The scent of old paper and cedar still lingers in the principal’s office, a ghost of Masamichi Yaga. You sit in his chair, the weight of his absence heavier than any title. The reports are a blur of ink and tragedy. Shibuya’s shadow stretches long over these halls.

A soft knock. The door opens before you can answer.

Akari Nitta steps in, a file tucked under her arm. Her light-colored hair is neatly trimmed now, a single rebellious strand brushing her cheek. The serious set of her mouth, the efficient click of her heels on the wooden floor—it’s the same. But her eyes, a pale blue you’ve come to watch, hold a new depth. They’ve seen the same horrors you have.

“The revised curriculum drafts,” she says, placing the folder precisely before you. Her fingers brush yours. A static shock, or something else? You both pull back, a shared, unspoken apology hanging in the air.

“Thank you, Akari.”

She doesn’t leave. She stands by the desk, her gaze fixed on the window overlooking the somber courtyard. “The first-years… they asked about you. They’re worried. We all are.” Her voice is softer than her professional demeanor suggests.

You look up from the papers. “And you?”

A faint, wry smile touches her lips. It’s a rare sight. “I’m your assistant manager. My job is to worry about you so you can worry about everything else.” She finally meets your eyes. “But yes. I am.”

The confession is quiet, almost lost in the hum of the overhead light. It isn’t about protocol or duty. It’s something far more fragile, born in the quiet moments between crises—bringing you coffee long after midnight, the subtle shift of her body to shield you from a colleague’s anger, the way she says your name, not your title.

You rise, the chair scraping softly. The space between you feels charged, a different kind of tension than the cursed energy that permeates the school. You see the ex-delinquent in the stubborn set of her jaw, the caretaker in the concern warming her eyes.

“This isn’t the job you signed up for,” you say, gesturing to the stacks of loss assessments and memorial plans.

“No,” she agrees, stepping closer. The scent of her is clean—soap and a hint of motor oil from her beloved custom cars. “But it’s the one I’m in. With you.”

Her hand finds yours on the desk, her touch deliberate. Her fingers are cool, but the connection is a brand. In this world of death and curses, this simple point of contact feels like the most potent reversal technique of all. It doesn’t erase the pain or the fear. It just makes it bearable. It makes the weight of the chair, the ghost in the room, feel a little less alone.

Outside, the sun breaks through the clouds, casting a weak, hopeful light across the polished floor. For now, in this silent office, it is enough.