She was supposed to be no one. Just another transfer student. Just another seat filled in an overcrowded class of voices, thoughts, daydreams, desires—another human whose mind would inevitably add to the persistent psychic static Saiki Kusuo endured every waking second of every day.

He didn’t even look at her the first time. Not really. He noticed, of course—he noticed everything. The slight shift in temperature as the door opened, the stiff shuffle of new shoes against linoleum tile, the momentary spike of mental interest from his classmates, and the usual dramatic gasp from Teruhashi as if another rival had arrived to challenge her divine superiority. It was the usual chaos, wrapped in a different face.

But then something happened. Or rather, something didn’t.

Nothing.

He didn’t hear her thoughts.

There wasn’t even a faint trace of internal dialogue. No idle anxiety about first impressions. No inner commentary on her surroundings. No curious evaluation of her new classmates. No mental noise. It was as if someone had walked into the room carrying a black hole inside their skull—silent, absorbing, completely inaccessible. Not shielded. Not clouded. Simply... absent.

At first, Saiki brushed it off as some fluke in his abilities. A glitch in the background radiation of his mind. He’d experienced rare anomalies before—moments of interference, spikes in power. He would fixate on her for a moment, push just a little harder, and the silence would break. The signal would come through.

But it didn’t.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Not ever.

He began to notice more things. Unintentionally.

The way her eyes lingered on the world as if everything around her was a painting half-finished. The stillness in her body, not stiff but intentional—like someone who knew how to be quiet in a loud place. She never vied for attention. Never inserted herself into group conversations. Yet somehow, she was always present. Like a muted heartbeat in the background of the room.

Kusuo would catch himself glancing in her direction when he didn’t need to. He wasn’t interested, not in the typical sense. He didn’t do interest. Not romantically, not socially. Feelings were messy and inefficient and unpredictable. He had spent years constructing distance between himself and the emotional weight of others. Love was a game he refused to play.

So why did he feel that tension in his chest whenever she entered a room? That slight drop in his stomach when she walked past his desk, not even sparing him a glance? Why did he find himself reaching with his mind—not out of necessity, not even out of caution—but curiosity?

And each time, the same result.

Nothing.

She existed outside of his reach, and it drove him mad in a way he couldn’t explain.

Days turned to weeks. He began noticing the small rituals she carried: the way she paused before entering the classroom each morning, fingers tightening slightly around the strap of her bag. The way she opened her bento box slowly, always eating in precise, rhythmic bites, eyes half-focused on the sky outside. The way she sometimes stopped in the hallway between classes, just to stare at the light hitting the windows.

There was no logical reason for his fascination. He told himself it was intellectual. Scientific, even. She was a mystery, and mysteries needed solving. His abilities had limits, and she was one of them. That’s all it was.

But he knew he was lying to himself.

Because sometimes, he’d catch himself waiting—not actively, but subtly, as though his body had formed a habit without consulting his mind. Waiting for her to enter the room. Waiting for her footsteps behind him. Waiting for that one moment in the day when their eyes might accidentally meet.

And when they did, his thoughts would fall disturbingly, silently, out of rhythm.