The library is a cathedral of silence, and Reo's reaction is a quiet, shattering cataclysm within it. The blood drains from his face, leaving him chalky-white under the golden afternoon light. His eyes are fixed on the open page of my old diary with an expression of such raw, horrified recognition that it stops my breath.
He hasn't moved a muscle. He's not reading the words, I can tell. He's staring at the doodles, the mindless, happy scribbles of a girl who has no idea her world is about to end. The repeating logo. Prometheus.
He finally seems to notice me standing in the aisle, watching him. He snaps out of his trance, his first instinct to look away, to pretend he hasn't seen it. He quickly bends down, his movements jerky and unnatural, and closes the diary, gently sliding it back into the open pocket of my bag. He's trying to put the ghost back in the bottle.
But it's too late. I've seen his face. That wasn't the look of someone discovering a clue about a corporate conspiracy. It was the look of someone being confronted with a memory they have tried desperately to bury.
I walk back to the table, my heart a slow, heavy drum in my chest. The history paper is forgotten. The quiet comfort of our shared silence is shattered.
"Reo," I say, my voice dangerously calm. "You know what that symbol is."
It's not a question. It's a statement. He doesn't deny it this time. He just sits there, his hands gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles white. He looks utterly defeated.
"It wasn't a clue about Itsuki," I continue, the pieces clicking into place with a horrifying certainty. "My hand wasn't leaving a warning for the future. It was just… remembering an old habit. An echo from before. I used to draw that symbol. Why?"
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. He won't meet my eyes.
"It was just a… a design you liked," he says, his voice low and strained. The lie is so thin it's transparent.
"No," I say, my voice hardening. "This is the secret you've been keeping, isn't it? The reason you looked like you'd seen a ghost when you first saw my hand draw it. It has something to do with me. With the accident."
He flinches, a barely perceptible tightening of his shoulders.
"Arisa…" he starts, his voice pleading. "Please. It's better if you don't..."
"Don't tell me what's better for me!" I snap, my voice louder than I intend. A nearby student looks up from her book with a frown. I lower my voice to a fierce, trembling whisper. "You, of all people. Your entire system is built on giving me the truth, on letting me choose. You build me this whole world of evidence and anchors and witnesses to fight Itsuki's lies, but you've been telling one of your own this whole time."
The accusation hits him like a physical blow. He finally looks up at me, and his eyes are filled with a desperate, hunted agony. "It's not the same," he whispers. "He's trying to hurt you. I'm trying to protect you."
"Protect me from what?" I demand. "What is this logo, Reo? What is Prometheus?"
Just as he's about to answer, to finally break his silence, his phone buzzes on the table. A text. He glances at it, and a new wave of tension washes over him. "It's Mirei Saionji," he says, his voice flat. "The disciplinary hearing for Itsuki is over. She wants to see us. Now."
The walk to the student council room is the longest of my life. The unspoken question hangs between us, a heavy, toxic cloud. We have to face one villain, even as I'm beginning to suspect the boy beside me is hiding a different, more complicated truth.
Mirei's office is an island of perfect, intimidating order. She's sitting behind her large desk, Itsuki Kurobane sitting ramrod-straight in a chair opposite her. He doesn't look defeated. He looks bored. When we enter, Mirei gestures to the two empty chairs beside him. We are forced to sit next to our accuser.
"The board has reached a decision," Mirei says, her voice cold and devoid of any emotion. "Given the photographic evidence of your accessing Tsukimi-san's private records and the clear malicious intent of your forged document, Itsuki Kurobane, you are hereby suspended for two weeks and permanently removed from your position as class representative."
Itsuki's serene smile doesn't waver. "I understand," he says calmly. "I will, of course, abide by the council's decision. I only ever acted out of what I believed was a concern for a fellow student's welfare."
The lack of remorse is galling. He tried to psychologically dismantle me, and his only response is a polite, practiced lie.
"You're dismissed, Kurobane," Mirei says, her voice sharp with dismissal. He stands, gives a small, almost imperceptible bow, and walks out, leaving the three of us in a heavy silence.
"It's not enough," I say, the moment the door closes. "Two weeks? After what he did?"
"Legally, it's the most the school can do without definitive proof of him entering your home," Mirei says, her expression grim. "But his social capital is ruined. He'll be a pariah. And we have filed a formal request to have you reassigned to a different homeroom, away from him." She turns her sharp gaze to Reo. "The council now considers the matter of his false report closed. However, our investigation did bring one final, unrelated matter to my attention, Kisaragi-kun."
Reo tenses beside me.
"As part of our digital records review," Mirei continues, "we cross-referenced student file data. Your emergency contact information lists your father's place of employment." She slides a single piece of paper across the desk. It's a printout of a corporate letterhead. "Your father is the lead research scientist at Prometheus Medical Technologies, is he not?"
The name hangs in the air. Prometheus. It's a real company.
Reo just nods, his face a stony mask.
Mirei's gaze is now fixed on me. "Prometheus Medical is a boutique biotech firm. They specialize in experimental neurological treatments. And for the past six months, they have had one primary project: a revolutionary, non-invasive memory retrieval therapy, currently in early-stage human trials. Your name, Tsukimi-san, is at the very top of their prospective patient list." She leans forward. "It's a list curated and maintained by their lead scientist… Kisaragi-san's father."
The room starts to spin. A cure? An experimental therapy? And Reo's father is the one running it? This entire time, while Reo has been building me a world to survive my condition, his family has been building a way to end it.
"You knew," I whisper, turning to Reo. "You knew there might be a cure."
"It's experimental, Arisa," he says, his voice desperate. "It's not proven. It's dangerous."
"But you knew," I insist, the sense of betrayal a sharp, bitter tang in my mouth. "And you didn't tell me. All this time, you never said a word." My eyes fall back to the printout in my hand, to the sleek, interlocking squares of the Prometheus logo. My doodles. My obsessive scribbling of a biotech firm's logo, before I ever had a reason to know they existed. It doesn't make any sense.
Then my gaze falls on the evidence folder still sitting on Mirei's desk, the one with the photos of us, of Itsuki. I grab it and flip past the pictures of the class roster, past the shots of the rooftop, to the very first photos. The ones of the accident's aftermath, taken by a news crew. A crumpled car. Police tape. And a pile of my school books, spilled across the pavement. On top of the pile is a familiar, leather-bound book. My diary.
But something is wrong. I lean closer, my heart pounding. In the blurry news photo, lying next to my diary on the pavement, is a single, loose photograph. A polaroid. It's a picture of a smiling, happy girl—me, from before the accident. And standing beside her, his arm casually, comfortably around her, is Reo Kisaragi.
But that's impossible. My "before" self knew Reo. He was the school prince, the handsome, untouchable boy in the grade above. But we weren't friends. We'd never taken a photo together. I would remember that. I know I would remember that.
My entire internal history, the one solid pillar of "before" that I have been clinging to this whole time, just cracked down the middle.
Reo sees the look on my face, sees where I'm staring. The fight goes out of him completely.
"It's not my secret to tell, Arisa," he whispers, his voice raw with a pain that seems years old. "It's yours. The one you chose to forget."