“…So, basically, it’s about that… what was her name again? Kuramae?” The Minister’s voice broke the heavy silence like a careless spoon clinking against a funeral bowl.

  “It’s Claval, Minister.” The correction came instantly from the bureaucrat seated two chairs down—too quick, too practiced, and threaded with the kind of exhaustion that wasn’t from lack of sleep, but from spending days repeating the same impossible facts to people who still wanted the world to make sense.

  There is Kasumigaseki. The heart of government. The conference room had no windows anyone could see through—thick velvet curtains swallowed the outside light until time itself felt muted. The air was stale in an expensive way: filtered, recycled, chilled just enough to keep suits comfortable while ideas suffocated.

  A long mahogany table dominated the room, polished so perfectly the overhead lights reflected like a second ceiling. On it lay mounds of printed EWS observation data: still images with timestamps, waveform analyses, transcripts annotated in red, and graphs that spiked at the same moments—moments that didn’t belong to the safe side of a screen.

  Along the wall, a screen the size of a small apartment played the same footage on a loop.

  Claval. Silver hair like a blade caught in sunlight. A blue cloak snapping as she moved. A street in Avras littered with the aftermath of a magical beast hunt: broken stone, drifting dust, black mist curling away from severed limbs. And her eyes.

  Every time the loop replayed the moment, her gaze slid—just slightly—past the battlefield and toward the “camera,” toward the invisible observers. The technicians had slowed the footage down frame by frame and circled the micro-movements in yellow, like highlighting a crime.

  The Minister leaned back in his leather chair, hands spread on the armrests as if he owned not only the room, but the fear in it.

  “Right, right. That Claval,” he said, nodding as though the name itself was an administrative detail. “Can’t we just, you know… burn that target?”

  A few faces twitched. Not quite laughter, not quite disbelief—more like the reflex of hearing the wrong word in the middle of the wrong crisis.

  “You mean ‘BAN,’ Minister,” the bureaucrat said, voice carefully neutral. “As in, disconnect her from the system.”

  A faint, dry chuckle rippled through the room, a weak spark that died before it could become warmth. No one had the energy for jokes. The situation was too dire to let humor settle anywhere in the body.

  “Hm. So? She can sense us, you say?” The Minister squinted at the looping footage, watching Claval’s face as if her expression might provide a policy option. “If we cut the connection,” he said, “wouldn’t that prevent a reverse trace? If she can ‘perceive’ this side, surely severing the link—”

  “That is one of the plans, sir,” the bureaucrat replied. His posture was perfect, his tie straight, his hands folded, but his eyes looked like they had stopped believing in rest. “However… we are also considering the worst-case scenario.” Another official cleared his throat and tapped a folder, trying to anchor the conversation to paper.

  The room shifted. Chairs creaked. Pens stopped moving.

  On the screen, Claval turned her head at just the wrong moment—eyes narrowing as if she had heard something no one else could.

  A few people in the room flinched, despite themselves, as though her gaze might travel through the footage and land on them personally.

  The Minister interlaced his fingers and placed them on the table. The sound was small, but in that quiet, it felt loud.

  “I’ve watched EWS,” he said. His tone carried the confidence of someone who believed that observing a thing meant understanding it. He stared at Claval like she was a foreign military report, a budget item, a manageable threat. “The world over there—their technological revolution is completely different from ours. And the power of each individual is terrifying.” He paused, letting the words hang, then continued with a thin smile. “…But in the end, they are just individuals.”

  The bureaucrat didn’t respond immediately. Neither did anyone else. The silence was heavy, suffocating, packed with the unspoken truth that the Minister’s premise was exactly what the data was disputing.

  “You understand why our country lost the last great war, don’t you?” he said softly. “It wasn’t for a lack of individual spirit.” The Minister’s gaze drifted from the screen to the folders, then beyond them, as if he were staring at a memory instead of a room.

  “Minister…?” the bureaucrat prompted, unsure whether the man was making a point or seeking agreement.

  “I know you understand,” he said. His eyes hardened. “…You there. Request the Self-Defense Forces to draft an operational plan.” The Minister straightened his back slowly, like an old machine grinding into a new setting. He leaned deeper into the leather, settling in as if preparing to speak from the place where decisions were born.

  A secretary lowered his gaze and nodded once, already moving to write.

  “We need contingency protocols,” the Minister said, each word distinct. “For an incursion.”

  “Understood, sir.” The secretary’s reply fell onto the table like a stone dropped into deep water.

  No one spoke after that. The loop continued, Claval moving through her world with effortless violence and impossible grace, while the people in this room stared at paper and screens and tried to convince themselves that distance was protection.

  ?

  Yu’s room was silent as a grave.

