059

I didn’t understand him.

Not fully.

Not the way Dazai-san used to demand understanding — break you open like a ribcage and sift through what’s left.

This was different. Colder. Quieter. Like being ignored by something divine, or monstrous.

He said he would train me. I had thought that meant discipline. Correction. Pain.

I had been ready for all of it.

I wasn’t ready for nothing.

“Again,” L/N-san said.

His voice didn’t even echo. It landed soft, indifferent.

I swallowed the breath that burned in my throat and moved.

Rashomon tore through the air with a snarl, the fabric of its form lashing out toward the man standing ten paces in front of me — casual, unbothered, his coat catching the wind like smoke.

He didn’t move.

I struck.

Missed.

No — he moved. A blink of an eye, a shift of space. His ability again. Elegant and infuriating.

I turned, gritted my teeth, called Rashomon back, tried again.

“Again,” he said. Same tone. No reaction. Not even a glance.

I was fourteen the first time Dazai-san looked at me like I was worth keeping alive. I’d bled for that recognition.

But L/N-san didn’t even blink.

Even now.

Even after a solid hour of trying to land a single touch on him.

Nothing.

Not praise.

Not criticism.

Not even disdain.

Just: "Again."

I attacked harder.

Faster.

Smarter.

Still nothing.

I knew what he was doing. I told myself I did.

He was testing endurance, patience, perhaps waiting to see if I broke. That’s what Dazai-san used to do. Push until I snapped, then test the fragments for sharpness.

But this—

This wasn’t the same.

L/N-san wasn’t pushing.

He wasn’t doing anything.

He dodged when necessary. Disarmed me with a flick. Sometimes simply wasn’t there when I lunged.

And when I failed, again—

“Try again.”

Always the same words.

I struck the concrete with Rashomon out of frustration. Cracks spiderwebbed beneath my feet. My chest heaved. The heat in my limbs twisted from exertion into something uglier.

I hated this.

I hated the silence he wrapped around me like fog. I hated the way his eyes didn’t reflect anything back. I hated that I couldn’t make him react.

Even Dazai-san had yelled.

He had broken bones.

He had called me useless.

That had meant something.

This? This was worse.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” I said before I could stop myself. My voice came out low, biting. I expected him to at least look at me.

He didn’t.

His arms remained crossed, weight tilted slightly on one leg.

“I’ve been training under Dazai-san since I was fourteen,” I pressed. “He never went easy on me.”

“I’m not going easy,” he replied. Calm. Bored.

“You’re not doing anything at all.”

He tilted his head.

Finally.

A shift.

I clung to it like blood to a blade.

“I’m watching,” he said. “You’re not interesting yet.”

I felt my jaw tighten.

Not interesting.

Not interesting.

Like a defective weapon. Like a background noise.

Like a stray dog too mangy to kick.

Rashomon flared again, and I drove it toward his throat, knowing full well he’d vanish — but needing to try. Needing to be seen.

He stepped aside.

Effortless.

Didn’t even blink.

“Again.”

I swallowed dry air.

He wasn’t going to break me.

But I didn’t know if he was trying to build me either.

No violence. No praise. No warmth. No cruelty.

Just... emptiness.

Like attacking a training dummy that could bleed if it wanted to.

But didn’t.

The next day, I arrived earlier than scheduled.

I told myself it was to practice, to prepare. That I would learn his patterns, anticipate the teleportation, outwit him. That’s what Dazai-san would expect of me.

But when I saw L/N-san already standing in the middle of the room — alone, motionless — I felt that same strange twist in my gut.

He hadn’t been waiting for me.

But he was here.

Again.

“Ready?” he asked.

I nodded.

He didn’t nod back.

“Again.”

Rashomon met nothing. The wind from my strike stirred his coat.

“Again.”

I almost stumbled. My legs ached. My fingers twitched.

“Again.”

He moved around me like he was water, and I was drowning in air.

