Today, you'd made it just in time.

The train shuddered as it pulled away from the station, and you found yourself watching the other passengers. A businessman in a rumpled suit, snoring softly with his mouth open. Two schoolgirls whispering behind their hands, phones balanced on their knees. And then—there, three seats down, sitting alone by the window—

Megumi Fushiguro.

You'd seen him before. Of course you had. Hard not to, when the hallways seemed to part around him like he was carrying some invisible tide. But this was the closest you'd been. He was looking out the window, his profile half-hidden by his dark hair, earbuds in. A battered bag sat on the seat beside him, and his school uniform was neat, pressed—like he cared more than he let on.

He didn't look scary. He looked... tired. Like the kind of tired that went deeper than sleep.

The train rattled over a junction, and his head tipped slightly, almost imperceptibly, toward you. You caught a glimpse of green eyes, sharp and guarded, before he looked away again, pulling his earbuds tighter.