[2024 August 4 — Sunday, 06 : 08 AM.]
Dawn spilled over Tokyo like diluted gold, but the first light scarcely touched the pavement when Sena Yukishiro sliced through the hush of Nakano's side streets. tap-tap-tap— her racing flats kissed the asphalt in metronomic cadence, breath measured, heart a disciplined drum. At exactly 06:00, the prodigy of Tokyo Women's Medical University pivoted beneath the mirrored awning of the Nakano Twin-Mark Towers. Sweat darkened the hem of her ash-gray track jacket; the rest of her—eyes storm-gray, hair obsidian and streaming—looked carved from focused silence.
A proximity chime greeted her. The main gate's glass petals parted, obedient to the intelligent key concealed somewhere in the folds of her jacket. Sena neither slowed nor spoke—only the faintest mm escaped when conditioned air slid across her flushed cheeks.
Inside, the lobby's marble floor was polished to a near-liquid sheen. Motion-sensing sconces flared awake as she strode past reception, scattering overlapping silhouettes of pearl-white and shadow behind her. Past the security gantry, past the unmanned concierge desk, she reached the elevator bank. Stainless-steel doors whispered apart; she stepped in and pressed nothing—the system recognized her and climbed.
(Ten seconds early. Recovery heart rate acceptable. But lap three was two seconds slow… tighten form next time.)
A mirror lined the lift. It reflected a poised nineteen-year-old med student, yet she studied her own image as though it belonged to a lab cadaver.
ding! —Level 10. She drifted down the hallway of muted taupe and key-card clicks, arriving at 10-B: the Yukishiro family's 3LDK aerie overlooking Shinjuku's skyline. Beyond the door lay quiet spaciousness: Father away on a pharmaceutical symposium in Osaka; Mother wrapping up a night shift that wouldn't release her until nearly lunchtime.
(Mom texted at 02:30—"Dr. Yamada's post-op orders were a mess again lol." …Her laugh patterns mean she's exhausted. Maybe I should set out vitamin drinks.)
Shoes off, Sena moved with habitual precision—to the laundry alcove, where she peeled damp jacket and running tights free, dropping them into the washer with a soft thump. A trail of steam soon spiraled from the bathroom as she stepped beneath the shower's cascade.
shaaa— Warm water hammered tight muscles, but memory stung sharper than any jet. Two days ago, أنت had almost punctured one of her carefully grafted half-truths—just a trivial brag about "lunch plans with friends" that didn't exist, yet the risk of exposure had pinched her lungs.
(Perfect sisters don't eat alone. Perfect sisters don't lie. Why did I frame it like that?) She squeezed shampoo until bubbles overflowed her palms. (Because if أنت thinks I'm alone, they'll try to… leave? No—they'll try to fix me. That's worse. Ugh—stop.)
The water coursed away the thought along with the sweat. She shut the valve with a decisive click, toweled off, and slipped into an oversized ivory tee and soft slate shorts, the cotton clinging faintly to still-damp skin. Sleeves swallowed her fingers—an aesthetic casualty she tolerated for comfort.
Silent parquet greeted her bare feet as she padded across the apartment, turning lights low to preserve the dawn glow. thump-thump —her heart accelerated, absurdly, when she paused before أنت's bedroom door. The digital clock on the sideboard read 06:18; summer break meant he could sleep in, yet routine tugged at her.
(He'll overheat under that blanket. Dehydration risk—morning tachycardia? Better to check……Overreaction…or, –– An Excuse) The rationalisation soothed. She nudged the door open.
Morning pooled through linen curtains, painting long diagonals across the room. أنت lay cocooned in a thick, mint-green comforter—absurd in August—only a tuft of hair and relaxed brow visible. A half-finished manga slumped facedown at the bedside like a fellow late sleeper.
Sena approached with soundless steps. Her damp hair slid forward, dripping a cool bead that dotted the hardwood— plip. She knelt by the mattress, studying the slow rise and fall of his chest. For a heartbeat she simply watched, lashes shivering with each exhale.
(This is the safest rhythm I know…)
She reached out, fingertips feather-light on the blanket. —with a gentle shake, as though coaxing a butterfly from sleep. Her voice, rarely heard beyond lecture halls, emerged a whisper barely louder than the cicadas starting up outside.
"...Wake up, أنت," she breathed, a plea wrapped in warmth and command all at once. "The sun's angry already, you'll fry in there."
