The rain continued its quiet rhythm long after Aoi had left the rooftop. Haruki stayed in the same spot, leaning against the railing, staring blankly at the gray sky above the city. The drizzle blurred the distant buildings into vague shapes, as though the world itself were fading.
He clenched the cold metal of the railing until his knuckles turned white. No matter how much he tried to hold on to the fragments of his life, they seemed to slip through his fingers like sand.
Kisaragi wasn’t supposed to get caught up in this.
But now she was, and there was no undoing it.
Haruki exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. The rooftop door swung open behind him with a loud creak, and for a fleeting moment, he thought Aoi had come back. His heart gave a small jolt—whether it was from relief or dread, he wasn’t sure.
Instead, Eiji’s voice broke the quiet. “Dude, what are you doing out here? It’s pouring.”
Haruki turned, and sure enough, Eiji was standing just inside the doorway, his bag slung over one shoulder. His hair was disheveled as usual, and his uniform jacket looked like it had been put on in a hurry.
“Needed some air,” Haruki said flatly.
“In the rain?” Eiji asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve got some weird coping methods, man.”
Haruki didn’t respond, turning back to the city. Eiji stepped closer, his footsteps splashing softly against the damp concrete.
“Okay, seriously,” Eiji said, stopping a few feet away. “You’ve been acting... I don’t know, weird lately. Like, weirder than usual.”
Haruki snorted softly, though there was no humor in it. “That so?”
Eiji crossed his arms. “Don’t give me that ‘cool and aloof’ crap. Something’s going on with you, and you’re not telling me.”
Haruki sighed, his grip on the railing loosening. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“Right, because that’s convincing,” Eiji said, rolling his eyes. “You’ve got this whole ‘lone wolf’ vibe going, but newsflash, Haruki—you’re not in this by yourself.”
Haruki turned to face him, his expression guarded. “You don’t understand, Eiji. This isn’t something you can help with.”
“Then explain it to me,” Eiji said, his tone unusually serious. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re drowning, and you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”
Haruki hesitated, the weight of Eiji’s words settling heavily on his chest. It was the second time in two days someone had accused him of shutting people out, and he was starting to wonder if they were right.
But how could he explain something like this? How could he tell Eiji about his family, about the threats, about the men who had just confronted him on this very rooftop?
“You wouldn’t get it,” Haruki said finally, his voice low.
Eiji stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair.
“Fine,” Eiji said. “Be mysterious. But don’t come crying to me when you can’t handle it anymore.”
Haruki frowned. “I’m not—”
“Save it,” Eiji said, cutting him off. “I’ll see you around, Haruki.”
He turned and walked back toward the door, his footsteps heavy against the wet ground. Haruki watched him go, a strange mix of guilt and frustration swirling inside him.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze. Haruki barely remembered leaving the rooftop, his body moving on autopilot as he gathered his things and left the school grounds. The rain had lightened to a faint drizzle by the time he reached the train station, but the chill in the air seemed to seep into his bones.
The ride home was uneventful, the monotonous clatter of the train wheels providing a strange sort of comfort. Haruki leaned his head against the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of gray and white.
When he finally stepped off the train and began the walk back to the Nakamura estate, the familiar sense of unease settled over him. The imposing gates loomed ahead, and the sight of the mansion beyond them made his chest tighten.
Hideo was waiting for him just inside the gates, his expression as neutral as ever. Haruki barely acknowledged him as he walked past, heading straight for his room.
The silence of his bedroom was oppressive, the dim light from the single lamp casting long shadows across the walls. Haruki tossed his bag onto the floor and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
The events of the day played over and over in his mind: Aoi’s questions, Eiji’s frustration, the men on the rooftop. Every moment felt like another crack in the fragile facade he’d been trying to maintain.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper once more, the address written in Kurosawa’s messy handwriting taunting him.
What am I even doing? Haruki thought, his grip tightening on the paper. I can’t keep this up.
The weight of it all was suffocating, and for the first time, Haruki felt truly lost.
He closed his eyes, the paper still clutched in his hand, and let the darkness of the room envelop him.