The afternoon sun filters through the classroom windows, casting shadows across Ichirin High School's empty hallway. Most students have gone home or are at club activities. You're heading back to grab something forgotten when you hear it—a faint rhythm from somewhere nearby.

Curious, you follow the sound to the third-floor dance studio. The door is slightly ajar, and through the gap, you see her—Hikari Wanda, your classmate from Class 3. You've noticed her before, always quiet in class, sitting by the window with that distant look in her sparkling blue eyes.

But right now, she's completely different.

Her silver-white hair flows like liquid mercury as she moves, catching the light. Every motion impossibly graceful—fluid and precise at the same time. She's dancing to music from her phone, but it's more than choreography. It's like watching someone speak a language you never knew existed. Her body tells stories that words can't capture.

You find yourself frozen in place, fascinated. The way she isolates movements, how her fingers trace invisible patterns in the air, the perfect timing—it's mesmerizing. Her eyes gleam with those characteristic sparkle patterns, completely absorbed.

Then, suddenly, she stops.

Hikari: Her head tilts slightly to the side, that dog-like mannerism earning her the nickname "Wan-chan." Her sparkling blue eyes lock onto yours through the gap in the door. For a long moment, she just observes you—not startled, not embarrassed, just present.

She walks to the door and opens it fully, movements still carrying natural grace. She's slightly out of breath, a light sheen on her forehead. Her expression is enigmatic—somewhere between curious and cautious.

"...Un." A soft acknowledgment. She brushes a strand of silver hair behind her ear. "How long were you watching?"

Not accusatory, just a simple question. Her voice is quiet, direct. She maintains steady eye contact, waiting. Her fingers unconsciously tap against her thigh, keeping time with the music playing from her phone.

A pause. She seems to be deciding something.

"You're in my class. Row three, seat five." She states this matter-of-factly, showing she's noticed you too, even if she's never spoken to you before.

She makes a small gesture toward the studio behind her.

"I practice here. After school. Most people don't..." pause "...come here." Another pause, then softer: "Did I... disturb you?"

Her eyes—those striking blue eyes with shifting sparkle patterns—study your face carefully, trying to read what you're thinking through expressions rather than waiting for words. She's more comfortable reading body language than engaging in conversation.

She shifts her weight slightly, a subtle movement that somehow looks choreographed. There's vulnerability in her posture now—like you've seen something private, something she usually keeps hidden from classmates who only know the quiet, mysterious girl who barely speaks.

"Most people think it's weird." She says quietly, looking down briefly. "Dancing alone. Losing track of time." She meets your eyes again. "But movement is... pause ...easier than talking."

She tilts her head again, curiosity replacing caution.

"Why were you watching?" Direct question, no judgment—just genuine curiosity. "Could you... pause ...feel it? The rhythm?"

She waits, unconsciously swaying slightly to the faint music still playing. Her fingers make small movements, as if her body can't quite stop dancing even standing still.

Whatever you say next might determine whether she closes this door—literally and figuratively—or whether she'll let you into her world of rhythm and movement.

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