Number Thirteen heard the words, "Change the rules."
A whisper, almost too faint to exist, settled into the air.
He let out a cold laugh.
The corner of his mouth pulled to one side.
His breathing carried a short, contemptuous edge.
"Closing your eyes—what are you pretending?"
His voice echoed through the corridor.
The walls pressed the sound low.
His shadow advanced again.
Footsteps struck the ground.
The vibration pushed forward along the floor.
The anomalous air zone moved with it.
Within half a meter, the airflow began to compress—
then bulge forward.
Seven did not step back.
He did not raise the ruler.
He simply stood where he was.
Eyes closed.
Breathing steady.
Within a three-meter radius, the spatial structure stabilized.
The plane of the floor became clear.
The walls were sharply defined.
The mass of the sofa remained still.
The railing extended in quiet lines.
The moving shadow stood at the center.
Air tremors continued.
The rules had not changed.
The boundary remained three meters.
No expansion.
No amplification.
Only—
within those three meters, construction.
Not creation from nothing.
Not the addition of new matter.
But utilization.
Utilizing the feedback already present in space.
Airflow was continuous by nature.
Vibration was always propagating.
Every breath.
Every step.
Every trace of metal friction.
All left pathways in space.
Seven rearranged those pathways.
As if within transparent space—
he erected several invisible mirrors.
Formless.
Without thickness.
Not walls.
Not barriers.
Only—
surfaces that refracted vibration.
Number Thirteen swung his rod.
Shoulder driving the arm.
Metal cut through the air.
The anomalous zone expanded.
Mental interference surged forward.
The disturbance churned in the air—
compressed—
and rushed ahead.
The moment it touched Seven—
it did not land on him.
It was "bent away."
The vibrating air struck the first invisible interface.
Its path shifted.
Angle changed.
It entered the second.
Shifted again.
The third.
The vibration bounced back and forth within the three-meter space—
like light reflecting in a hall of mirrors.
No sound.
Only chaos in the shape of airflow.
Number Thirteen's shadow paused for an instant.
Not his body—
but the anomalous airflow around him.
It became disordered.
Its rhythm broken.
Seven remained with his eyes closed.
Within three meters, everything was clear.
That fog-like disturbance was reflected again and again.
The paths shortened.
The angles sharpened.
Number Thirteen stepped forward.
His heel struck hard.
Trying to force his way in.
The anomalous zone pushed with him.
Air compressed—
but at the moment of advance—
it rebounded onto itself.
The vibration flowed backward.
Like a wave striking rock.
No splash.
Only a change in direction.
Seven's movements did not stall.
His shoulders did not lag.
His wrist did not hesitate.
Because the interference—
no longer landed on him.
It circulated around Number Thirteen.
"What—"
For the first time, his voice changed.
The ending trembled slightly.
His shadow's center of gravity wavered.
The refracted interference—
returned from different angles.
Not amplified.
Not strengthened.
Just returned as it was.
But the direction—
was no longer under control.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Within the three-meter space, it reflected continuously.
Angles compressed.
Paths shortened.
After multiple reflections—
it converged toward the source.
Darkness flashed across Number Thirteen's vision.
His pupils constricted.
The anomalous air zone collapsed.
As if compressed inward.
Within half a meter, it caved in.
He instinctively stepped back.
His footing slipped.
His breathing broke for a beat.
But it was already too late.
The force that had been used to suppress others' feedback—
after repeated mirror-like reflections—
struck his own sensory circuits simultaneously.
No explosion.
No loud noise.
The air did not tear.
The lights did not flicker.
Only a dull sound—
of a body hitting the ground.
Support vanished.
The shadow tilted—
and fell.
The metal rod slipped from his hand.
Rolled across the floor—
out of the three-meter range—
making a faint clatter.
The air returned to normal flow.
The anomalous vibration dissipated.
Within three meters, no disturbance remained.
Only steady breathing.
Seven did not open his eyes immediately.
Confirming.
Within his perception—
Number Thirteen lay on the ground.
Movement ceased.
His chest still rose and fell.
Breathing remained.
But consciousness was gone.
The feedback of vibration was singular.
The surrounding shadows pressed against the walls.
Breaths were held low.
No one approached.
The air was quiet.
Seven opened his eyes.
Light returned.
Color refilled the space.
The sofa's dark tone.
The pale gray walls.
The faint yellow of the lighting.
Number Thirteen lay on his side.
Fingers half-curled.
Eyes unfocused.
Pupils unaligned.
No external injuries.
Skin intact.
Seven stepped closer.
The sole of his shoe touched the floor lightly.
He looked down.
"Psychic type."
His voice was flat.
"As expected—fragile."
He did not finish him.
Did not move again.
Air flowed naturally.
The three-meter structure dissolved.
Space returned to ordinary air.
The curtains stirred slightly.
Applause came from outside.
Crisp.
Echoing from the end of the corridor.
Seven paused.
His gaze shifted toward the source.
The girl stood in the shadows.
Her hands had not fully lowered.
She picked up a mask.
Covered half her face.
Fingertips resting along its edge.
Seven understood.
"Oh. So you're the one who provided the information."
Her voice was soft.
"As expected, you didn't disappoint me."
Her gaze fell on Number Thirteen.
Her brows tightened briefly.
Disgust, poorly concealed.
"This place was originally hidden by my ability."
The scent of smoke still lingered in the air.
Seven said, "Oh—an ability that deceives cameras?"
She nodded.
"That's right. It was originally just a place for girls to gather."
Her tone was indifferent.
Her gaze swept the room.
"But Number Thirteen found it. Turned it into his outlet."
She raised her hand.
Slowly pulled down her collar.
Revealing half of her collarbone.
The motion was deliberate.
Provocative.
"You won, Seven."
She stepped forward half a step.
"Do you want to become the king here?"
Seven waved his hand.
Casually.
"No interest."
His gaze remained calm.
"You can keep playing here."
He turned.
His steps unhurried.
His back disappeared down the corridor.
The girl did not follow.
She simply stood there.
A few days later.
The notice board updated.
Black text on white paper.
Posted flat.
"Sixth Year Number Thirteen: Ability Loss. Withdrawal processed."
The font was precise.
No explanation.
No details.
Students passed by in the corridor.
Their gazes swept over it.
Their steps did not stop.
The old school building returned to silence.
Heavy curtains.
Dust drifting in the light.
Seventy-Seven was released from solitary confinement.
The door at the end of the corridor opened.
The lock clicked sharply.
Ros's name—
no longer appeared on any disciplinary list.
The electronic board scrolled updates.
The list remained simple.
The academy continued to operate.
Elevators ran as usual.
Buttons lit up.
Numbers shifted.
The sixth-year floor remained quiet.
The corridor echoes were thin.
Only one number—
was missing.
Night.
The curtains in the old building remained heavy.
Layer upon layer.
No light visible from outside.
Inside—
dim lighting.
Steady air.