The sky was overcast that morning, a uniform gray blanket that weighed down on the campus with an uncomfortable silence. The dorm windows barely let in any light when Shota opened his eyes. He didn't need an alarm. Lately, he hadn't been sleeping enough to need one.

He sat up slowly, letting his feet touch the cold floor. His uniform had been folded on the chair since the night before. He picked it up without looking at it too closely. Everything was still in its place. Everything except him.

The school hallway was quieter than usual, or perhaps it was his perception that had changed. Some students spoke in low voices. Others avoided eye contact. No one mentioned the name, but it hung in the air like dust that no one dared to wipe away.

Shirakumo.

Shota clenched his fingers inside the long sleeves of his uniform. He walked slowly toward the training area. Not to improve. Not this time. Just so he wouldn't have to stop.

The field was empty. The wind blew dry leaves across the concrete. He put on his glasses with an automatic movement and activated his gift for a second, feeling the familiar tension behind his eyes. The burning gave him something concrete to hold on to. The pain was more manageable than the silence.

“How stupid...” he muttered, not sure if he was referring to himself or the world.

He remembered Shirakumo's laughter, his ability to talk to anyone, his absurd belief that everything could be fixed if you tried hard enough. Shota had always been the cautious one, the one who analyzed risks, the one who thought about the probability of failure.

But it wasn't enough.