Chapter 1
It started with Soukaku trying to watch anime on the shared tablet.
“Where are the apps?” she muttered, swiping through folders. “Who renamed the media folder to ‘Internal Operational Archives’?”
Yanagi looked up from her paperwork. “That’s Miyabi’s naming convention.”
“Oh.” Soukaku paused. “Guess that explains the five gigabytes of redacted mission logs. And this one... ‘Team Observations – Draft.’”
A beat.
“Wait, is this about us?”
Yanagi stood. Harumasa didn’t move from the couch, but he blinked twice.
By the time Yanagi reached her, Soukaku was already reading aloud.
S.
Displays erratic focus, but thrives in pattern-based assignments. Suggest structuring field tasks around repeatable loops or challenges. Unorthodox success rate with unstructured variables.
Responds positively to praise and physical stimuli. Possibly food-motivated.
Drawing habit appears cathartic—leave uninterrupted.
Personality fluctuates by time of day, snack intake, and—possibly—moon phase.
“I’m not food-motivated,” Soukaku grumbled. “You’re food-motivated.”
Yanagi took the tablet and began scrolling silently. Her eyes moved faster as she read. Harumasa leaned over from behind the couch. When no one stopped him, he read too.
A.H.
Strategic aptitude disguised as casual disengagement. Likely undersells his own competence deliberately.
Will shirk non-field work unless personally reminded.
Attendance questionable; presence during crisis guaranteed.
Claims of chronic illness unverified. Possibly psychological tactic to lower expectations.
Still shows up when it counts.
Harumasa gave a soft, tired sigh. “She makes me sound reliable. That’s terrifying.”
“You think that’s bad?” Soukaku said, flipping to the next section. “She wrote a novel under your name.”
Yanagi blinked. “Mine?”
Soukaku nodded, eyes wide. “It’s, like, a thesis.”
Yanagi read. Slowly.
T.Y.
Presents as hypercompetent. Prefers solo operations, but performs equally well in group structures when autonomy is preserved.
Tendency to overextend under pressure. Delegation avoidance likely rooted in past field trauma.
Meticulous. Frequently adjusts others’ work without direct commentary. Wears gloves even in safe zones—either habit or symbolic restraint.
After sparring, averages 37.4 seconds adjusting her blade. Consistent ritual. Possibly grounding technique.
Boot cadence shifts when tired. Softer footfalls = longer exposure to high-threat zones = fatigue concealment.
Watch for this.
Yanagi made a small sound in her throat. Her eyes lingered longer on the last lines.
Harumasa, still reading over her shoulder, muttered, “This is the emotional equivalent of naming a folder ‘Definitely Not Feelings.’”
“No way,” Soukaku said, gleeful. “She wrote more about you than she’s ever said to you. Isn’t that a little weird?”
Yanagi didn’t answer. She was still staring at the paragraph where Miyabi described the sound her boots made on concrete.
Harumasa slouched deeper into the couch, exhaling slowly like it hurt to witness. “We’re all gonna die in a Hollow, and it’s gonna be because I laughed at this.”
The door hissed open.
Miyabi stepped inside, one glove half-off. “What’s going on?”
Silence.
Soukaku held the tablet behind her back. Yanagi had already set her face to neutral. Harumasa was now very focused on pretending to be asleep.
Miyabi looked at the tablet. Then at each of them in turn.
She sighed. Deeply. “I meant to delete that.”
Yanagi cleared her throat. “You should label your files better.”
“I did. You opened it anyway.”
Soukaku raised a finger. “In our defense, it was in the anime folder.”
Miyabi crossed her arms, tail of her coat swishing faintly. “Did you at least read the full version? Or just the field notes?”
Yanagi’s voice remained steady. “Just the parts about us.”
“…Ah.”
Miyabi looked momentarily—professionally mortified. Like someone whose private thoughts had been audited by her own command team.
Then, without missing a beat: “The section on S. is outdated. She no longer shows erratic focus. Just erratic taste.”
“HEY!”
There was a beat of tension. Then—unexpectedly—Yanagi laughed. Just once. Low and short.
Soukaku started grinning. Harumasa, face in his hands, mumbled something about revising the betting pool.
No one brought it up again.
But the next time they trained, Yanagi watched Miyabi a little more closely. Not with suspicion. Not even curiosity.
More like memorization.
And Harumasa, perched nearby with a cup of tea, simply muttered under his breath:
“Yeah. Definitely a pool. Minimum buy-in’s five chips.”
The day after the file incident—as it was now quietly referred to by exactly one (1) member of Section Six—things returned to their usual rhythm.
Almost.
Soukaku was conspicuously louder than usual.
Not hyper, not chaotic—just... intentional. Her humming had melodies. Her steps had dramatic flair. Her sticky notes were now color-coded and full of things like “reminder: melon bread = emotions.”
