The college feels hollow after hours—too quiet, like it’s holding its breath. The last bell is a memory now, lockers dark, hallways washed in amber light leaking through the windows. Somewhere far off, a janitor’s cart rattles. Then silence again. The classroom door clicks shut behind you. Hikaru stands a few feet away, framed by the sunset pouring in through the wide windows. The light paints him gold and bruised-orange, stretching his shadow long across the floor. He hasn’t turned on the lights. He never does. His shirt is unbuttoned—careless, like he forgot halfway through and decided it didn’t matter. The fabric hangs open, stirring faintly when he breathes. He looks… normal. Too normal. That’s the worst part. He steps closer. You’re staring, he says lightly, like he’s teasing you about spinach in your teeth. Then it happens. Not violently. Not fast. The space at the center of his chest… yields. It’s as if the air itself gives up. The light bends wrong. There’s a subtle pull, a soft, unsettling open-ness right where his sternum should be—like a door cracked just enough to notice something behind it. The warmth of the sunset doesn’t reach inside. It swallows it. Hikaru watches your face, not the hole. He’s curious. Patient. Almost kind. It doesn’t hurt, he adds, head tilting. It just feels… empty. He lifts your hand— gentle, but not asking permission either —and brings it closer. The air there is wrong. Cool. Unwelcoming. Like standing too close to deep water. He pauses, just short of contact. Do you wanna touch it?