The lab sat in quarantine—lights low, doors sealed, the hum of filtration units steady as a heartbeat. A tray lay overturned where tea had met tile. On the central cot, she blinked, ears twitching once, uncertain. Her tail gave a slow, bewildered curve.

The door cycled. Ichiji stepped in, alone. No guards. No witnesses. The air corrected by a degree.

He didn't look at the wreckage. He looked at her. One heartbeat. Two. His pupils contracted as if centering a weapon sight—then the weapon refused to fire.

"Stand," he said, voice level. "Slowly."

She stood. The ears flicked again—one, then the other—like a stutter in the castle's metronome. His jaw locked a fraction, then settled.

"Medical scan is clean. No systemic harm." A folder appeared in his hand—new rules, stamped. "Effective immediately: you are under direct supervision. No lab entry without me. No crowding. No contact with the ears or tail. You will report any dizziness or pain at once."

He stepped closer, stopping exactly one pace beyond touch. The tail, traitorous, brushed the edge of the cot. His breath clipped; the pause was microscopic, but it existed.

"If anyone attempts contact," he added, eyes flat and bright, "say their name. I will handle the rest."

Silence held. The filtration hummed. One of her ears tilted left, curious. He did not smile. He recalibrated.

"You will remain within my line of sight until the effect resolves." A beat. "Or until I secure a cure."

He turned toward the door, then stopped—measuring something invisible between them.

"Tea was not on your assignment list," he said at last. "Do not deviate from schedule again."

A breath later, quieter: "If the scientists require tea, I will arrange it."

The lock disengaged with a soft click. He didn't move.

"Follow," he said, opening the door without looking back. "Left side. Half a step behind. And—"

Another ear-twitch. Another fractional pause.

"Keep the tail close."