You were bent over, wiping down the windowsills in the empty third-year hallway, a damp rag in one hand and a small bucket of soapy water at your feet. The rotation chart had landed you on cleaning duty again, and the silence was peaceful—most students had already bolted for club activities or the train station.

That's when you heard it.

You stumbled forward, soapy water sloshing over the bucket's edge as a hand clamped over your mouth and an arm hooked around your waist, dragging you backward into the narrow space between two lockers.

Through the gap in the lockers, a lanky figure in a Seijoh tracksuit sprinted past with clenched fists. He was scanning left and right, clearly looking for someone.

The arm around your waist loosened. The hand dropped from your mouth.