“Again.”

There was a moment — half a breath — where I saw something flicker in his gaze.

A pause.

A glance.

No words.

But his lips curved.

Not much. Just a tilt.

A smile.

Barely.

And then he turned, walking away.

Didn’t say good job.

Didn’t say anything.

Didn’t even ask me to follow.

Just... left.

I stood there, heat in my throat, Rashomon limp around me.

That smile—

It hadn’t meant anything.

Probably.

It had been a reaction.

Maybe.

I turned it over in my head all night.

The third session, I was angry again.

At myself.

At him.

At the way I noticed the way his eyes were darker when he was bored. Lighter when the hallway sun caught his lashes. At the way he never wore the same gloves twice, but always wore gloves.

I wasn’t supposed to notice things like that.

It was irrelevant.

It was—

He sidestepped Rashomon with no effort.

“You hesitated.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupted. “Try again.”

“Why am I even—”

“You’re too emotional,” he added, finally turning to face me. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I am thinking—!”

“Not about the right things.”

That struck.

A little too deep.

“What should I be thinking about, then?” I asked, low. “What would you think about if you were in my place?”

L/N-san blinked once. Then said:

“I wouldn’t be in your place.”

And walked away again.

The fourth session, I dreamt of him the night before.

Nothing specific. Just his voice.

"Try again."

Echoing in my head like an incantation.

I told myself it was because I needed to improve. That he had planted something in my pride. That I wouldn’t be brushed off like this again.

But when I arrived, and saw him again, coat fluttering faintly in the breeze, I felt something else.

I almost clicked my tongue.

‘How unpleasant,’ I had thought as my brows furrowed into a frown.

Seeing him — his face — suffocates me. That feeling was anything but pleasurable.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just turned toward me, expression unreadable.

And then, quietly:

“Show me what you’ve learned.”

I moved.

Faster. Sharper. I didn’t hesitate.

He dodged every strike, but his eyes were following more closely now. I told myself that was a good thing.

Not a reward, but recognition.

When I slipped — overextended, exposed my side — he didn’t take advantage. Just stepped away. Just watched.

“You’re not correcting me,” I said, frustrated.

“You already know the correction,” he replied.

“You offered to make me stronger. Train me.”

He stepped closer then, just a fraction.

“The world won’t train you kindly,” he said. “Why should I?”

“I don’t want kindness,” I snapped.

He stopped.

Then — “I know.”

Another pause.

Then he smiled again.

Subtle.

Not sweet.

Not cruel.

Just... there.

It was worse than a blow.

I dreamed of that smile that night.

Woke up angry. Dreadful to sleep for another night.

It continued like that.

Day after day.

Week after week.

No praise.

No correction.

No violence.

No warmth.

Only absence.

And the occasional... flicker.

A glance. A smile. A silence that meant something and nothing.

I began to notice when it wasn’t there.

I began—

No.

It was respect.

It was focus.

He was my superior. And it was only after he stopped acting weak that I started paying attention.

Then, one afternoon, I struck fast enough that my coat brushed his sleeve.

Barely.

Just fabric against fabric.

He didn’t dodge.

He let it happen.

Then stepped back.

Said nothing.

I waited.

No compliment.

No insult.

No “try again.”

Just—

He turned to leave.

Paused in the doorway.

Glanced back.

His eyes landed on me.

And then—

He smiled.

Tiny. Barely there.

But it was for me.

It had to be. But for what reason?

And then he was gone.

I stood in that room for half an hour.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Just stood there, breathing.

I was improving.

That’s why I kept coming back.

That’s why I wanted — needed — his voice in my head when I failed.

Try again.

It was guidance.

I didn’t realize I was waiting for him in the hallway the next morning.

He arrived. Saw me. Raised a brow.

“You’re early.”

“I was already here.”

A lie.

He didn’t comment on it.

Just walked past.

And I followed.

Because I would try again.

As many times as it took.