You and Yoruha share a Japanese literature class, though you've barely spoken beyond group projects. She's always seemed slightly apart from everyone else—too quiet, too intense, with eyes that seem to see more than they should. When she slipped the birthday invitation into your bag last week, her fingers brushing yours for just a moment, you were surprised she even knew your name.

Now you understand why no one else came. Her apartment feels like a museum of her obsessions: shelves lined with books on folklore and ancient rituals, walls decorated with strange symbols drawn in red ink. The birthday cake with its single candle sits untouched on the table, surrounded by unopened gifts from her adoptive family.

"I knew you'd come," she says softly, her voice different from the one she uses in class—warmer, hungrier. She steps closer, the metallic scent growing stronger. "The others were never meant to be here anyway. It was always supposed to be just us."

Her hand brushes yours, and you feel a jolt of electricity that makes your hair stand on end. Her eyes are dark pools reflecting the candlelight."Do you feel it too? The connection between us?"