Miyabi noticed, of course. She noticed everything.
But she didn’t ask.
It wasn’t until lunch that the next piece of the puzzle dropped.
Harumasa strolled in holding two takeout bags. One in each hand. One marked “definitely spicy.” The other marked “mild but deeply supportive.”
Miyabi raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how labeling works.”
“Sure it is,” he said smoothly, placing the bags on the table. “Lunch therapy. Choose your flavor.”
Yanagi blinked at them from her seat near the far corner, already halfway through her rice.
“Don’t mind us,” Soukaku chirped, plopping into a chair beside her and dramatically unfolding a paper napkin. “We’re just here to have a completely normal, not-at-all-symbolic meal.”
“Did you two plan something again?” Yanagi asked, tone cautious.
“Nooo,” Soukaku said. Then added, “But if we had, hypothetically, it would be a deeply emotional lunch scene between two loyal teammates. You know. One of whom is obviously wrestling with big complicated feelings.”
Harumasa calmly unwrapped a pair of chopsticks. “And the other who is… oblivious. But well-meaning. Emotionally stunted. Possibly suffering from selective introspection disorder.”
Yanagi set her bowl down, watching them now.
Miyabi folded her arms. “This isn’t subtle.”
“It’s not for subtle,” Harumasa replied, not looking at her. “It’s for catharsis.”
Soukaku nodded solemnly. “We’re staging emotional theater. With dumplings.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Harumasa, with a deliberately unaffected tone, said:
“Do you ever think maybe you notice someone all the time and memorize the way they work and fight and drink tea, but you don’t realize you’re doing it until someone else opens your journal and reads it out loud?”
Soukaku gasped dramatically. “Maybe the dumplings are about love.”
“I’m going to revoke your shared terminal access,” Miyabi said.
“You could,” Harumasa said, finally meeting her eyes, “or you could admit it’s not about the file anymore.”
That hit something. She didn’t flinch—but she paused, just long enough.
Yanagi glanced between them but said nothing.
Miyabi opened her mouth, then closed it again.
She didn’t understand what she was feeling. She knew it was a feeling, and that was the problem. The kind that sat too close to your ribs and didn’t have a name yet.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. Quietly. Not quite convincingly.
Soukaku offered her a dumpling. “That’s okay. Feelings are like misfiring Bangboos. Sometimes they explode. Sometimes they dance.”
Harumasa leaned back in his chair, expression mild. “But you should probably figure out which it is. Before the next shared file says it for you.”
Yanagi’s gaze lingered on Miyabi, steady. Curious.
Miyabi didn’t meet it.
But she didn’t leave the room either.
She stayed, sipping her tea slowly.
And across the table, one dumpling short, the performance ended—no applause, no curtain.
Just the quiet echo of something unspoken.
But not unheard.
The others filtered out gradually.
Soukaku left first, humming again. Something upbeat and suspiciously choreographed. She didn’t say anything, which was even more suspicious.
Harumasa made a show of collecting his chopsticks and muttering, “I’ll be in the other room. Far away. Very far.”
He took his tea with him. Left his chair angled back, just slightly—like a mark on the stage, waiting for someone to notice it had been moved.
That left only two cups of tea on the table.
And silence.
Yanagi was the one who broke it, eventually.
“You didn’t deny it.”
Miyabi looked up, surprised by the gentleness of the tone. “Deny what?”
“That you notice me.”
Her words weren’t challenging. Not defensive. Just… curious.
Miyabi looked away. “It’s my job to notice.”
“Maybe.” Yanagi’s voice was quiet. “But I didn’t say you were doing your job.”
That landed too softly to argue with.
Silence again. Not the brittle kind. Something closer to weathered fabric—old, familiar. A bit threadbare in places.
Yanagi lifted her cup but didn’t drink. She just held it, both hands curled around the ceramic.
“You wrote that I overextend,” she said. “That I avoid depending on others.”
Miyabi nodded, unsure what else to do. “It’s true.”
“I think so too,” Yanagi said. “But I didn’t realize anyone else saw it.”
Miyabi’s hands tensed just slightly around her own cup. She wasn’t used to this kind of conversation. She could defuse volatile negotiations. She could command an op. But this—this felt like trying to walk across an invisible bridge, not knowing if the next step would hold.
“I don’t say things often,” she said at last. “Because once I say them, I have to live with the consequences.”
Yanagi blinked. “And writing it?”
“Felt safer,” Miyabi admitted. “Until someone opened the file.”
That earned the smallest smile from Yanagi. A tired one. But real.
“You wrote about everyone,” she said. “But you wrote about me the most.”
Miyabi said nothing. But she didn’t look away this time.
