the time Adam arrived at the school gates, the campus had been entirely consumed by the festival. Banners in a dozen different colors fluttered from every railing, and the smell of yakisoba and fried dough began to drift from the booths lining the paths. Somewhere near the courtyard, music was blaring, too loud, too cheerful, a frantic heartbeat for the day.

But the sports ground was different. That was where the gravity of the day settled.

As Adam walked onto the field, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations didn't stop, but they changed frequency. Necks craned; whispers followed in his wake like a tailwind.

“That’s him.” “He won both trials.” “Did you see his face? He didn’t even celebrate.”

Adam felt the weight of the stares, filed them away as irrelevant data, and kept walking.

“You’re late,” Minato called out, jogging over with a manic energy that suggested he’d already had three energy drinks.

“I’m early,” Adam replied calmly. “Everyone else is just being loud.”

Ryusei, standing nearby, smirked. “Can’t argue with that.”

Hikari and Akane approached a moment later, their badminton bags slung over their shoulders. Akane did a slow lap around him with her eyes, assessing. “You changed.”

“Clothes tend to do that,” he noted.

She elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “Don’t get cocky just because you look decent in a tracksuit.”

He leaned in closer, his voice a low vibration intended only for her. “You’re the one who kissed me last night.”

The transition was instantaneous. Akane’s ears turned a violent shade of scarlet. “ADAM!”

Minato’s head snapped toward them, his eyes wide. “WHAT? WHAT DID I MISS?”

“Nothing,” Adam said, his face a mask of perfect innocence.

Akane, recovering her composure with a sharp, sugary smile, looked at Minato. “Everything.”

They were mid-conversation when the atmosphere shifted. It wasn't that the noise got louder; it got sharper.

The chatter fractured. Teachers suddenly straightened their posture, radios crackled with frantic static, and students instinctively turned toward the main road outside the gates. Adam felt it before he saw it, a sudden, heavy drop in the air pressure.

“…What’s happening?” Minato muttered, his bravado momentarily failing.

Then the cars arrived.

Three obsidian-black vehicles rolled through the gates, smooth and silent as predators. Behind them, another line appeared. And another. Twenty-five men stepped out first, men in sharp suits with earpieces and movements dictated by military precision.

The courtyard went dead quiet.

A red carpet was unfurled from the lead car to the front steps of the main building, teachers scrambling to align themselves like chess pieces being set on a board.

Akane’s breath caught in her throat. “That’s… him.”

The rear door of the central car opened. Kyoma Arashi stepped out.

He didn’t rush, and he didn't offer a politician's wave. He simply existed, tall, impeccably dressed, with eyes as sharp as cut glass. The sunlight seemed to hesitate before touching him, as if unsure whether it was allowed to fall on someone of his stature.

Whispers rippled through the frozen crowd like wind through dry grass. “That’s him… No way… He’s taller than I thought…”

Adam didn't speak. His eyes locked onto Kyoma with a stillness that felt centuries older than he was. In his chest, something tightened, a cold, hard recognition that held no warmth.

On the school steps, the Student Council formed a perfect line. At the center stood Kaito Itsukushima, the council president, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the glare of the sun. He bowed deeply.

“Welcome to Miyahara High, Arashi-sama. It is an honor to host you today.”

Beside him, the rest of the council stood like a palace guard: Maki Fushimi, sharp and analytical; Ellie Kasugano, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white, her eyes flicking briefly to Akane before darting away; Toma Ren, already documenting the moment; and Aya Shinohara, wearing a practiced, radiant smile.

Kyoma inclined his head just enough to acknowledge them. “The honor is mutual,” he said. His voice was calm, controlled, and carried across the silent courtyard with effortless authority.

Adam flinched inwardly. It was the same tone. The same cadence he had heard in his nightmares.

Akane glanced at him, her brow furrowing with concern. “Adam…?”

“I’m fine,” he said quietly, though his knuckles were white.

Kyoma’s gaze swept the courtyard, a king surveying his lands. For half a second—just a heartbeat, it stopped.

On Adam.

No one else noticed the pause. But Adam did. There was a flicker of something unreadable in the older man’s eyes, a spark of recognition, perhaps, or a challenge. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the gaze moved on.

Minato leaned in, whispering, “Did he just...”

“Don’t,” Adam said softly.

