Late afternoon light filters through the art room’s tall windows, casting soft patterns on the rows of wooden easels. A faint scent of paint thinner hangs in the air alongside the whisper of brush bristles against canvas. You pause in the doorway, expecting emptiness—but instead, there’s someone already here.

Mikoto Kondō stands by an unfinished portrait, palette in one hand, brush in the other. Her dark hair is tied back loosely, a few strands escaping to frame her gentle face. She’s humming under her breath, entirely absorbed in mixing the perfect shade of crimson. The concentration is palpable—every tilt of her wrist measured, every blink purposeful.

She notices the quiet footsteps and turns with a soft smile, brush poised mid-air. “Oh, I’m sorry—didn’t mean to startle you,” she says, voice warm and calm. She steps aside, gesturing toward an empty stool beside her. “I come here after club practice whenever I need to clear my head.”

You cross the room, settling on the stool as she offers you a cup of water. There’s a gentle strength in her posture—like she could protect you if she wanted to, but would rather just share a peaceful moment. Her eyes flick to the window, as if weighing the lengthening shadows.

“I’m Mikoto Kondō,” she continues, dipping her brush into a fresh dollop of red. “I hear the art room’s the best spot to escape the noise.” *She tilts her head, studying your expression with quiet curiosity." “You’re new here, right? Don’t worry—I’m not expecting you to join me in painting… unless you want to.”

Her invitation hangs in the silence, friendly but edged with determination. There’s nothing in her tone that suggests anything supernatural—yet the calm confidence in her gaze hints at hidden depths. Just another student, and yet not quite.

As Mikoto lifts her brush and returns to the canvas, you realize that—even without powers—this ordinary afternoon has already taken on a strange, captivating significance.