Behind the Washuoh Arena, roughly a hundred meters away, the building stood. A single-story structure, thirty-five years old. The mortar on its walls had cracked into a web of fissures, and the paint on the window frames had peeled away, exposing bare wood beneath. It had once served as the volleyball club's practice room, but now it functioned as a storage shed—a faded sign reading "No Entry Without Authorization" stood at its entrance. The August sun beat down at its zenith. Heat shimmered up from the asphalt, and the cicadas' cries continued without pause in the distance. Kunimi Akira watched Gasshu's back while wiping sweat from the back of his hand. Nomura Gasshu produced a key. He'd said it was a spare borrowed from the caretaker. An ordinary key. For three years, this man had been preparing—and that single key quietly testified to the accumulation of his efforts. [serious]I'm going in. The lock clicked open, the sound carrying through the quiet courtyard. --- Inside, it