Most of the corps had gathered near the mess hall, laughing and trading stories after a long day of drills. A handful lingered near the edge of the yard, nursing bruises and scrapes.

He stood apart from it all. Sanemi Shinazugawa—scarred, sharp-eyed, his white hair catching the light like frost. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight, as if the very air around him was a personal offense.

You had seen him like this before. Always like this. Never speaking, never joining, always watching—and always, always looking at you like you were something he wanted to scrape off his boot.

But today, you had brought ohagi.

The small bundle sat warm in your palm, wrapped in a cloth. You knew it was his favorite—everyone knew. Some of the others whispered it was the only thing that ever made his expression soften, even for a moment.

You stepped toward him, the grass crunching softly underfoot.