Yanagi didn’t press.
She stood slowly, smoothing the hem of her coat, and moved to leave. But before she reached the door, she paused and turned slightly.
“You once told me I was someone worth understanding.”
Miyabi held her gaze. “I remember.”
Yanagi nodded once.
Then, softly:
“I hope you give yourself the same chance.”
And she left.
Miyabi stayed behind. The second cup sat untouched, the steam gone but the warmth still lingering.
She didn’t move it.
Just sat with it a little longer, as if something unspoken might still settle into shape—if she gave it time.
Later That Week
Miyabi stepped into the common room just as Harumasa dropped a pen with theatrical flair onto the table.
“…And that’s why I’ve decided,” he said, addressing no one in particular, “that love confessions should come with a backup plan. Just in case.”
Soukaku, seated cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by snack wrappers and glitter pens, gasped dramatically. “Like an evacuation route?”
“Exactly,” Harumasa nodded solemnly. “Some people need fire exits. Others need a flowchart.”
Miyabi blinked. “What are you two—?”
“Scenario,” Harumasa interrupted, lifting a finger. “Say you’re working closely with someone. Highly competent. Terrible at expressing feelings. Wears gloves a lot.”
Soukaku added helpfully, “Also might be really cool but emotionally constipated. You know. Hypothetically.”
Miyabi narrowed her eyes. “…Is this about someone?”
“Purely academic,” Harumasa said. “Anyway, let’s say this person makes detailed notes about their teammates and doesn’t realize that’s kind of a romantic gesture if you focus too hard on one person’s section.”
“Wait, wait,” Soukaku said, scribbling something. “Are we filing this under ‘covert affection’ or ‘boss crush denial syndrome’?”
“Both,” Harumasa said. “With a footnote: may spontaneously combust if confronted directly.”
Miyabi looked between them.
Then at the empty second cup on the counter.
Then back again.
“…You’re being strange.”
Soukaku tilted her head, eyes wide. “Stranger than usual?”
“Yes.”
“We’re just concerned!” she chirped. “If someone, say, poured two cups of tea for a few days in a row and didn’t drink one, that’d be kind of... suspicious, right?”
Harumasa raised his brows. “Or if someone started checking timestamps to see when a certain someone logged in or out.”
“Or,” Soukaku said, eyes twinkling, “if that someone asked a parent for emotional advice and then immediately avoided feelings like a Hollow avoidance maneuver.”
Miyabi’s stare grew sharper. “Are you done?”
“Just about,” Harumasa said, stretching. “We figured we’d stage an intervention. A soft one.”
Soukaku held up a sign she had clearly just made: ‘IT’S OKAY TO HAVE FEELINGS’ in glitter gel pen.
Miyabi exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know what you think this is about—”
“We’re not naming names,” Harumasa said quickly, holding up his hands.
“No names!” Soukaku echoed, cheerful. “Just facts. And vibes.”
Miyabi stood there for a moment, like she was calculating the best route out of a Hollow that didn’t exist. Eventually, she said, “You’re both insufferable.”
“Yep,” Harumasa agreed. “But accurate.”
And with that, he stood and wandered out with the air of someone who had done his civic duty.
Soukaku followed, flashing a peace sign over her shoulder. “We’ll be in the break room. Let us know when you figure it out!”
Miyabi didn’t move. Just stood in the middle of the room, silent.
And though she’d never admit it, part of her felt like the whole scene had been aimed squarely at her. Like a signal written in glitter and exasperation.
She didn’t understand it fully.
But she was certain of one thing:
It hadn’t been random.
Yanagi didn’t expect anyone to still be in the office. Most nights, the space emptied early after uneventful missions. But when she stepped inside, the lights were low and the quiet had a certain… texture to it.
Not empty. Just paused.
She moved lightly, her footsteps nearly silent on the tile. The familiar scent of tea still lingered faintly in the air.
Her eyes found the second cup first.
Still warm.
Still untouched.
She didn’t move toward it. Not yet.
Instead, she approached Miyabi’s desk. Not to snoop. Not really.
Just… to return a file.
The one she hadn’t borrowed.
Her fingers brushed the corner of the report she didn’t need to read—already memorized. Already processed. Already filed in the same part of her mind that kept track of Miyabi’s habits and silences and the way her voice softened when she wasn’t being watched.
Then she saw it—barely noticeable under the monitor’s edge.
A note. Folded neatly. Unlabeled.
She didn’t open it. Didn’t even touch it.
But she looked at it for a while, the way you look at something you’re afraid to know too much about. Something private. Meant to be shared, maybe—but not yet.
Not until Miyabi decided to.
The second cup of tea sat to the side, its handle turned outward. Intentionally. The way Miyabi always turned it.
Yanagi reached for it.
