Chapter 44: Janitor, Strategist, Guardians
The rain had just started to fall when Kenzo and Damian returned to the safehouse. The scent of damp earth followed them in as they stepped through the sliding glass door, shaking the city off their shoulders.
Inside, the space was lit in a warm, golden hue—diffused from floor lamps and monitor glow. The living area had the feel of a halfway point between a hacker's den and a minimalist tea house. Cords snaked beneath rugs, screens flickered with live feeds, and a kettle hissed quietly from the kitchenette.
Audrey sat curled on one end of the couch, a tablet in her lap. Hana stood by the window, arms crossed, eyes scanning the street below. Neither of them spoke when the boys entered—but they were listening.
Damian flopped dramatically onto the armchair nearest the door. "Aishh... these kids," he huffed, dropping the dustpan like a war trophy. "Why don't they just focus on their grades? Get a girlfriend. Join theater club. Anything else."
Kenzo peeled off his cap and glasses, dropping them on the table. His usual calm demeanor was unchanged, but his jaw was set tight.
"Naoya's planning something. With Shun's brawn and Haruki just standing there nodding like a muted conscience," Kenzo said, running a hand through his hair. "They're escalating. And they're dragging Hana into it."
Audrey let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening around the tablet. "Miho stood up for himself. That threatened Naoya."
"Good for Miho," Hana said quietly, not turning around. "Bad for them."
Damian kicked off his shoes and slouched deep into the armchair. "Not to be the guy who quotes old war movies, but it's always quiet before something stupid happens."
"They're not stupid. Just... juvenile," Audrey replied. "Which might be worse."
"They laughed about 'teaching her a lesson.' About Miho forgetting his place," Kenzo added.
There was silence for a moment. Just the rain tapping lightly against the windows.
"So what's the plan?" Hana finally asked, voice neutral.
Kenzo didn't answer immediately. He looked toward Audrey, who gave the faintest nod.
"Let's prepare quietly," Audrey said. "No sudden moves. Let them make the first."
Damian cracked his knuckles. "I vote we let me throw one of them through a locker door. Gently."
"You say that like you're joking," Hana muttered.
"I'm an ENTP. I don't joke. I just suggest chaos politely."
Kenzo moved to the center monitor, tapping keys quickly. The screen shifted to one of the camera feeds.
"Speaking of innocence," he murmured, nodding at the display.
On screen, Miho sat cross-legged on the floor of the study room they'd lent him. A textbook lay open in front of him, highlighter in hand. He was completely focused, biting his lip as he worked out a problem. Around him, soft background music played through tiny speakers.
Audrey's expression softened. "He has no idea what's coming."
"That's the problem," Kenzo replied. "They think he's alone."
"He's not," Hana said.
Damian sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. "So what's the move? We ghost them until they screw up? Or we play offense?"
Audrey looked up, her eyes sharp beneath the soft calm of her features. "We prepare every option. But we keep Miho safe first. Everything else... is secondary."
There was a beat of agreement in the room. Unspoken, but felt.
Kenzo tapped a few more keys. "Then let's adjust surveillance. And check the extracurricular schedules. If they want to make a scene, they'll wait until there's an audience."
"I'll go back tomorrow as sub," Hana said. "Normal routine. Normal presence. No gaps."
Damian grinned. "And I'll pretend to be janitor again. Maybe even bring a fake backache to sell it."
Audrey chuckled, shaking her head. "Please don't start yelling at kids about hallway trash."
"No promises."
As their planning continued, the camera feed lingered on Miho—still hunched over his notes, muttering the answer to a math question under his breath. The soft light from the lamp beside him caught the edge of a smile when he got it right.
Kenzo lowered the screen brightness.
"Let him have this moment," he said. "The storm's coming. But not yet."
And so, while rain pattered against the windows and Tokyo blurred outside, the four souls caught between worlds laid their silent trap—not with anger, but precision. Not with fear, but resolve.
—
The next day arrived cloaked in a deceptive stillness. By lunch hour, the clouds had thinned but the weight of tension lingered in the school air. Inside the cafeteria, noise buzzed—a clash of trays, laughter, and casual chatter. But at the far end of the hallway near the lockers, Miho stood beside a vending machine, choosing a drink.
He didn't notice Shun approaching until a casual hand clapped him on the shoulder.
"Hey, Miho," Shun said, tone light. "You busy? We could use your help with something."
Miho blinked, startled. "Um… sure? What is it?"
"Library. Just some stuff we need to move. You know, extra credit cleanup. You're good with that quiet, helpful type stuff, right?"
Miho nodded hesitantly, unsure.
As Shun led him down the hallway, Naoya and Haruki trailed behind. While Miho was distracted, Haruki quietly slipped open Miho's backpack, now slung over a nearby chair. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a couple of crumpled cigarette packs and a small, lurid magazine—garish and inappropriate—and shoved them deep into the inner pocket of the bag.
Naoya watched with a grin, fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh. "Perfect."
Meanwhile, back in the teachers' office, Hana sorted through a stack of marked assignments when a student from another class knocked and peeked in.
"Ms. Nakamura? One of the students said someone needs help in the library. They didn't say who—just that it's urgent."
Hana raised a brow slightly, but nodded. "Thank you."
She slid the papers aside and stood, her movements composed. There was something about the vagueness that itched at her instincts, but she pushed the suspicion down. Better to confirm than assume.
