Chương 501: 238.Precision Shooting 1

I had just showered, my hair still damp, and was sitting on the edge of the bed sorting through what I'd need tomorrow. The venue route map on the desk had been folded by me into something that looked like it had survived a small war. Ironic, really.

The opening ceremony had been staged as if announcing humanity's second great leap in civilization, but what actually trickled down to the competing students was having to memorize which corridor led to which rest area, which entrance you couldn't wander into, and which gap would suddenly produce a staff member with an expression harder than a security gate, looking at you like you'd just disembarked from an enemy nation. Next door, someone dragged a chair and produced an unhappy scrape.

The room beyond that was far too quiet. I guessed someone had already gone flat, someone else was cramming at the last minute, and someone else might be checking the mirror to see whether tomorrow's face could embarrass itself a little less than today's. I pushed the papers aside and was just about to kill the lights when the doorbell rang. The sound wasn't loud, but it was precise — as if whoever it was hadn't come looking for a person, but to pick the spot most suitable for a knife.

By reflex I checked the time first. Late. And by reflex again, I didn't answer. I didn't walk over right away either. I just lifted my eyes toward the door. A knock at this hour came down to a few possibilities. One: someone on the team had an emergency. Two: a staff member with a change of plans for tomorrow. Three: the world had decided I hadn't had enough of today and was sending in a second helping. The person outside didn't ring twice. That only made me more interested.

People with that much patience usually weren't just here to borrow something. I went to the door, didn't hurry to open it, and asked through the panel.

"Who is it?" The silence outside lasted less than half a beat, then a very soft female voice came through.

"Sorry to bother you this late. It's me — Shinomiya Hyouka." I barely kept the corner of my mouth from twitching. Great. Possibility three. I opened the door a crack — not wide, not narrow. A perfectly reasonable width: enough to see who was outside, not enough to let her mistake me for a warm host. The Shinomiya standing there had shed the full posture she'd worn during the day, the one far too suited to a promotional booklet for an heir of a distinguished house.

Her hair hung loosely down her back; in one hand she held a neatly folded sheet of paper, and she looked more composed than the corridor lights. Of course, I didn't buy it. That kind of composure on Shinomiya was about the same as a knife going back into its sheath. You couldn't assume it was merely a piece of metalwork just because it wasn't gleaming right now.

"What is it?" I didn't open the door any wider. Shinomiya looked entirely unbothered by my manner. She only curved her eyes slightly, her smile thin to exactly the right degree — one part more and it would look deliberate, one part less and it would look fake.

"I've been wanting to thank you properly for what happened during the day. And... I also wanted to apologize while I was at it." I looked at her and didn't answer. That kind of phrasing was a nuisance, because it carried almost no aggression. