At the far end of the island, where the sea whispered secrets and the wind howled like a ghost in mourning, a single green dustbin lay half-buried in wet sand. Perched silently atop it—like a statue cursed into sleep—was the black-eyed girl, her hair fluttering ominously as though responding to something only she could sense.
Suddenly—
WHOOSH.
The air fractured, warped… then snapped back.
And there he was.
Haruto Sazanami.
But this time, no heroic pose. No cool lines.
He stumbled forward.
"The limit… it's reached…" he murmured weakly.
Then—collapse.
His knees gave in. Face down on the sand, gasping like a fish out of water, blood trickling from his nose in crimson streaks.
His trembling hand reached for a tree trunk, dragging his half-dead body toward it. Each grain of sand pierced into his skin like knives. His legs quivered. His nerves screamed.
But he stood.
Barely.
And then he spoke.
"Everyone… they believe I can teleport now. Heh."
His face twisted—not into a smile, but regret.
"But it was never teleportation. Just… pure speed."
He looked up, eyes dull, memories surfacing like phantoms.
"All that pain… was just delayed. Suppressed. This body—"
He clutched his chest.
"—is the one of result of Project kamikaze. One hundred thousand trafficked children. Their deaths… built this monster."
Blood flowed from his ears now. His arms trembled like broken branches. There was no feeling left in his fingertips.
But he moved.
He always moved.
He crawled toward the dustbin. The black-eyed girl had long since walked off into the woods.
He reached inside and shook it gently.
Click.
A small, dark device dislodged, falling into his hand like a seed of conspiracy.
Haruto stared at it silently before sliding it into his inner coat pocket.
Then he turned.
The sky had dimmed. The horizon bled orange.
Night was approaching.
His feet dragged.
But halfway through the jungle, a leaf brushed his face—followed by the gurgle of water.
He paused.
Turned.
Followed.
A hidden waterfall.
Crystal water fell like moonlight, cool and free. And there—he stepped in, stripping away dirt and blood, even the stink of exhaustion.
But survival had no pride.
He reached for insects near the rock and popped them into his mouth.
"Disgusting and crunchy as ever…" he muttered, swallowing with a grimace.
Washing himself, recharging what little he could, Haruto finally found the strength to head back toward the camp.
When he arrived…
They were all waiting.
Sitting around, talking, fidgeting.
Kei. Kushida. Hirata. Sudō. Even Ayanokōji with his ever-calm gaze.
But no one rushed to him. No one asked if he was okay.
His eyes scanned them all—and then slowly dimmed.
They were waiting for food.
Not for him.
His lips curled up.
Not in mockery.
But in painful understanding.
And with hollow warmth in his voice, he whispered:
"…I see. That's how it is."
Then, he walked into the shadows of the group.
As if he was never gone.
As if he never bled.
As if he never mattered.
***
The campfire flickered quietly, shadows dancing on half-pitched tents and discarded toolkits. The air carried the scent of sea salt, damp leaves… and tension.
Around the circle, the topic had shifted.
Ibuki Mio.
A girl from Class C—wounded, silent, her pride more bruised than her body. She sat wrapped in a borrowed blanket, barely acknowledging the concerned whispers.
Haruto arrived, steps casual yet heavy, his presence dragging silence behind him.
His wet hair clung to his forehead, droplets sliding down his cheek like forgotten tears.
His sharp eyes scanned the group… and then narrowed.
"What…" he said with mock shock, "…is a Class C girl doing here?"
Everyone froze.
Kei looked away.
Hirata opened his mouth, then shut it.
Finally, someone muttered, "She was in a really bad state… we couldn't just leave her there."
Haruto's gaze snapped toward Ayanokōji, then Ibuki, then back at his own hands.
A second passed.
Then—
SLAP.
Haruto struck himself across the face, leaving a red imprint.
"Fools…" he muttered under his breath. "This isn't a game."
He took a step forward, his expression cold.
"Give everything back. All the points. The toilet, the gear—everything—if you want her here."
He then turned toward Ayanokōji.
"And you—stop pretending you're above this. Don't play games."
Ayanokōji remained quiet, unreadable. But his eyes tightened just a little.
Ayanokōji thought:
He's testing them. Pushing them. Or maybe... testing me?
The girls looked at each other in frustration.
Kei clenched her fists. Others hesitated.
Then—Kushida stepped forward, her usual mask faltering just for a second.
"Let her stay. We can't just throw away a girl like that. We're not monsters."
Haruto smiled softly, wet hair dripping, casting eerie glints in the firelight.
"Oh? Do you not want your toilet then?"
The entire group of girls fell silent.
The toilet.
The deal.
Haruto's trap.
Then Kushida, with a strained smile, hissed:
"We can't let a girl suffer for comfort."
Haruto didn't blink.
He slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out the card—the one that held their agreement, their price, their shame.
Kushida's eyes widened.
Her fingers twitched.
But she held back.
Because in that moment… she understood.
That card wasn't a threat.
It was a reminder.
Of who Haruto was.
Of how easily he could make them all dance.
Her lips curled into a sweet smile—but her thoughts were bitter.
"Just give me time…" she thought coldly, "…I'll make your life hell, Haruto."
And Haruto?
He merely looked up at the stars.
Like none of this mattered.
While the bonfire crackled miles away on the special island, under a night sky too calm for what brewed beneath it—another story unfolded.
Far from the camp, deep in the heart of the Advanced Nurturing High School campus, in the darkness of Haruto's private room, shadows slithered in silence.
Men in black—faces obscured, gloves clean, movements calculated—scanned through every inch.
Drawers opened with surgical precision. The mattress lifted. Ventilation grates unscrewed. Not a speck was missed.
But… nothing.
No device.
No papers.
Not even the smallest clue.
One of the men clicked a small communicator.
"Zero results. Subject's room sanitized. Awaiting orders."
Scene Shift: A Dimly Lit Office
In a sleek, heavily guarded administrative office, a screen flickered with surveillance footage and redacted documents.
A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and an unreadable face leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed on a glowing file marked:
[ CASE #77-A: NETWORK BUILDING INCIDENT – EXAM LEAK – SUBJECT 'H.S.']
"Still nothing?" he asked, voice low and displeased.
A woman in a lab coat standing nearby replied, "We've triple-checked the dorms of all potential suspects. Zero anomalies in Haruto Sazanami's room. It's… too clean."
"Too clean…" he repeated, fingers drumming on the desk. "Like he knew we were coming."
She nodded grimly. "Either that, or someone wiped it before us. But we can't overlook the coincidence—exam paper leaks, the network system crash, and now Haruto showing abnormal performance in the island test."
The man turned toward the window, the campus barely visible under a pale moonlight.
"Keep searching. Don't report to the Chairman yet. Haruto Sazanami… is no ordinary student."
"Yes, sir."
As the camera panned away from the office, back at the island, the moon finally drifted behind a cloud…
…and in the forest near the beach, Haruto stood quietly, brushing sand off his jacket.
Unaware?
No.
He was never unaware.
His lips curled into a cold smirk.
"Let them search." he whispered.
"The real game never leaves traces."