She made her way down the hallway, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. The school seemed quieter than usual, the sounds of lunch period muffled behind closed classroom doors.
When she entered the library, a strange hush greeted her. It wasn't unusual for it to be sparsely populated during lunch, but today it felt sterile. Too clean. Too still.
She stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. The click echoed louder than it should have.
"Hello?" she called, her voice even but cautious.
No answer. She waited a beat longer, then moved past the front desk.
As she entered the maze of bookshelves, her senses sharpened. Something was wrong. The air felt heavy, like a trap just about to spring.
Then—movement. A figure shifted in the corner of her vision.
A male student stood awkwardly near the far side of the reading area. His shirt was untucked, collar stretched as if someone had grabbed it. His hair was slightly disheveled, and a glaringly red lipstick mark stained the side of his neck like a brand.
He jumped when he noticed her. "M-Ms. Nakamura?" he stammered, backing up a step as though startled.
Hana's gaze swept him in an instant. Every detail registered—the messiness, the overdone smear of color, the panic in his voice that wasn't quite real. Her posture remained calm, but her fingers twitched slightly at her sides.
"Are you hurt?" she asked calmly, taking a single step forward. Her voice was low, careful.
The boy looked to the side. Too fast. Too obviously.
She turned her head just slightly—
—and then came the click. Subtle. Soft. But unmistakable.
The shutter of a phone camera from somewhere behind her.
Her body didn't move, but her expression froze. Instinct blared in her mind, screaming of manipulation.
Before she could whirl around or react, the boy suddenly exclaimed louder, "I-I didn't do anything, I swear! I thought she just wanted to talk—!"
Another click. Then silence.
Hana turned fully now, but the aisle was empty. Whoever had taken the photo was already gone.
The student looked toward her again, his panic growing more real now—whether from guilt or fear of being caught in a lie.
Hana's eyes darkened, unreadable. Her voice came out icy.
"What exactly are you trying to do here?"
The boy's expression twisted and he suddenly turned and ran.
His footsteps echoed down the aisle, clumsy and frantic. He burst out of the library doors with dramatic force, nearly tripping over his own shoes.
Outside, the hallway was full of students just returning from lunch. Heads turned immediately as the boy stumbled into view, red-faced and disheveled, shirt untucked and panic written all over him.
A female teacher nearby snapped her head up from her clipboard, her brows immediately furrowing with concern. She stepped forward quickly, eyes scanning the boy's disheveled appearance, the panic in his voice, and the crowd beginning to form. Her tone was sharper now, worried. "Is everything okay? What happened? Are you hurt?"
The boy pointed back toward the library, his finger trembling. "S-she's in there! Ms. Nakamura—she… she… I didn't…"
The teacher blinked, startled. "What do you mean? What happened?"
By now, several students had stopped walking. A ripple of hushed murmurs spread across the hallway.
"Did he say Ms. Nakamura?"
"What happened in the library?"
"Did she hurt him?"
"Wait—look at his neck! Is that... lipstick?"
"Oh my god, that's definitely lipstick!"
"No way... Are they saying she kissed him or something? That's messed up."
Whispers flowed like wildfire. The students' attention fixated on the disheveled boy, their gazes shifting rapidly between his flustered face and the red smear on his skin. The door to the library stood quietly behind them, the calm at its surface betraying none of the storm inside.
Across the hallway, just far enough to avoid suspicion, three figures stood watching the chaos unfold.
Naoya leaned against a column with a smug grin tugging at his lips. Shun stood with arms crossed, head tilted slightly in mock concern. Haruki, earbuds half-dangling from his hoodie, tapped his phone screen, pretending not to care—but his smirk betrayed him.
"Hook, line, and sinker," Naoya muttered under his breath.
"Did you see her face when she walked in?" Shun chuckled. "Like she already smelled the setup."
Haruki gave a soft snort. "She's smart. But not fast enough."
At that moment, the library door opened just enough for Hana to step into the frame. Her gaze swept the hallway—and then landed squarely on them.
Her expression wasn't anger. It was sharper. Confused. Calculating. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, a flicker of realization threading through her still posture.
The three boys didn't move. They just held their smirks like masks—until Hana's eyes locked with Naoya's.
Before Hana could take a step forward, the female teacher from earlier turned sharply at the sight of her and raised her voice. Loudly. Too loudly.
"Ms. Nakamura! What the hell is going on?!" she snapped, storming toward her. "Why was that boy running like he saw a ghost? His uniform's a mess, and he has—he has lipstick marks on his neck! What were you doing in there with him?"
Gasps rippled through the students. Phones began to rise—some for recording, some to text what they were seeing in real time.
Hana didn't answer at first. Her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes remained fixed on the trio at the far end of the hall. Naoya's smirk twitched, and for the briefest second, Shun looked away.
The teacher stopped just a few steps short of Hana, chest heaving. "Well?! Say something!"
Hana finally turned her gaze to the teacher, eyes cool but unreadable.
"I suggest you get the full story before drawing conclusions," she said evenly.
"Don't you dare deflect," the teacher hissed, glancing back toward the crowd. "There's a hallway full of students watching right now, and this doesn't look like nothing."
All around them, murmurs built to a low roar.
Hana's eyes slowly moved back to Naoya and the others. This time, her expression shifted—not confusion, not surprise. But certainty.
And the scene cut to black.