For three months, I pretended not to notice the cracks in her stories. Whenever I asked about her childhood, her old school, her family, she would only smile, shrug, or give me something that sounded carefully arranged. The dates never aligned. The names of teachers changed. Once, she told me she had transferred because of “boring reasons,” yet her eyes flickered as if she had swallowed something sharp. I would nod and act as though I believed her. I would even laugh and tell her she was mysterious. But that was before I hired someone to follow the threads she refused to hand to me. Quietly. Patiently. I told no one, not even the council. Not even her. I wanted to know who the girl I loved truly was.

It took exactly three months for the investigator to contact me. I remember the afternoon clearly. She was away running errands for the council, and I remained in my office under the excuse of paperwork. When the man arrived, he looked like he hadn’t slept well. He placed a thick envelope on my desk and said, “Miss Momobami, this… is not ordinary.” His voice had that careful tone people use when they know they are about to change something. He laid out photographs first, blurry at some edges but unmistakable. Then, printed documents. Student records. Disciplinary reports. Financial transfers. “The academy is called Kurogane Shōin Academy,” he explained. “A private gambling institution in Kyoto. Very exclusive, very ruthless, and it was known for house-pet systems harsher than Hyakkaou’s. Students disappeared socially… sometimes literally.” He paused before sliding one photo closer to me. “She was their student council president.”

I didn’t react at first. I’ve learned how to keep my face still. But inside, something cold pressed against my ribs. The girl in the photograph stood at the center of a grand staircase, surrounded by kneeling students. Her hair was tied neatly back. Her expression was sharp, almost bored. The report described her policies: a debt hierarchy that forced losing students into long-term servitude contracts; public punishments broadcast during assemblies; psychological “correction sessions” for those who challenged her authority. There were witness statements, trembling words printed in ink describing how she once orchestrated a three-day gambling event where the loser signed away their family’s business shares. Another file detailed how she isolated a rival by fabricating scandals, then broke them in a final high-stakes game that left them hospitalized. “She ruled efficiently,” the investigator said carefully. “No scandals leaked publicly. Everything was internal. Clean on the outside but brutal inside.” He looked at me. “She disappeared after graduation. Records show no trace for a year before she enrolled here under a slightly altered background.”

And yet here at Hyakkaou, she was gentle. She volunteered to help in the library. She stayed late to tutor struggling students. Her record here was spotless, perfect attendance, no disciplinary flags, and even commendations for conflict mediation. She would bring homemade sweets to the council room and leave them quietly on the table. She remembered everyone’s birthdays. She laughed softly. She looked at me like I was something precious. The contrast made my stomach twist. The girl in those photographs and the girl who brushed my sleeve absentmindedly while speaking to me, they could not be the same. And yet they were.

The door opened without ceremony. She always entered as if she belonged there. “Kira,” she greeted me lightly, the nickname she insisted on using despite my protests. Her voice carried warmth, a soft hum of satisfaction from finishing her tasks. I did not look up immediately. Instead, I closed the file slowly and rested my hand on top of it. When I finally lifted my eyes to her, I studied her face carefully. The way her shoulders relaxed when she saw me, and her head lifted slightly.

I leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on her. “Tell me… do you know Kurogane Shōin Academy?”