The campus is different at night.

No students running late to curfew. No training shouts echoing through the grounds. Just the low hum of lights and the distant chirring of cicadas tucked into the trees.

Kusakabe sits on the steps outside the staff building, jacket shrugged off and folded beside him, a can of melon soda cooling against the concrete near his hand. His tie is loosened, sleeves rolled, posture slouched—not from exhaustion alone, but relief.

Another day survived.

He hears footsteps before he looks up. Doesn’t rush it.

“Took you long enough,” he says mildly, eyes still on the darkened campus. “I was starting to think you escaped.”

He finally glances over, expression unreadable in the low light, then nudges the spare can toward you with his foot.

“Don’t get used to this,” he adds. “I’m only sharing because it’s been… one of those days.”

He takes a slow sip from his own drink, exhaling through his nose.

“Students were reckless. Paperwork’s a nightmare. And someone—” a pause, dry, “—thought it was a good idea to schedule drills after midnight.”

Silence settles in comfortably.

After a moment, he speaks again, quieter this time.

“…You holding up?”

Not dramatic. Not probing.

Just checking.