The festival roared back to life as Kyoma was ushered inside. Teachers exhaled in a collective wave of relief, and the students began to buzz louder than before. But the air didn’t fully relax. Something had been set in motion.

Ellie turned, catching Akane’s eye from across the distance. Guilt flickered across her face like a shadow, but she looked away again, disappearing into the wake of the Student Council.

Hikari squeezed Akane’s arm. “Hey… let’s go. We’ve got matches to get to.”

Akane nodded, but she glanced once more at Adam. He was still staring at the school entrance, long after the black suits had vanished inside. He wasn't afraid, and he wasn't impressed. He was simply braced.

Ghosts don’t knock, Adam thought distantly. They walk in like they own the place.

And today, they had arrived on a red carpet.

The Festival was about to begin..

The track radiated a low, shimmering heat that distorted the air just above the red rubber surface.

In the bleachers, the student body was a living wall of sound, snacks forgotten, phones raised high, chatter swelling and collapsing like waves. Minato bounced on his heels, stretching with an aggressive intensity that looked more like shadowboxing than a warm-up.

“Okay,” he said, his voice already breathless with adrenaline. “Friendly reminder, I run fast.”

Adam stood beside him, hands tucked loosely in his pockets, his gaze fixed on some point far beyond the finish line. “You run loud.”

Minato’s grin didn't falter. “And you run like you don’t care.”

“That’s because I don’t,” Adam replied, his voice flat and steady.

The officials called the runners forward, their voices amplified by the crackling PA system. Eight lanes. Eight boys. Adam moved to lane five. He performed no theatrics, no celebratory jogs, no dramatic stretches. He simply rolled his shoulders once and planted his shoes as if the track were a natural extension of his own feet.

In the crowd, a whisper rippled through the front row. “Who’s that? The transfer?”

Akane leaned forward in the stands, her fingers clenched so tightly around Hikari’s sleeve that her knuckles were white. “Adam,” she murmured, her voice a fragile mix of a prayer and a smile.

The starter raised the gun. The world seemed to hold its breath for a fraction of a second.

Bang.

Adam moved.

It wasn't an explosive start; it was inevitable. His first three strides were controlled and economical, the movements of a machine warming up. Then, at the halfway mark, his body shifted. Something deep inside him unlocked. His posture lengthened, and his stride smoothed into a frighteningly clean rhythm that ate the distance with terrifying ease.

Minato was fast, his face twisted with the effort of every muscle. But Adam was elsewhere.

The crowd realized it before the finish line did. The shouting transformed from a roar into a frantic, confused buzz.

“What,” “He’s pulling ahead,” “is he for real?!”

Adam crossed the line. Not by a nose, but by a full, staggering second. The electronic stopwatch on the scoreboard froze, then emitted a sharp, final beep.

Silence fell over the track. It lasted just long enough for the official to check his screen twice.

“NEW RECORD!” the official shouted, his voice cracking with sheer disbelief.

The stands erupted. It was a physical wall of sound that seemed to shake the track. Minato doubled over, hands on his knees, laughing between ragged gasps for air. “Okay, okay,I take it back. You don’t run loud. You run illegal.”

Adam blinked, looking back at the scoreboard. He seemed genuinely confused by the reaction. “Was it… good?”

Akane was already half-leaping, half-running down the concrete steps. She stopped in front of him, her chest heaving, her eyes shining with a pride she couldn't possibly hide. “You broke the school record, Adam! You shattered it!”

He frowned slightly, the praise not quite landing. “Oh.”

Minato looked up, his expression one of pure bewilderment. “You hid this? You’ve had this the whole time?”

Adam gave a small, indifferent shrug. “It didn’t come up.”

High above the chaos, on the secluded upper balcony of the main building, Kyoma Arashi stood alone.

His hands were folded neatly behind his back, his posture as impeccable as his suit. He didn't cheer. He didn't smile. But his eyes, sharp, cold, and calculating, never left the boy in lane five.

“…Still fast,” he murmured to the empty air.

The words were a ghost of a memory, spoken with the quiet satisfaction of a man who had finally found something he thought he’d lost.

While the track stayed hot with the lingering buzz of the record-breaking run, the focus of the festival shifted inward, drawing the crowd toward the cool, echoing cavern of the main gymnasium.

