Chapter 14: Necessary Interference

(Misaki POV)

I skip class because I’m bored.

That’s the version everyone prefers, so I let them keep it.

Truth is, boredom just makes it easier to leave without anyone asking questions. Tokiwadai girls vanish from lessons all the time—tea dates, committee work, “personal matters.” No one likes to admit how fragile the schedule really is.

Today, though, I had somewhere specific to be.

The administrative wing was quiet in the way only places full of secrets ever are. No students. No laughter. Just clean floors and people who believed themselves important.

I knocked once.

Then opened the door without waiting.

Two staff members looked up.

I smiled.

“Oh good,” I said pleasantly. “You’re both here.”

One of them straightened immediately. The other tried not to—but hesitation always leaks through in small ways. A pause too long. A breath held half a second too late.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, my fingers already curling around the familiar shape of my controller inside my bag.

There it was on the table.

A thin folder.

Mirai’s.

I didn’t sit. I never did, when I wanted to remind people who had the advantage. Instead, I walked around the desk, letting my fingers brush the edge of the folder—not opening it. Just acknowledging it.

“So,” I said lightly, “you’ve already started.”

The woman cleared her throat. “Miss Shokuhou, this discussion is internal—”

I lifted the controller.

Pressed once to each person.

Their expressions smoothed almost immediately, shoulders relaxing as if they’d decided—on their own, of course—that this was all perfectly reasonable.

“Well,” I said, turning my attention between them, “if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to discuss Mirai’s current power.”

They both nodded.

“As it currently stands,” the man said evenly, “a practical test will be necessary to fully gauge her potential.”

I sighed, exaggerated and theatrical.

“Mm, no. That won’t do.” I tapped the folder lightly. “Mirai doesn’t need that yet. She’s perfectly fine as she is.”

I tilted my head, smile sharpening just a little.

“Leave it to the next school-wide practical assessment. Next month.”

There was a brief pause.

Then—

“Yes,” the woman said, tone flat and agreeable. “We will follow standard procedure as with a normal student and conduct the assessment alongside the rest of the class.”

“Perfect,” I replied. “Keep me posted.”

I turned and walked out without waiting for a dismissal.

The door shut softly behind me.

Waiting in the corridor was my bodyguard—and one of my most reliable assets—Hokaze Junko.

She straightened the moment she saw me.

“Misaki-sama,” she asked calmly, “is the matter resolved?”

“For now,” I said, twirling my remote idly around my finger.

Junko fell into step beside me without another word, heels clicking in perfect sync with mine.

“You bought her time,” she said after a moment. Not a question.

“Of course I did.”

“And when the next assessment comes?”

I smiled, gaze drifting toward the windows—toward the classrooms beyond them.

“Then Tokiwadai will discover something very inconvenient,” I said lightly. “But until then…”

I paused.

“…she gets to be a student.”

Junko nodded once, understanding immediately.

A week.

Maybe two.

That was all I could steal her.

But it was enough.

For now.

I was halfway to the gates when the air snapped.

A clean, deliberate crack of static brushed past my shoulder.

“…You did that on purpose,” I said without turning.

“Yeah,” Misaka Mikoto replied. “I did.”

I sighed and faced her.

She looked irritated—but not in her usual explosive way. This was narrower. Focused.

“What is it?” I asked. “I’m busy.”

“Cut it out,” she said. “I’m not here to fight.”

That alone was suspicious.

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s new.”

She didn’t rise to it.

“Yesterday,” Misaka said, “you were walking around school with that transfer student.”

Ah.

There it is.

“And?” I prompted.

“You don’t do that,” she said flatly.

I smiled. “I do lots of things.”

“No,” she shot back. “You don’t get friendly. You don’t show people around. And you definitely don’t let someone walk at your side like that.”

She stepped closer.

“So when you do, I notice.”

Fair.

“And today,” she continued, “I found out she’s your roommate.”

I didn’t bother hiding my reaction this time.

