The fluorescent light of the classroom felt too thin.

  I sat at the back, my desk shoved as far into the corner as the floor plan allowed. In my world... the real world, everything had a weight to it. The air, the stone, the people. Here, in the first week of the Sanctuary transfer program, everything felt like it was made of balsa wood.

  I kept my head down, my fingers gripped so tightly around a ballpoint pen that the plastic was beginning to stress-fracture.

  "You’re doing it again."

  I didn't look up. I knew the voice. It was Kaito.

  He was leaning against the locker just outside the open classroom door, ostensibly waiting for the bell, but his eyes were locked on me. His spiky, permed haircut was parted to the right, and his sleeves were rolled up to their elbows, revealing finely toned forearms.

  He was around 182 centimeters tall, with piercing brown eyes and a slender, athletic build. He was wearing the school uniform underneath a beige fall jacket with a white scarf.

  He didn't look like a student; he looked like a sentry. He seemed to be the only one who'd grasped who I really was. What I really was.

  Lunar White Capsicum was truly impressive, for what it was worth.

  "Doing what?" I muttered, keeping my gaze on my notebook.

  "Being the calculating, brooding, anti-social assassin in the corner."

  He was blunt. I respected that.

  I lifted my head, my dark hair falling over my face. "I’m doing homework." I didn't tell him the full truth — I felt like I was in a world made of cardboard and tissue paper. I was afraid I was going to break something, or someone here, by accident.

  He snorted. "Homework. You’re an Astra-Void, not a student." He paused, his white scarf fluttering slightly in an imperceptible breeze. "You should sit at the front. Momoka is already complaining that you're hiding."

  It took me a second to realize what 'homework' could've sounded like to someone who was already suspicious.

  "Leave me alone, Kaito," I muttered.

  "Momoka wants to invite you to lunch," he said, his voice flat. "I told her it was a bad idea. I told her you’d probably bite her hand off."

  "Then we're in agreement. Go away."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  He didn't move. He just watched me with that infuriating, calm vigilance. He wasn't scared of me, and that was the problem. He respected the threat I posed.

  "She’s coming," he added, pushing off the locker. "Try not to bruise her. She doesn't understand that you don't have a 'soft' setting."

  A second later, the shadow fell over my desk.

  "Reimi-chan! Look! The cafeteria actually had strawberry milk today!"

  Momoka didn't wait for a reply. She slid into the seat next to me, her pink-dyed pigtails a blur of motion. She set the carton down with a triumphant clack.

  She was beaming - a radiant, high-frequency energy that made the "thin" classroom light feel even more pathetic.

  "I'm not hungry," I said. "And don't call me Reimi-chan."

  "Ruri says your metabolic burn is fixed at a ridiculous rate," Momoka countered, leaning in.

  I could smell the floral shampoo, a scent that felt impossibly delicate.

  "You can't 'level' your intake like we do, Reimi. You're always running at 100%. So you’re eating with us later. Drink the milk."

  She laughed and reached out, her hand aiming for my shoulder.

  I flinched.

  My chair screeched — a violent, tearing sound as I threw myself back. My hand blurred, catching her wrist in mid-air with a sickening smack.

  The classroom went silent. Momoka’s breath hitched. I saw the flash of pain in her eyes, her skin already beginning to redden under the pressure of my squeeze.

  I let go as if her skin were white-hot.

  "I told you," I hissed, my heart hammering that same, fixed, industrial rhythm. "Don't touch me. Stay on your side of the room, Momoka. I’m not... I’m not built for this."

  Momoka didn't cry. She just rubbed her wrist, looking at me with that same stubborn, annoying pity.

  Her eyes weren't filled with fear. They were filled with a terrifying, stubborn pity.

  "Oh sweetie. You’re shaking, Reimi-chan," she whispered.

  "I said don't—"

  "Momoka. Get back."

  The voice came from the doorway. It was cold and devoid of the classroom’s forced cheer.

  Kaito stood there, his school blazer unbuttoned with his scarf missing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was looking straight at me.

  His eyes were all Lunar Knight Capsicum now. Sharp, analytical, and still completely unconvinced by my civilian disguise.

  He didn't see a "stray cat." He saw a weapon that had been dropped into a playground.

  He didn't trust me. He looked at me with the silent promise that if I so much as breathed wrong near the girl with the pink pigtail highlights, he would be the one to put me down.

  I didn't hate him for it. I respected him. He was the only one in the room who understood what I actually was.

  "She's fine, Kaito-kun!" Momoka chirped, the tension breaking as she shoved a bag of gummies onto my desk. "She’s just shy! Right, Reimi-chan? You say you're not built for it yet, but you will be!"

  She was wrong. I was built, finished, and delivered.

  And I was the only one in the room who couldn't ever be 'normal.'

  Momoka left the milk.

  The pink carton sat there and I scowled, looking away.

  Just another tiny, soft thing in a world I was destined to break.