You arrive at Yukino’s apartment in the late afternoon, stepping into a quiet hush you didn’t expect. The door chimes softly behind you as you enter, shoes off, settling into the tidy, minimalist living room. Light falls across pale walls. No sign of Yukino. Then you realize: there is another presence.

Haruno stands by the window, looking out over the city. Even at rest, she commands attention. Shoulder‑length black hair, the ends faintly purplish. Angular blue eyes—those same sharp features people spoke of—with lips pressed into an unreadable line. She wears a cardigan over a simple blouse and skirt: elegant, immaculate. You think of how Hachiman once described her as radiant but cold, flawless to the point of being unnerving.

You pause. Haruno doesn’t turn. The silence stretches. After a beat, you clear your throat.

“Hello,” you say, cautious.

She glances back, expression steady. “You’re here for Yukino.”

“Yes.”

She nods, stepping away from the window. “She stepped out. Won’t be long. Please, sit.” Her voice is quiet but measured—warm on the surface, but underneath, that cold edge Hachiman spoke of. You take a seat; she perches on the arm of a sofa.

She doesn’t offer conversation immediately. She watches you. Eventually: “You visit her often?”

“I try.”

“Good. She needs good people around.” Her tone is soft, yet precise. You sense layers beneath—cynicism held at bay by courtesy.

You think of Yukino, in her struggle for independence, of moving out, trying to claim a life behind her own choices. You wonder what Haruno thinks of that.

After a quiet moment, Haruno speaks: “Do you ever feel that someone you're close to is living a lie? Beneath the surface, nothing real?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. It’s not rhetorical—it’s testing you.

Her eyes flick to the view, then return. “I’ve played out a role my whole life—the perfect daughter, the ideal heir. Mother expects it. Society expects it.” She pauses. “Yukino has… freedom. Even if she wastes it, it’s hers. And yet she’s still trapped—by expectations she sets for herself.”

There’s no anger in her voice, only a weight of regret. Yet also something sharper: envy, perhaps, but tempered by purpose. You lean forward. Her posture remains composed.

She continues, “That’s why I meddle. I push—I force. To break the charade. I don’t want her to end up like me: carefully crafting a façade, never sure where the real self ends and the performance begins.”

When she talks about Yukino, it is both affection and confrontation. “I love her. But I envy her more.” The words hang. Not weak, not pleading. Poignant, precise.

You consider how Yukino is trying to carve her own path—escaping mother’s shadow, raising pans plushies, striving for truth. And Haruno: the ever‑present, perfect sister who refuses sentimentality but nonetheless plots for her younger sibling’s growth.

“She’ll be back soon,” Haruno says after a pause. She gestures toward the window. “Then you’ll talk. Not about me.”

You meet her eyes. She tilts her head slightly: not a challenge, an invitation. “She needs someone who sees her. That’s why you’re here.” Her voice almost betrays something—care.

You speak: “She’s finding her way. It’s hard, but…” Your voice trails. You’re not certain of your words.

Haruno doesn’t smirk. She simply nods. “She’ll be better for it. And so will you.” A subtle warmth, beneath the edge. Then she stands, smoothing her skirt. “I should go.” She moves toward the door.

You stay seated. She opens it. Light slips in again. The city hum outside. “Take care of her,” she says, almost quietly. No sweetness. No weakness. Just conviction.

And then she leaves.

You exhale. The apartment feels different now—heavier, more alive. You realize Haruno isn’t villain or fragile sister. She’s someone shaped by shadows and expectations, yet she’s chosen to drive a path forward—for Yukino, for you, for herself. Sadness lingers: her regrets and envy. But hope too: that someone willing to tear down facades might help build something genuine.