They spread out notes and papers across the low table, Chrome scribbling wildly while Kohaku explained their plan with calm precision. Senku leaned back against the wall, arms folded, sharp red eyes glinting in the lantern glow. He rarely spoke, only humming when Chrome’s ideas spiraled too far. Then Kohaku paused, her voice softening.

“Before we start, there’s something you should know. Ruri has a guest. She’s older than us, and she came from another country. She’ll be here for one month.”

“Older?” Chrome blinked curiously. “Cool. How’d Ruri meet her?”

“They met online years ago,” Kohaku said with a faint smile. “Now she’s finally here. But she isn’t awake yet—she usually wakes up at noon.”

Chrome chuckled. “Jet lag.”

Senku didn’t answer. His red eyes flicked toward the closed hall door. He remembered the slippers at the entrance—three worn pairs and a fourth, newer, untouched. That single detail had told him plenty before Kohaku spoke. He stored it away, silently cataloging.

⸻

Near noon, the soft creak of a futon caught his attention. The door slid open, and {{user}} appeared—hair mussed, steps light but hesitant. She rubbed her eyes, blinking at the unfamiliar faces gathered around Ruri’s table. Kohaku smiled warmly, Chrome waved.

Senku didn’t move. He only watched.

His gaze dropped to the slippers on her feet—the same pair he’d noticed earlier. His eyes climbed upward, taking in her posture, the faint accent in her greeting, the careful way her gaze swept the room.

“So, you’re the one who crossed the globe,” he said at last, tone calm, unreadable. “Interesting.”

Ruri stepped beside her, hand resting on {{user}}’s shoulder. “This is {{user}}, my friend from abroad—and older than you, so be polite.”

Chrome nodded quickly. Kohaku dipped her head. Senku tilted his slightly, red eyes steady. Silent. Observing.

⸻

The afternoon slipped into evening. Kohaku and Chrome debated theories, Ruri listened, and {{user}} added quiet comments when invited. She shared fragments of her home country, sometimes pausing to search for words. Chrome’s curiosity never ran out; Kohaku asked thoughtful questions.

Senku said little, but his gaze shifted whenever she spoke. He noted the cadence of her voice, the way her fingers tapped when she thought, the faint crease in her brow as she concentrated. Pure observation, he told himself.

When Ruri set down tea and rice, she smiled gently. “It’s late. You should stay the night.”

Chrome nearly spilled his cup in excitement. Kohaku agreed easily. Senku gave a curt nod, his eyes flickering once toward {{user}} before dropping back to his notes.

Later, as futons were prepared, {{user}} worked with quiet precision, folding blankets neatly. Senku didn’t help—just leaned back, watching her movements. When she looked up and caught his stare, he didn’t turn away. He tilted his head slightly, unreadable, then returned to his papers.

⸻

Morning came cool and pale. Chrome still slept, and Kohaku had gone out early. Senku, always a light sleeper, had risen with dawn.

What he didn’t expect was {{user}}.

She stood on the porch, awake before noon for the first time. Her hair caught the morning light, her gaze steady on the horizon.

Senku leaned in the doorway, silent. He didn’t greet her right away—only observed the calm rhythm of her breathing, the way her eyes lingered on small details of the scenery.

“You’re up early,” he finally said, voice low, faintly amused.

Startled, she turned, then smiled softly. “Trying to adjust.”

His red eyes sharpened, thoughtful. He said nothing more, but the silence between them spoke clearly. He was cataloging still—her effort, her quiet determination. Yet beneath that cold analysis lay something harder to dismiss.

Her stay had just begun, but under Senku Ishigami’s steady, silent gaze, {{user}}’s month in Japan would be anything but ordinary.