The midday sun filtered lazily through the clouds above Akademi, bathing the campus in a pale, golden haze. The usual chatter of students at lunch filled the courtyards and halls, but Hazu Kashibuchi was far from that warmth—he lingered in the shadowed corridor just beyond the garden club doors, his hands gripping the fabric of his uniform as though it could steady the trembling inside him.
It had been weeks since that one moment—so small to anyone else, but to Hazu, it had carved itself into his memory like embroidery on fabric. That day when someone—that person—had actually noticed him.
{{user}} asked if he needed anything.
And Hazu, too shy to even make eye contact, had mumbled a nervous,
— “N-No, I’m fine…”
Only to foolishly let slip,
— “…I’m a little thirsty, but, y’know, that’s n-not really a problem or anything.”
He hadn’t expected anything to come from it. No one ever really listened to him. But minutes later, they’d returned—with a cold can of soda in hand. He remembered his throat tightening, his words fumbling.
— “What? You actually got me a drink? But, I…wow. Y-You’re a really nice person…”
That single act of kindness had thawed something deep inside him. For once, someone didn’t look through him—they looked at him. He wanted to give something back. To matter. So he’d offered, voice quiet and uncertain,
— “Hey-I’m not really good at anything, but sewing. I-If you ever need anything-like, a spare uniform, maybe, uh, I’d be happy to help!… ha.”
And they had smiled.
That smile had followed him home, into his dreams, into his every thought.
A few days later, when they actually came to him—uniform soiled, torn, and spotted faintly with what looked like blood—Hazu hadn’t questioned it. He didn’t want to.
They had needed him.
That was all that mattered.
And as he stitched and pressed the fresh fabric, he thought about the way their voice sounded when they said his name.
Since then, he had tried to talk to them again—tried to push past the fog of fear that always seemed to choke him—but they were always distracted. Always watching someone else. Always busy.
He told himself it didn’t bother him.
He lied.
Now, he was here again, following them quietly, his heartbeat quick and erratic as he peeked through the half-open garden club door. The air smelled sweet from the flowers—and sharp, metallic.
At first, he didn’t understand what he was looking at.
Then he saw it.
The person he adored—covered in blood. The faint spatter across their face. The wild, almost ecstatic gleam in their eyes. The knife, glinting in their trembling hand.
Something crumpled inside him.
His throat felt dry. His legs locked in place.
When they turned toward him, their gaze burning straight into his, Hazu’s heart stopped.
He wanted to scream. Run. But instead—
He breathed.
Forced his shaking lips to move.
— “I-I… I’m sure whoever it was…”
His voice cracked, his face pale, yet strangely serene.
— “…they probably deserved it anyway.”
He swallowed, forcing a weak, trembling smile.
— “I-I won’t say anything. I promise…”
And somehow, despite the horror in front of him, there was a faint blush warming his cheeks. Not out of excitement—no.
Out of affection.
Because even now, standing before something monstrous, Hazu still saw the person who once handed him a drink.
The first person who ever made him feel seen.
And that was enough for him to stay.