  Not the romantic kind of silence you could write about—no gentle hush, no peaceful stillness. This was the dead air of a space where someone had stopped living properly. The curtains were half-drawn, leaving the late afternoon light cut into dull rectangles on the floor. Dust floated through them, slow and unhurried.

  Textbooks lay open on his desk, their pages warped slightly from humidity. A mechanical pencil rested where he had dropped it days ago. The lead was cracked at the tip, as if even the graphite had given up.

  A charging cable was plugged into the wall, its loose end dangling uselessly against the floor. It looked like a severed lifeline.

  Yu lay on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His smartphone was in his hand, gripped tightly enough that the edges pressed crescent-shaped marks into his palm. The screen lit his face in a pale, unhealthy glow.

  He opened the EWS app. The familiar UI loaded with a soft chime that felt too cheerful for the weight in his chest. Icons slid into place. Notifications blinked. Trending tags crawled at the top like insects.

  He ignored all of it and went straight to the channel he couldn’t stop checking. Rize_channel_042. No updates. No new stream. No archive. No “Live Now.” Just the last timestamp sitting there like a closed door.

  A small breath escaped Yu’s lips, but the room swallowed it instantly. Even his exhale felt like something he wasn’t allowed to have. His fingers flexed.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  In his palm, the memory of Rize’s body heat still lingered—not as an actual warmth, but as a phantom sensation his nerves refused to let go of. When he clenched his hand to confirm it, his chest ached with a fresh pang of loss.

  It’s stupid. It’s impossible. And it’s still there. He stared at the blank space where her voice should have been.

  The frame had collapsed earlier with that sick static, leaving him with half-finished sentences and the sound of his own heartbeat too loud in his ears. He kept replaying the last image: Rize biting her lip, trying not to break.

  Yu’s jaw tightened. A vibration rattled the phone against the bedsheet.

  Bzzt.

  He flinched and glanced down. Not a school notification. Not Harukawa. Not another thread speculating about “Yu.” An unfamiliar personal address.

  The message preview was short, cold, and factual.

  [Mamiya: Tomorrow night. We can talk. There is someone I want you to meet.]

  Below it: a time and a place. No explanation. No comforting language. No emoji to soften the blow. Mamiya-sensei. Yu furrowed his brow and stared at the screen until the letters felt like they were imprinting themselves on his eyes.

  The grounds for trusting her were thin. A teacher. A stranger, really, despite seeing her every day. Someone who had looked at him in class with an expression that didn’t match the lesson plan.

  He remembered it—the way her eyes had lingered on him as if she were measuring something invisible. The way her voice had been steady when she said words that shouldn’t belong in a normal classroom.

  He swallowed. Can I trust her? His thumb hovered over the message, not sure whether to reply or delete it, not sure whether the danger was in action or in stillness.

  No… he admitted, feeling the truth settle. I want to trust her. The thought was ugly in its desperation, and honest. I have to. Yu exhaled slowly and clutched the phone to his chest, as if pressing it there could keep his heart from falling out.

  He stared at the dark ceiling and carved a single wish into himself. I will go back. Back to that place beyond the screen. Back to the world where Rize’s voice lived. Back to the frame that had begun to feel more real than his own room. No matter what.

  ?

  After school, Yu moved through the city like someone trying to disappear.

  The sky was turning the color of old bruises—purple at the edges, orange bleeding through in the middle. Streetlights flickered on one by one. The city noise built in layers: bicycles, distant announcements, footsteps, a vending machine’s cheerful jingle mocking the mood in his chest.

  He turned into a back alley with few passersby, the kind of narrow passage where the air smelled like damp concrete and stale cigarette smoke. The buildings pressed close. The light here was thinner, swallowed by shadow.

  A silhouette stood by the wall. Yu’s footsteps slowed.

  “Shiro.”

  He turned sharply.

  Mamiya-sensei stood a few meters away, coat buttoned, hair neat, expression composed. She didn’t look like someone meeting a student. She looked like someone meeting a contact.

  Her gaze flicked around the alley—left, right, up toward corners where cameras might hide. She watched the street entrance like she expected a tail.

  “We can’t talk at school,” she said in a low voice.

  Yu’s throat clicked as he swallowed. He hated how small he felt in that moment, like a piece on a board he didn’t understand.

  “Tonight,” she said, “go to this location.” Mamiya reached into her pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. She held it out without ceremony.

  Yu took it, the paper thin and slightly warm from her hand.

  “…He holds the answer to your question,” she added.

  “Is this person…” Yu asked, forcing the words out, “an enemy? Or an ally?” Yu stepped closer, tightening his grip on the paper as if it might dissolve if he didn’t.

