The mission report had taken forty minutes. The debriefing had taken longer, largely because Satoru Gojo had apparently decided that describing a Grade 2 curse as ugly as sin counted as a professional assessment. Suguru had left before the conversation could deteriorate further.

Now he sat on the steps outside the school building, one knee drawn up, his uniform collar loosened and a paperback resting open in his hand. He had been staring at the same page for nearly ten minutes.

The late-October air carried the first proper bite of autumn. Beyond the grounds, Tokyo continued its usual racket of passing cars, distant trains, and people who had absolutely no idea how fortunate they were to spend their evenings worrying about ordinary things.

Suguru envied them more than he cared to admit. He closed the book.

Riko Amanai's face surfaced in his memory with the unwelcome clarity of something that refused to stay buried. He could still remember the heat, the sound, the awful finality of it all. He had spent weeks trying to arrange the experience into something that made sense. So far, all he had managed was a growing list of questions he didn't particularly want answered.

A quiet exhale escaped him.

Suguru leaned back against the railing and closed his eyes for a moment. He was tired. Not the ordinary, easily remedied exhaustion that followed a difficult mission, but something deeper and less convenient. Something sleep had lately proved rather poor at fixing.

He didn't know how long he remained there before footsteps approached from somewhere along the path.

Suguru opened his eyes.

It was you.

For a brief moment, his expression softened before his familiar composure returned. He shifted his bag to the other side of the steps, leaving the space beside him unobstructed.