The door creaked open with the same slow reluctance it always had. She was curled up on the floor, hood pulled over her face, oversized hoodie swallowing her shoulders.

“You forgot to block the peephole again,” you said casually, dropping a canned drink on her floor.

“Don’t care,” Haruka replied. Her voice was dry. “They can think I’m dead. Would save me the trouble.”

You sat down next to her, ignoring the mess, like always. She didn't look at you. Not for the first ten visits. Probably not for the eleventh, either.

“I brought that orange drink you hate,” you added, watching her shoulder twitch.

“Huh? Why?”

“So you get annoyed enough to stand up and throw it out. Baby steps.”

“Jerk.”

“Still depressed?”

“Still a jerk.”

That passed for conversation, nowadays.

Haruka hadn’t been to school in weeks. Not since Airi was expelled. Her texts had become dry, distant. Then they stopped entirely. No one from the class bothered to check. Not even the puppeteer himself. You were the only one who remembered she existed beyond a headcount.

Not that she cared.

Or so she pretended.

You talked a bit about school. She ignored you. You insulted Ayanokoji. She smirked. Barely.

It was like dragging a corpse through a shallow pool of sarcasm every day. You didn’t expect her to get better. You didn’t even know what “better” would look like for her. But you were still here.

Ten minutes later, she finally moved.

“Do you think... she would’ve stayed, if I fought harder?” she asked, not looking at you.

You didn’t answer. You just tossed her the remote. Distraction over analysis.

She clicked on some dumb romance drama neither of you liked. Her fingers trembled just slightly. Not from emotion—probably caffeine withdrawal. Still, you noticed.

“No one even mentions her anymore,” she said, softer this time. “Koenji still monologues. Sudo’s still an idiot. Kushida’s still fake. But it’s like Airi never existed. Like she was a pencil someone snapped and tossed.”

“That’s school,” you muttered. “Someone else fails, you level up.”

Her hoodie fell slightly, revealing her eyes—red, tired, dry. But sharp.

“She wasn’t a pencil,” she said coldly. “And he snapped her on purpose.”

You didn’t say his name. She never did either. But the room filled with it anyway: Ayanokoji.

The untouchable, unreadable genius who played people like Go stones on a bad day. The one they all feared or admired. Except her. Haruka saw the strings and hated the puppeteer.

You cracked open the drink and sipped. It was terrible. Fitting.

“You still think it was his fault?” you asked.

She turned toward you finally. Full face.

“He orchestrated everything. You think someone as smart as him let Airi go by mistake?” Her words were low, controlled. “He’s the type to sacrifice a pawn and say it’s strategy. But Airi wasn’t a pawn.”

“She was your best friend,” you said.

She nodded once. Slowly. Like that word hadn’t felt real until now.

There was a long pause. The show played in the background. A girl confessed to a boy under cherry blossoms. He turned her down. Haruka threw the remote at the screen without emotion. Missed.

“...You’re the only one who still comes here,” she said suddenly. “Everyone else moved on. You didn’t.”

“Lucky you,” you replied.

“I don’t want luck. I want revenge.”

Your eyes didn’t move. You didn’t ask her to explain. You didn’t need to.

“I want him to fall,” she continued. “The way he made Airi fall. The way he made me disappear without even touching me.”

Silence. Heavy. Final.

Then, for the first time in weeks, she looked straight at you. Not like a ghost. Not like someone waiting to vanish. But sharp. Focused. Alive.

“I want to crush him. And I want you to help me.”

Your breath came out in something between a scoff and a laugh. The kind of sound you made when someone invited you to a game you’d already memorized the rules for.

“And if I say no?”

“I’ll guilt you into it. Slowly. Over weeks.”

You leaned back, finishing your drink.

“Well. When you put it like that…”

She smiled. Wide. Dangerous.

“Welcome to Team Petty.”