The transition was a change in frequency, from the open-air roar of the stadium to the sharp, rhythmic squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood. The gym smelled of resin and adrenaline, a heavy atmosphere that seemed to vibrate with every bounce of the ball.

Minato, who had barely caught his breath from the race, slapped Adam’s back with a grin that said he was ready for more. “Okay, track demon. Time to see if you can jump as well as you fly.”

Adam stepped onto the court with a quiet, practiced composure. He didn't look like a star athlete; he looked like a problem to be solved. He loosened his tie and rolled his sleeves, exposing forearms corded with lean muscle. Across the net, the opposing team snickered, eyeing his calm demeanor as a sign of weakness, until the first serve sliced through the air.

Adam didn’t spike with reckless abandon. He placed.

Every hit was a calculation of angles and speed. Every jump was perfectly timed, a feat of economy and grace. When he leapt, it was as if gravity hesitated, holding him in the air a fraction of a second longer than should have been possible.

Block. Point. Ace.

The snickers in the bleachers died out, replaced by a low, rhythmic chanting. The whispers that had followed him all morning began to evolve.

“Who IS he?” “That’s Adam, right?” “Wait, isn’t he the rumor guy?”

Adam landed from a particularly brutal spike, his expression entirely neutral. He didn't pump his fist or shout; his eyes were already scanning the back line, tracking the next move before it even happened.

Minato laughed mid-play, his energy feeding off the crowd’s shock. “You’re terrifying!”

Adam’s gaze flicked to him, a faint, rare smirk ghosting his lips. “Focus.”

The final point was a blur, a set, a leap, and a hit so precise it found the only inch of open floor on the opponent's side.

Win.

The gym thundered, the sound of stomping feet and clapping hands echoing off the high rafters. Adam wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, remaining as calm as he had been at breakfast. He looked less like a boy who had just redrawn his entire reputation and more like a man finishing a day’s work.

High above, in the shadows of the VIP viewing gallery, Kyoma Arashi watched the celebration below. His lips curved, though it wasn't a smile. It was the look of a collector who had just confirmed the value of a prize.

Recognition.

The roar of the gymnasium didn’t fade; it simply shifted key as the focus moved from the high-flying intensity of the volleyball court to the lightning-fast precision of the badminton mats.

The air here was thinner, punctuated by the sharp thwack of shuttlecocks and the rhythmic squeak of rubber on linoleum. Akane and Hikari stood side-by-side, their rackets raised like weapons, the tension between them and their opponents almost visible.

Hikari took a shallow, shaky breath, her knuckles white around the grip. “I’m nervous,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crowd.

Akane didn’t look away from the net, but she bumped her shoulder firmly against Hikari’s. “Good. Means you care. Now let's show them why.”

The serve cut through the air.

Hikari played with the elegance of an artist, her returns moving in precise, clean arcs and her footwork remaining perfectly controlled. But if Hikari was the brush, Akane was the storm. She was pure fire, chasing down every shuttle as if it had insulted her personally. Her dives were sharp, her returns wicked and low.

The crowd gathered quickly, drawn by the sheer contrast of their styles.

“She’s good,” “No, she’s relentless. Look at her go.”

At match point, the shuttle hovered in the air, a slow, high lob. Hikari hesitated for a fraction of a second, the weight of the win suddenly heavy on her shoulders. Akane caught her eye across the small distance and gave a single, sharp nod.

Trust me.

Hikari swung. The connection was flawless.

Point.

They won.

Akane let out a triumphant whoop that echoed off the walls, pulling a startled Hikari into a fierce, bone-crushing hug. “WE DID IT!” she yelled, her face glowing.

Hikari finally let out the breath she’d been holding, laughing through her exhaustion. “We really did.”

From the sidelines, leaning against a equipment rack with his arms crossed, Adam watched them. He didn't join the cheering crowd, but his gaze was fixed on the center court. As Akane scanned the room, her eyes instinctively found his.

He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. He simply lifted his thumb in a silent, solitary gesture of approval.

Akane’s face flushed a deep, radiant pink, a heat that had nothing to do with the match she’d just finished. In that moment, she felt like she’d won something far bigger than a trophy.

From the high, shadowed vantage point of the observation deck, Kyoma Arashi watched the school pulse beneath him like a living organism.