“Oh,” I said lightly. “Word travels fast.”

“It does when you’re involved,” Misaka replied. “So yeah. I came to ask.”

“Ask what?”

“What kind of person gets that close to you.”

I studied her for a moment.

Not hostile.

Not accusing.

Just… curious, in that blunt, irritating way she has.

Before I could answer, she added:

“And before you dodge it—something weird happened when I bumped into her this morning.”

There it is again.

“She didn’t freak out,” Misaka said. “She didn’t lose control. But my head felt wrong for a second.”

I tilted my head. “And naturally, you decided this was my responsibility.”

“You deal in secrets,” she snapped. “If anyone knows, it’s you.”

I laughed softly. “You give me far too much credit.”

“Stop deflecting,” she said. “Is she part of your clique?”

I blinked.

Then laughed outright.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

That threw her.

“Then why are you sticking your neck out?” she demanded.

Because someone has to.

But instead, I said:

“She’s a friend.”

The word hung there.

Misaka stared at me like I’d just announced I’d taken up charity work.

“…You’re serious.”

“I am.”

She looked away, scowling. “You don’t usually say things you don’t mean.”

No.

I don’t.

“She’s not dangerous,” I added calmly. “And she’s not a weapon.”

Misaka’s eyes flicked back to me. “You sound pretty sure.”

“I am.”

A beat.

“…Then why do I feel like you’re hiding her?”

Because I am.

I smiled instead. “You worry too much.”

She clicked her tongue. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

I turned to leave.

“Just one thing,” I said over my shoulder. “If you run into her again—don’t push.”

Misaka frowned. “You think she’s fragile?”

“No,” I replied.

“She’s just new.”

I walked away.

Behind me, electricity crackled once—annoyed, unresolved.

Good.

Let her wonder.

I waited.

Which, honestly, should have been my first warning sign.

Normally, if I want someone somewhere, they are. Schedules bend. People forget detours they never meant to take. A bell rings and reality politely reorganizes itself around my convenience.

But today I leaned against the stone railing near the front steps and did nothing.

The bell rang. Doors opened. White uniforms spilled out in neat, laughing clusters, parasols already unfolding despite the clear sky. Tokiwadai never wasted an opportunity to look composed.

Mirai didn’t come out with the first wave.

I checked my watch. Not because I was impatient—just habit. Timing is everything, after all.

When she finally appeared, a few minutes late, she looked… fine. No visible strain. No tremor in her hands. Just a little stiff, like she’d been bracing herself through the last class.

Good.

She noticed me almost immediately. Of course she did. I wasn’t exactly subtle, standing there like I belonged exactly where I was.

Her shoulders dropped the slightest amount as she walked over.

“Misaki,” she said.

“Endurance test surviveable?” I asked lightly.

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Barely.”

We started walking, naturally falling into pace. The path back toward the dorms was busy, but not chaotic. Tokiwadai girls knew how to occupy space without colliding, like a carefully choreographed dance.

Around us, voices overlapped.

From my clique, unmistakable even without looking.

“She really is walking with her again.”
“So it wasn’t a one-day thing.”
“Roommates, right? That should explain it.”

Junko’s voice drifted by too, deliberately neutral. She was good at that—observing without intruding.

Then there were the others.

Not hostile. Just curious.

“Is that the transfer?”
“I heard she skipped a practical evaluation already.”
“Of course she did.”

Mirai kept her gaze straight ahead. Her steps were even, but I could tell she heard every word. You don’t grow that kind of stillness without learning to absorb attention quietly.

I didn’t intervene.

Not because I couldn’t—but because this was part of it. Existing here meant being seen, talked about, assessed. Shielding her from everything would only make the fall worse later.

Still, I let my shoulder brush hers as we walked.

A small thing. A reminder she wasn’t alone.

The dorm building rose ahead of us, all clean lines and soft lighting. Inside, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The noise dampened, voices lowered. Tokiwadai dorms were closer to a hotel than student housing.

