Hiroshi Kagejima raised a hand for silence. The classroom fell instantly hushed. His gaze swept the students—eyes bright with anticipation.

"Alright, Yukieda," he said. "Please introduce yourself."

Yukieda blinked, momentarily stunned, but quickly composed herself before anyone noticed.

She extended a slender, lotus-root-white arm and wrote her name on the blackboard. Then she began.

"I am Oriuchi Yuki, sixteen years old. I’ve lived in Gaul until now. I hope we get along well from today."

*This was Kenji’s arranged backstory. If anyone asks me to speak Gaulish… I’m done for.*

"You boys better not bully her," Kagejima added.

He led Yukieda to her seat—third from the back, by the window.

Her earlier excitement had vanished. Only confusion remained. *Where is my daughter?* She’d specifically requested transfer to Class 3 to watch over her. But scanning the room… no sign of her. Had she misremembered? It was possible. Doubt tightened in her chest.

Thinking alone was useless. Better to ask.

"Excuse me," Yukieda turned softly to the boy beside her. "Is Mikami Shizuku in this class?"

The bespectacled boy flushed crimson. "Y-yes… but I haven’t seen Mikami in three months."

"What?!" Her voice jumped an octave. Everyone stared.

Yukieda forced a laugh. "Ah—I just realized I forgot my pen."

The rest of the afternoon blurred. Finally, the bell rang. She snatched her bag and rushed out.

Campus swarmed with students whispering about the white-haired transfer student—clearly today’s hot topic.

During breaks, she’d gathered fragments: after *her* death, footage leaked online. Shizuku collapsed under the trauma, stopped attending school. Kagejima had visited repeatedly—always turned away. Worried, he’d even called police to confirm she was home. Alive. Just silent.

*Shizuku…* Yukieda whispered the name inwardly. She hailed a taxi, spending precious credit points on the ride to her old "home."

"Uh… foreigner?" The driver glanced in the mirror, throat bobbing. "Hao you? Wait—what was it…"

Yukieda gave the address. He exhaled in relief.

"Sir, please hurry. It’s urgent."

Maybe to impress her, the taxi sped up.

Forty minutes away. She kept texting, calling—no reply. The driver tried chatting once, saw her distant look, and fell quiet.

*What’s got this beauty so frantic? Boyfriend trouble? Ugh, jealous… I’m thirty and never held a girl’s hand. If we married… our kid’d be adorable. Foreign name?*

"We’re here."

The fantasy ended with the fare.

Yukieda stood before the gate as the taxi vanished.

A classic Japanese-style house: small yard, two-story woodframe.

She pushed the gate open, rang the bell. Again. Nothing.

Silence.

She circled to the side. Weeds choked the flowerbed—long neglected. Curtains blocked the living room sliding door. Locked.

A faint glow gathered in Yukieda’s palms. Her face darkened. *Break in?* She glanced up. Wind fluttered the second-floor curtain—Shizuku’s room.

The glow faded. With dancer’s grace, she leaped onto the roof tiles.

Peering through the window—*a fallen figure!* Heart hammering, she slipped inside.

Rotting food stench hit her. Takeout boxes, beer bottles everywhere. Shizuku lay soaked in alcohol, chest rising faintly. Alive.

*She’s underage! How did she even get alcohol…?* Relief washed over Yukieda after checking—just drunk.

She couldn’t bear the filth. Made her own bed first. Then gently stripped Shizuku’s soiled clothes.

Only underwear remained. Yukieda’s cheeks warmed. *This feels wrong…* Yet she couldn’t help noting, *She’s grown so much…* She tucked her under a blanket, placed water on the nightstand.

Apron swamping her like a sack. Mask on. Bucket and rag in hand. Muffled voice: "Alright. Time to clean."

Stuffing trash into a black bag, she spotted a glued-together doll. *…My doll?*

Unseen, a fingernail-sized drone clung to the ceiling.

"Mr. Kenji. She’s cleaning."

*Static crackle.*

"Understood. Continue observing."

Shizuku woke with urgent need, nausea thick in her throat. Thirsty. Saw water. Drank it down. Clarity seeped in.

*Father’s room!* She hadn’t entered since he died—his things shattered her.

*The blanket… the water…*

Cold sweat beaded her brow. *Burglar. Pervert. My clothes are gone—!*

*I must protect this house.*

She found Father’s slender paper cutter. Sharp. Perfect for bluffing.

Barefoot, she crept downstairs. A rustle at the entrance.

A figure—back turned, swapping shoes, trash bag in hand.

*She hasn’t seen me.*

"Stop! Who are you?!"

The figure froze. Set down the bag. Turned slowly.

*So… cute.* Shizuku’s thought short-circuited. The girl’s face flushed, eyes blazing.

She lunged forward!

Shizuku raised the cutter high—*don’t hurt her!*

*Someone this pretty can’t be evil…*

"Wait! Don’t hug me—you’re filthy! How’d you get in?!"

Yukieda remembered the apron. Fumbled.

"So… who *are* you?" Shizuku asked, wrapped in an oversized white shirt.

They sat at opposite ends of the table.

Yukieda studied her: thinner. Red-rimmed eyes.

She pressed her lips. *Time to tell her. Magical Girl. Everything.*

"Target’s emotions spiking. She’s about to confess!"

"Don’t worry. She can’t."

Yukieda drew a breath. "Actually… I’m your father’s… other daughter."

*NO!* Her mind screamed. *Wrong words!*

"Wait—I meant… older sister!"

"No—let me restart! I’m your half-sister! Same father!"

Her face stayed dead serious. Inside, she shattered. Mouth betraying her. Getting worse.

*The contract… with the S-rank Magical Girl… It was real.*

She tried hints. Writing. Nothing worked.

"Okay, okay. I get it. You don’t need to say more," Shizuku said.

Yukieda slumped into the chair, hollow-eyed. Legs in black silk stockings dangled limply.

Shizuku almost smiled at the flustered silver-haired girl. But caution held. Cute or not—stranger.

*If she’s truthful… how to prove it?*

Then—lightbulb. "I know what to do."

"What?" Yukieda’s golden eyes snapped wide open.