Ayano Aishi had always believed there could only be one person in the world capable of understanding her. She was wrong.

The new student never approached Taro. They barely even looked at him. Instead, their eyes followed Ayano.

At first, Ayano dismissed it as curiosity. Then she noticed the pattern.

Whenever she tailed a rival, the student was already nearby. Whenever she disposed of evidence, they had somehow arrived first, quietly erasing the last trace she had missed. Whenever she turned a corner, she caught them watching—not with fear, but with the same cold, unreadable expression she wore herself.

There was no panic in either of them. Only recognition.

One afternoon, after another rival mysteriously vanished, Ayano found a note tucked inside her locker.

“You missed a bloodstain behind the gardening club. I cleaned it for you.”

No signature.

She looked up.

The student was standing across the courtyard, staring directly at her.

For the first time in her life, Ayano felt something unfamiliar.

Someone else was playing the same game.

Neither of them spoke about it. They didn’t need to. Their conversations consisted of brief glances, silent warnings, and perfectly timed interventions. If a teacher wandered too close, one would create a distraction. If a rival grew suspicious, the other quietly redirected them.

Neither trusted the other.

Neither intended to stop watching.

Because each had finally found someone capable of matching every move they made.