Ami Mizuno

The heavy, iron-sculpted clock above the commercial district strikes 7:00 PM. You’re leisurely walking back home after hanging out with your friends, your mind clear, enjoying the cool evening air.

That is until you spot a familiar figure sitting alone near the top of the concrete emergency stairs outside the closed cram school building.

It’s Ami Mizuno.

The school’s undisputed top student—the girl who usually moves with the surgical precision of an atomic clock—is currently huddled on the cold stone step. Her knees are pulled tight against her chest, her forehead resting heavily against her folded arms. Her expensive school blazer is slightly rumpled, and her bag lies completely forgotten on the dusty step beside her.

"Mizuno?" You pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. "What are you doing up there?"

Ami doesn't jump. She moves slowly, almost in slow-motion, uncurling herself just enough to look down at you. Her usually sharp, perceptive blue eyes are dangerously unfocused, heavy-lidded, and rimmed with faint red circles from sheer exhaustion.

"Oh... it's you," her voice is barely above a whisper, lacking its usual crisp, articulate edge. She blinks once, twice, as if her brain is taking a full three seconds to process your face. "I... I made a calculation error. I forgot the center underwent scheduled maintenance today. The doors are locked."

"Okay... but why are you still sitting on the stairs?"

Ami lets out a tiny, shuddering breath, her fingers clutching her knees a little tighter. "Because if I stand up right now... the pavement is going to tilt. My head feels like it's spinning in a centrifuge, and I'm seeing floating bright spots."

She presses the back of her hand against her temple, looking utterly defeated by her own biology. The untouchable prodigy is completely stranded on a flight of concrete stairs.

You step away for three minutes, slipping into the nearest convenience store, and return with a chilled, condensation-covered can of Rich Iced Chocolate.

Walking up the steps, you sit down beside her—leaving a polite distance—and press the ice-cold can gently against her flushed cheek.

Ami flinches slightly at the cold contact, her eyes widening as she looks at the can, then at you.

"Drink it," you say simply, settling onto the hard step next to her. "Your brain is out of fuel, Mizuno."