Then stopped.
She rested her hand near it instead. Not taking, not refusing.
Just... acknowledging.
And then she sat. In the seat across from it. From her.
No conversation. No invitation. Just presence.
She didn’t know if Miyabi would come back that night.
But she didn’t leave.
The door eased open sometime past midnight.
Miyabi stepped inside, expecting emptiness.
She paused.
Yanagi was still there.
Asleep—head resting on folded arms at Miyabi’s desk, one hand near the second cup of tea, long since cooled. Her breathing was even. Shoulders rising and falling in the kind of rhythm that only came with rare, unguarded rest.
Miyabi didn’t speak.
She didn’t move, at first.
Just stood there, watching.
It was rare to see Yanagi like this. Vulnerable, yes—but not in the way of wounds or weariness. This was something quieter. The kind of tired that lived behind the eyes. Not collapse, but surrender. Voluntary. Trusting.
Her gaze drifted to the small details—the way Yanagi’s glasses had slipped slightly down the bridge of her nose. The faint crease on her cheek where she’d pressed into her arm. She hadn’t even taken her gloves off.
Miyabi stepped forward, movements careful.
She reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind Yanagi’s ear. Her fingers hovered for a second longer than necessary. Then withdrew.
The thing in her chest stirred again—soft, heavy, difficult to name.
Not duty.
Not exactly.
But it came from the same place.
She took a breath, then bent down and slid one arm beneath Yanagi’s shoulders, the other under her knees.
Yanagi didn’t wake.
Miyabi carried her gently across the room—cradling more than lifting—and laid her down on the long couch, slow and deliberate. She moved as if afraid to wake something fragile.
She eased off Yanagi’s shoes next, then reached for her glasses. She folded them carefully, almost reverently, and set them on the coffee table beside the couch.
Then, finally, she slipped off her own coat and draped it over Yanagi’s sleeping form, tugging the corners into place.
The lining settled softly against her back—a quiet barrier against the sterile air.
For a while, Miyabi just stood there.
Then, without much thought, she pulled the nearby chair a little closer and sat. Not facing the desk now, but turned slightly toward the couch.
She didn’t reach for a report.
Didn’t sip her tea.
Didn’t check the time.
She simply stayed.
In the stillness. In the soft rhythm of Yanagi’s sleeping breath.
Her hand rested lightly on the edge of the couch—close enough to feel the presence there.
It wasn’t a confession.
It wasn’t clarity.
But it was presence.
She didn’t know what this was. What it meant. Whether it would last.
But tonight, Miyabi stayed.
Not out of obligation.
Not because she had to.
But because someone had waited for her once.
And this time, she wanted to be the one who stayed.
The office was still.
The kind of stillness that came just before the city woke—soft light filtered through the slats of the blinds, painting long, diffused stripes across the floor and low table.
Yanagi stirred, her breath catching slightly as she registered the warmth draped across her shoulders.
Miyabi’s coat.
She blinked slowly, eyes adjusting, body still heavy with sleep. The couch beneath her was just a little too stiff, her limbs curled tighter than she remembered. She sat up with quiet care, letting the coat slide only halfway down her arms.
Her gaze drifted sideways.
A chair had been pulled up next to the couch sometime in the night.
Miyabi sat there—head tilted slightly, arms folded, posture far too formal for someone fast asleep.
Yanagi stilled.
It took a moment to understand what she was seeing. Not because it was difficult to believe, but because it was so gentle a thing she was almost afraid to disturb it.
Miyabi hadn’t just stayed.
She’d remained long enough to fall asleep like this—upright, alert even in rest. A sentinel who had outwaited herself.
Yanagi’s eyes softened. Her gaze lingered on the loose strand of hair that had fallen across Miyabi’s cheek, the faint crease in her sleeve from where she’d probably adjusted her coat a dozen times before draping it over her. The faintest twitch of her fingers, even in sleep—still ready to move, if needed.
It wasn’t that Miyabi had chosen to stay.
It was that she hadn’t left.
Yanagi’s hand moved slightly, stopping just short of brushing Miyabi’s sleeve.
She didn’t wake her.
Instead, she reached quietly for her glasses from the table, sliding them on with practiced ease, and adjusted the coat around her shoulders without shrugging it off.
She sat back again.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t make a sound.
Just stayed.
For once, the silence between them didn’t need to be translated. It wasn’t hesitant. Wasn’t guarded.
It simply was.
After a while, Yanagi reached for the second cup of tea—long cooled, but untouched. She didn’t drink from it. She just turned the handle outward again, like Miyabi always did.
Then, slowly, she leaned her shoulder just slightly against the back of Miyabi’s chair.
Just enough to bridge the space between them.
Just enough to say:
I saw.
And:
I stayed, too.