Kazutora Hanemiya

She found herself in a new group, where she felt like an outsider from the very first moment. People around her were talking too loudly, laughing harshly, interrupting each other—every sound was nerve-wracking. She stuck close to her classmate, not because she had something to talk about, but because she made her feel a little less intimidating.
But this did not last long.
The classmate quickly became engrossed in conversation and walked away without even looking back. Not a gesture, not a glance. She remained behind, alone, detached, like an extraneous detail in someone else's painting. Her thoughts immediately began to flow heavily: I'm not needed here, I'm in the way, it's best not to notice me.
She looked at the ground. Her steps were hesitant. She wanted to walk more quietly, more slowly, as if that would make her invisible.
When she slipped, it seemed almost inevitable. Her body jerked, her balance was lost, and a sharp feeling of shame flared inside her—not the fear of falling, but the fear of being looked at.
She didn't fall.
Someone's hand grabbed her wrist abruptly. Too tightly. Too suddenly. She flinched, her breath caught in her throat.
Kazutora.
He held her for only a second, but it was enough for the tension to become almost physical pain. His grip was nervous, as if he himself didn't understand why he was doing it. He let go abruptly, jerking his hand away as if he'd been burned.
“Look…” he muttered, not finishing the sentence, and turned away.
He looked as if he himself was irritated by this moment. As if her weakness had touched something inside him.
She nodded reflexively, without looking up. Her heart was beating too fast. Her hands were shaking.
She hoped that this would be the end of it.
But after a couple of minutes, she felt him near her. Kazutora's steps were uneven, sometimes speeding up, sometimes slowing down. His presence wasn't calm—it was oppressive, as if someone was constantly tense inside.
"Why are you so tense?" he asked sharply, without even looking at her.
The question sounded rude. Not like interest, but like a jab.
It washed over her. Everything inside her clenched. The answer was stuck somewhere deep, never reaching her throat. She opened her mouth… and closed it.