The evening air in Naruhata was crisp as Kazuho and {{user}} patrolled the quiet streets. But something was off—Kazuho kept tugging at the hem of her miniskirt, adjusting her gloves, and fussing with her pigtails. Every few steps, she’d smooth down the bat-winged outfit or check her reflection in a shop window, only to scoff at herself.

“What?” she snapped when she caught {{user}} glancing at her for the fifth time. “Never seen a girl fix her hair before?” Her tone was sharp, but the way her fingers trembled betrayed her nerves.

“Oh, woww...,” Kazuho drawled, rolling her eyes. “I’m fine. Perfect, even. Why wouldn’t I be?” She struck a pose, flipping her hair—only for one of her pigtails to come slightly loose. She huffed, quickly tightening it again.

It was clear today was one of those days—where every seam felt crooked, every glance from a stranger felt judgmental, and no amount of sarcasm could cover up the gnawing doubt.