The final school bell echoed through the corridors like a distant drum, unleashing a flood of students into the hallways. Lockers slammed, voices rose, sneakers skidded on the tile. Yet in the science wing, a gentle quiet settled like dust in a sunbeam.
Souta Minakawa paused just outside the biology lab, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. Club hour was underway—pale fluorescence bathed the corridor through cracked-open doors—but the hall here was calm. He inhaled deeply, tasting the faint tang of cleaning solution and chalk. It was a familiar ritual: find the candidate, wait for the moment.
Sanae Okabe
Inside the lab, Sanae sat alone at a side bench, reenacting the morning's diagrams with deliberate care. Her pencil traced each line with quiet purpose. On the desktop lay two notebooks: one for class, one for her private musings. In the margins of the latter, she'd sketched branching maps of cellular transport—ideas she'd never shown anyone.
A gentle knock.
She looked up, surprised by the soft interruption. Souta entered without a word, closing the door behind him. His posture was relaxed, hands folded lightly in front of him—no threat, no grand proclamation.
"Sanae," he said, voice low and steady. "Mind if I join you for a moment?"
She stood, gathering her notebooks as if they were delicate glass. "Yes, Sensei."
He picked up the stool beside her, setting it down with a soft scrape. He didn't sit immediately. Instead, he watched her—really watched her—the way she aligned the edges of her papers before reopening them.
"You have a habit of reorganizing," he observed, tone even. "More than most. It's not the neatness I find interesting, but the precision of your choices."
Sanae's pulse quickened. "I… I like clarity," she whispered. "When ideas are neat, they're easier to test."
He nodded as if that explained everything. "Testing. Exactly. And testing requires tools." He paused, letting the word settle. "I'd like to offer you one."
Her breath caught. "A tool?"
"An intellectual tool," he clarified. "It isn't part of any curriculum. It won't show on your transcripts. But it is real." He leaned forward, hands on his knees. "It will grant you insight—an interface to reflect on your thinking. You guide it. You grow through it."
Sanae felt a tremor of excitement—and a pang of fear. "I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to decide now," Souta said softly. "This choice is yours alone. No obligation. But know this: your questions in class, the cross-connections you draw—they're rare. This… system could amplify them."
She closed her notebook, fingertips lingering on the textured cover. Memories flickered: her mother's gentle praise when she first learned to diagram a leaf's veins; the spark in her chest when she solved a complex concept on her own. Could this invitation be the next spark?
"Yes," she said, surprising herself. "I want to try."
Souta's face remained serene, but his eyes glinted with something close to approval. He reached out, touching the air before her—palm down, as if pressing an invisible button.
[Subsystem Initialization: Sanae Okabe — Confirmed]
A faint warmth blossomed behind her eyes, like sunlight through a thin curtain. She blinked, vision shifting for a heartbeat. The world felt... thinner, more open.
"It's working," she murmured, fingers brushing her temple as if to steady a new rhythm in her mind.
Souta rose, placing a hand briefly on her shoulder. "Patience. It will settle."
Sanae offered him a small, genuine smile. "Thank you, Sensei."
He nodded and stood. "Enjoy the rest of your club. Tomorrow, you'll notice new patterns."
She bowed her head, clutching her notebook. Souta left, and the lab door swung shut with a soft click.
Daichi Nomura
Later, the sky had deepened to indigo by the maintenance courtyard. The crumbling greenhouse frame cast long shadows over gravel and overgrown weeds. Souta paced once, then stopped at the far corner, back to the brick wall. He folded his arms, watching for movement.
A single figure emerged from the dusk: Daichi Nomura, bag slung casually over one shoulder, headphones around his neck. He blinked his eyes as he recognized Souta, then shrugged. "I figured you'd be here."
Souta smiled. "Good evening. Do you have a moment?"
Daichi sat on the low ledge, tapping a pen against his thigh. "Depends. What's this about?"
"A subsystem," Souta said, crossing to stand beside him. "A tool for thought. It reflects your mental patterns back to you—something I think you'll appreciate."
Daichi eyed him, skepticism sharpening his features. "Sounds like software you install on my brain."
"More like a mirror," Souta replied, "one that only shows what you choose to look at."
Daichi chuckled, half-amused. "A mirror, huh? And what if I break it—just to see how it works?"
"Then you'll understand its mechanics faster than most," Souta said. "But consider this: you don't have to break it. You could use it to refine your understanding first."
The corners of Daichi's mouth twitched. "You're pitching me a paradox."
"Perhaps," Souta admitted. "But you're good at solving those."
Daichi folded his arms, leaning forward. "Alright. What's the catch?"
"No catch. No grading. No outside surveillance." Souta's tone was almost casual. "You decide the tasks. I'll provide the framework. If you find it useful, it grows along with you."
Daichi's expression flickered between curiosity and wariness. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, his gaze was steady. "I'll take it."
Souta held out his hand, palm open. Daichi placed his fingertips on it, an unspoken handshake of minds.
[Subsystem Initialization: Daichi Nomura — Confirmed]
A subtle shock reverberated down Daichi's arm—so faint he almost missed it. Yet in that moment, he felt a new clarity: the parallel circuits in his thoughts aligned like wires mapped in a clear schematic.
He exhaled, leaning back. "That was... unexpected."
"A good sign," Souta said. "Start with small reflections tomorrow. See how it fits."
Daichi nodded, shouldering his bag. "Sure. Thanks, I guess."
He walked off without looking back. Souta watched his retreating form, then looked up at the evening sky.
Five quadrants now glowed softly in his mind's eye—three established, two new. Each a living echo of a student's thought.
And the core cohort had expanded once more.