Mirai paused just inside the entrance, glancing around.

“It’s… quiet,” she said.

“It’s enforced,” I replied. “Silence is part of the brand.”

We removed our shoes, signed in, routine motions that felt almost ceremonial. I caught a few glances from the front desk staff—not surprised, just filing the image away.

Upstairs, the hallway smelled faintly of soap and polished wood. Our room was exactly where it had been that morning, door pristine, nameplate untouched.

Mirai hesitated before stepping in.

I noticed.

“Relax,” I said. “It doesn’t bite.”

She smiled faintly and entered, setting her bag down with more care than necessary.

“It’s seems bigger now that I'm really looking” she said, eyes flicking around.

“Tokiwadai believes discomfort builds character,” I said dryly. “So they outsource it to other schools.”

That earned a real laugh.

I busied myself with familiar motions—unfastening my hair, setting my remote neatly on the desk, lining things up the way I liked. Order was comforting. Predictable.

After a moment, I glanced back at her. She was still standing there, hands loosely clasped, like she wasn’t sure what came next.

“Want to share the bath?” I asked, casual.

The response was immediate.

“Oh— no,” she said, too fast. “I mean— you can go. I’m fine. Really.”

She didn’t look embarrassed.

She looked… uncomfortable.

That was strange.

I tilted my head, studying her for half a second longer than polite, then shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” I said. “I’ll be quick.”

No teasing. No insistence. Tokiwadai girls bathed together all the time—it wasn’t strange—but Mirai wasn’t Tokiwadai-born. And pushing boundaries for curiosity’s sake wasn’t my style.

When I returned, hair damp and robe tied loosely, the room was quieter. The late afternoon light had softened into something warmer, stretching shadows across the floor.

Mirai had changed already. She sat on the edge of the bed, posture straight, hands folded in her lap like she was waiting for instructions that never came.

“You okay?” I asked, towel draped over my shoulders.

She nodded. “Just tired.”

Another lie.

A gentle one.

I let it pass.

We went through the small rituals of the evening—putting things away, checking messages, the distant hum of other girls settling in for the night. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed too loudly and was immediately shushed.

Eventually, the lights dimmed automatically.

I stood by my side of the bed, considering.

“You mind if we share?” I asked.

Her head snapped up. “The— bed?”

“There’s plenty of space,” I said, gesturing. “And I don’t sleep well alone.”

That was true, in its own way.

She hesitated. I could practically hear the calculations ticking through her head. Finally, she nodded.

“Okay.”

We lay down carefully, a respectful distance between us. No accidental brushes. No awkward shifting. Just two people occupying the same quiet.

The ceiling was unfamiliar from this angle. I traced patterns in it with my eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing.

I hadn’t planned to speak.

It just… happened.

“I’m worried,” I said softly.

She turned her head slightly. Not enough to look at me—just enough to listen.

“This school likes neat outcomes,” I continued. “Numbers. Rankings. Announcements.”

I swallowed.

“And you’re… inconvenient.”

That earned a small, humorless sound from her. Not quite a laugh.

“They’ll want to label you,” I went on. “Soon. Too soon. They always do.”

The room felt heavier with the words hanging between us.

“I bought you some time,” I admitted. “A week. Maybe two.”

She was silent for a long moment.

“…Why?” she asked quietly.

I closed my eyes.

Because I’d seen what happened when the world decided who you were before you had the chance to breathe. Because power without space to exist became a cage.

Because for once, I wanted to protect something without owning it.

“You deserve to be normal,” I said instead. “Even if it’s temporary.”

Another pause.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Her voice was steady. Grateful, but not dependent.

I liked that.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that settled gently, like the room itself approving.

Eventually, her breathing slowed, deepened. Sleep claimed her carefully, like it was afraid to startle her.

I stayed awake a while longer.

Tomorrow would bring questions. Curiosity. Pressure. Always did.

But for tonight, she was just a girl in a quiet room, untouched by numbers or titles.

And that was enough for me.