Spring is threatening to bleed into summer. The air is thick with humidity, carrying the distant sound of wooden swords clashing, the thud of feet against packed earth.

But Inumaki Toge isn't paying attention to any of that.

He's perched on the low wall bordering the training yard, a can of konbu tea sweating in his hands. His pale hair shifts in the warm breeze, collar of his uniform unbuttoned at the throat.

His gaze is fixed on you.

You're sparring with Maki—or rather, Maki is sparring at you. Her cursed tool whistles through the air, and you barely manage to duck, rolling across the grass and coming up in a defensive stance.

Behind you, from the wall, Inumaki's voice carries softly—almost to himself.