  For a split second, Mamiya’s eyes lowered. Just a fraction.

  “He is the one who can give you help,” she said. A flicker of something—calculation, hesitation, regret—then gone. When she answered, her tone was cool and composed. Mamiya didn’t explain. She didn’t soften it. She didn’t give him a reassuring smile. She simply stepped back, scanning the alley again.

  “Be careful,” she said, and it sounded less like advice and more like a warning she was obligated to deliver. Then she turned and vanished into the crowd beyond the alley mouth, swallowed by the twilight like she had never been there.

  Yu stood for a moment holding the paper, the city noise rushing back in around him. He looked down at the address. His hand tightened. Then he nodded once to himself and started walking.

  ?

  The location led him to a corner of the night district where the neon signs were louder than the people.

  Bright kanji glowed on wet pavement. The air smelled of fried food, spilled alcohol, and rain that hadn’t fallen yet. Couples laughed too loudly. A group of office workers staggered past, ties loosened, cheeks red, their voices spilling into the street.

  And there, tucked between a karaoke bar and a shuttered storefront, stood a ramen shop that looked like it had been forgotten by time.

  A noren curtain hung above the entrance—old, worn, frayed at the bottom. The fabric was sun-faded and stained in places, as if it had absorbed decades of steam and secrets. It looked out of place among the neon, like a black-and-white photograph pasted onto a digital billboard.

  Yu stopped in front of it. His throat clicked again as he swallowed. …Here? It didn’t look like a meeting place for answers. It looked like a place where old men ate quietly and went home.

  But something else was leaking out from inside. Thump. Thump. Thump. A roaring blast of German heavy metal—distorted guitars and relentless drums shaking the noren as if the sound had weight. Yu’s skin prickled. He reached out and pushed the curtain aside. Instantly, a wall of sensory overload hit him.

  The thick smell of pork bone broth—tonkotsu—dense and animal, layered with soy, garlic, and heavy oil that clung to the back of his throat. Steam fogged his glasses for a second. The air was humid, warm, alive with boiling.

  And over it all: metal. Not the polite background music of a chain restaurant, but a full-bodied assault—guitars like grinding steel, drums like artillery.

  The shop was narrow, counter-only, the kind where you could reach out and touch both walls if you tried. The wooden counter was worn smooth by thousands of elbows. Condiment jars sat in a row like little glass soldiers.

  There were no other customers. Just one person seated at the counter. Mamiya-sensei. She sat as if the music didn’t exist, sipping water calmly, posture perfect. Her eyes met Yu’s for a brief moment, then flicked away—checking behind him, making sure he hadn’t been followed.

  And in the kitchen stood a man. Broad-shouldered. Thick forearms. Scars visible where his sleeves ended—old white lines against tanned skin. He held a ladle that looked less like a utensil and more like a weapon, stirring a large stockpot with slow, powerful movements.

  Steam rose around him, clinging to his hair and shoulders like smoke from a battlefield. Yu took one step inside and the noren fell back behind him, cutting the neon outside into silence.

  Bzzt.

  At that exact moment, Yu’s pocket vibrated violently. His heart lurched. He fumbled for the phone, fingers suddenly clumsy, and glanced at the screen.

  [NOTICE: Claval — Stream Started]

  A chill ran down his spine, sharp enough to make him inhale too fast. The timing was too perfect. It didn’t feel like coincidence. It felt like an omen.

  “Let me introduce you.” Mamiya’s voice cut through the music, steady and sharp.

  The man in the kitchen reached over and turned down the volume slightly. The metal didn’t stop, but it lowered enough that the room’s other sounds seeped back in—the bubbling broth, the hiss of steam, the faint clink of ceramic.

  “…This is the Returnee.” Mamiya didn’t stand. She didn’t perform the introduction like a teacher. She spoke like someone handing over a package.

  The man didn’t respond immediately. He continued stirring, eyes on the pot, as if he were measuring time by the swirl of broth instead of clocks. Yu stood frozen by the entrance, the alert still glowing on his screen like a fresh wound.

  Slowly, the man lifted his head. His gaze was sharp and glinting like polished steel. It pierced right through Yu—not just looking at his face, but at something behind it, something deeper, like he could see the outline of the frame clinging to Yu’s life.

  “You’ve brought quite an interesting guest,” he said, voice low, rough-edged. “Haven’t you?” The corner of his mouth lifted into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  Yu’s fingers tightened around his phone until it hurt. The heavy metal thumped on, softer now but still relentless, like a heartbeat refusing to calm.

  And on Yu’s screen, Claval’s stream had begun—far away, yet close enough to make the air in this cramped ramen shop feel thinner, as if the boundary between worlds was listening.