He wanted to believe it was mocking, that she was smirking at him the way someone might when they were watching a particularly stubborn animal refuse to walk through an open door. That it was judgment—pity—some holier-than-thou expression that said I know you better than you do.
But it wasn’t.
Hamuko just… smiled.
Calm, unshaken, like she wasn’t humoring him, wasn’t trying to force an argument, wasn’t even trying to win. She was just there. Unmoved, unwavering. And for some reason, that made it worse.
So he looked away.
“…I don’t have a say in the matter,” he muttered as his gaze drifted elsewhere—anywhere but at her before focusing on the board. “Akane likes you. I can tell.”
It wasn’t something he could control. Akane was sharp, cautious, and generally didn’t take to people easily past a professional standpoint, but when she did—when she made a choice—she meant it. And she had chosen Hamuko.
Zenkichi let out a quiet sigh. That was that, then. "I uh, gotta recalibrate my systems so-"
Leave me alone, he didn't say but really from the way he even avoided looking at her as he kept looking at the interesting or intricate details that were added to the board instead.
Meanwhile, Akane sat cross-legged on the couch, the last of her pink paper now folded into something intricate. A bow—dainty, delicate, crafted with the kind of precision only an AI could manage. She had overclocked her processing just to see it from all angles, to understand it fully before attempting it herself. And now, it was done.
But the bow had been the easy part.
The paper in front of her was still blank.
The pen in her hand felt awkward—too slow, too imprecise compared to the ease of digital input. But it wasn’t just that. She struggled to write something meaningful. Some kind of introduction for her and Zenkichi to this place, something that felt right, that wasn’t just raw data arranged in neat sentences and hell even holding the pen within fingers she wasn't used to was...telling of just how difficult it was to even encompass a body.
no subject
He wanted to believe it was mocking, that she was smirking at him the way someone might when they were watching a particularly stubborn animal refuse to walk through an open door. That it was judgment—pity—some holier-than-thou expression that said I know you better than you do.
But it wasn’t.
Hamuko just… smiled.
Calm, unshaken, like she wasn’t humoring him, wasn’t trying to force an argument, wasn’t even trying to win. She was just there. Unmoved, unwavering. And for some reason, that made it worse.
So he looked away.
“…I don’t have a say in the matter,” he muttered as his gaze drifted elsewhere—anywhere but at her before focusing on the board. “Akane likes you. I can tell.”
It wasn’t something he could control. Akane was sharp, cautious, and generally didn’t take to people easily past a professional standpoint, but when she did—when she made a choice—she meant it. And she had chosen Hamuko.
Zenkichi let out a quiet sigh. That was that, then. "I uh, gotta recalibrate my systems so-"
Leave me alone, he didn't say but really from the way he even avoided looking at her as he kept looking at the interesting or intricate details that were added to the board instead.
But the bow had been the easy part.
The paper in front of her was still blank.
The pen in her hand felt awkward—too slow, too imprecise compared to the ease of digital input. But it wasn’t just that. She struggled to write something meaningful. Some kind of introduction for her and Zenkichi to this place, something that felt right, that wasn’t just raw data arranged in neat sentences and hell even holding the pen within fingers she wasn't used to was...telling of just how difficult it was to even encompass a body.
She tapped the pen against her chin, frowning.
The words just wouldn’t come.