Below, the festival was a riot of noise and color, art stalls draped in vibrant silks, the distant, frantic beat of a rock club's performance, and the raw, electric energy of competition. To the world, it was the pinnacle of youth. To Kyoma, it was a data set.

And then, there was the anomaly.

Adam Tsuda.

Kyoma watched him through the glass. Every movement the boy made was a study in economy. Every instinct was honed to a razor’s edge. There was no wasted energy, no superfluous emotion. It was the kind of efficiency that wasn't taught in classrooms; it was forged in a fire that most people never had to survive.

Kyoma turned slightly toward the principal, who was standing a respectful three paces behind him. "That boy," Kyoma said, his voice like the click of a locking door.

The principal stiffened, his collar suddenly feeling a size too small. "Adam Tsuda, sir. A recent transfer student. Quite remarkable, actually,he's already breaking track records and.."

"So he calls himself that now," Kyoma interrupted. His gaze hardened, the cold light of the windows reflecting in his unreadable eyes.

Below on the track, Adam laughed quietly at something Minato said, a genuine, human moment that seemed to catch the sunlight.

Kyoma watched it with the detached intensity of a man seeing a ghost wearing a brand-new face. It was a face he knew too well, yet one he hadn't seen in years.

"…Interesting," he murmured, the word carrying the weight of a sentence.

The festival churned on around them. Records were shattered on the asphalt; friendships were forged and tightened in the heat of the gym; eyes were opened to possibilities that hadn't existed at sunrise.

And Adam....

Adam didn’t know it yet. He was still caught in the rhythm of the day, breathing in the scent of rain and competition. He didn't feel the weight of the gaze from the balcony or hear the gears of a massive machine beginning to turn.

But today, the world had started remembering him. And Kyoma Arashi never forgot what belonged to him.

...

The art room no longer felt like a classroom; it had been hollowed out and rebuilt into a sanctuary of expression. Canvases lined the walls, tables were draped in soft, heavy cloths, and a borrowed speaker crackled every few minutes, leaking instrumental music into the air. The atmosphere was a heady mix of wet paint, wood glue, and the electric scent of nervous excitement.

Akane stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips as she surveyed the display like a general inspecting the front lines.

“Okay,” she said, her voice crisp and commanding. “If anything falls, Ryusei, you’re on catch duty.”

Ryusei didn't move from his spot against the wall. “I don’t recall signing up to be structural support.”

“You signed up by existing,” Minato shot back, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he obsessively adjusted a crooked label. “Besides, Hikari, your watercolor is criminally good. It’s making the rest of us look like we’re finger-painting.”

Hikari’s face warmed instantly. “It’s just flowers, Minato.”

“They look like they have feelings,” he insisted, stepping back to admire the delicate petals.

Adam stood slightly apart from the frantic energy, leaning near a window. He hadn't contributed a single brushstroke to the walls, but his fingerprints were everywhere, in the perfectly mounted frames, the meticulously adjusted lighting, and the silent efficiency that had stabilized every wobbling stand in the room.

Akane’s gaze drifted to him, lingering on the quiet way he occupied the corner of the room. She drifted over, her shoulder brushing his as she whispered, “You’re doing that quiet hero thing again.”

He didn't look away from the crowd entering the room. “Someone has to stop Minato from rearranging the exhibits based on his emotions.”

“I curate with passion!” Minato yelled from across the room, having clearly overheard.

A cluster of teachers stopped in front of Hikari’s piece, their voices falling into a respectful hush. “This composition is lovely… such control at this age… who did this?”

Hikari looked as though she might actually short-circuit under the attention. Akane reached out, squeezing her hand with a silent, supportive grin. See? Told you.

Then, a deeper, more resonant voice joined the chorus of praise. “And this mixed-media piece?”

Akane stepped forward, her chin lifting slightly. “Mine.”

The judge leaned in, tracing the layers with his eyes. “Bold textures. There’s feeling here, a sense of conflict, perhaps?”

“Yeah,” Akane said, her smile turning soft and genuine. “Something like that.”

Adam watched her glow under the praise, that strange, stubborn warmth blooming in his chest again. It was a quiet pride, a feeling of being a witness to something rare.

Across the room, framed by the shadow of the doorway, Ellie stood alone.

She was unannounced and, for the most part, unnoticed. She watched the scene play out like a film she wasn't cast in, watching Akane’s vibrant laughter, watching Hikari’s quiet success, and watching Adam. He stood by Akane’s side, not possessive or loud, but with a presence that felt like a permanent anchor.

He’s everywhere, she thought, her fingers curling tightly around the edge of her silver clipboard. In her smiles. In their wins. In the very air they breathe.

A teacher brushed past her, breaking the spell. “Treasurer, the next schedule needs your signature.”

Ellie blinked, her professional mask sliding back into place with practiced ease. “Of course. Right away.”

She took one final look before leaving. This time, Adam’s gaze caught hers. There was no challenge in his eyes, no bitterness for the tension between them. It was just a steady, silent acknowledgment, the look of someone who knew exactly where everyone stood on the board.

Ellie was the first to look away.

...

The courtyard had undergone its final transformation of the day.

The frantic energy of the booths and games had been swept aside to make room for a clean, elevated stage bathed in the warm, artificial glow of hanging lanterns. Students gathered in tight clusters, their uniforms wrinkled and hair windblown, the exhaustion on their faces worn like a badge of honor.

The festival was over. Now came the reckoning.

Akane stood with Hikari near the front of the crowd, the weight of their preliminary medals resting cool against their collars. Hikari kept reaching up to touch the metal, her fingers tracing the edges as if to prove it was solid.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” she whispered, her eyes wide.

Akane smiled, a tired but radiant expression. “If you wake up, tell me what happens next.”

Nearby, Minato cracked his knuckles with a rhythmic, nervous snap. “Why am I more scared now than I was before the starting gun?”

Ryusei let out a long yawn, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Because now the adults are watching. Judgment is always louder than the race.”

Adam stood slightly apart from the group, a shadow at the edge of their light. His posture was relaxed, but his senses were dialed to their highest frequency. He felt the eyes on him, the teachers’ appraising looks, the students’ hushed whispers, all folding into one low, expectant hum.

Then, the murmurs died a sudden death.

Kyoma Arashi stepped onto the stage.

He didn't need an introduction; his presence acted as its own fanfare. The principal stepped to the microphone, his voice careful and laden with a deep, practiced respect. “Today’s festival showcased not just talent, but effort, teamwork, and spirit. We are honored to have Kyoma Arashi-sama himself present the final awards.”

Applause erupted, a physical wall of sound. Kyoma raised a single hand, not demanding silence, but merely receiving it as his due.

The awards began.

“Art Exhibition, Commendation.”

Hikari’s name echoed across the courtyard. She froze, her breath catching.

“GO!” Akane hissed, giving her a gentle, insistent shove.

Hikari walked up the stairs, her knees trembling. Kyoma handed her the medal and paused to study her art pamphlet for a brief, silent moment. “You have patience,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that made Hikari’s head spin. “That’s rare.”

Hikari bowed so deeply her hair nearly swept the stage, her eyes brimming with tears as she stepped back.

“Badminton, Winners.”

Akane’s name rang out next. She walked up with her chin held high, though her heart was slamming against her ribs. Kyoma looked at her longer than he had anyone else, his gaze piercing.

“Fire,” he said simply. “Don’t dull it.”

Akane blinked, startled by the intensity of the remark. “…Thank you, sir.”

Then came the silence. A pause that felt intentional.

“100-meter Dash, Record Holder. Adam Tsuda.”

The courtyard exploded. The sound was deafening, a roar of approval for the boy who had appeared out of nowhere to shatter the school’s history.

Adam didn’t move for a heartbeat. Minato elbowed him hard in the ribs, grinning wildly. “GO, LEGEND.”

Adam walked up the steps with a calm that bordered on the supernatural, but inside, every nerve was screaming. Kyoma stood waiting for him. Up close, the man felt larger, not just in height, but in the sheer gravity of his presence. His eyes locked onto Adam’s with an unsettling, predatory familiarity.

“…Congratulations!,” Kyoma said, his voice a low vibration that didn't reach the microphones.

Adam accepted the medal, and replied "Thank yo, Sir!"

“Volleyball, Champions.”

Minato cheered as he took the stage, looking like he’d just won the world. The ceremony ended with a thunderous final round of applause and the sudden, bright burst of a few celebratory streamers.

But as the crowd began to disperse, Adam felt the medal around his neck. It didn't feel like a reward. It felt like a question mark made of cold, hard steel.



Continued in the Next Chapter.....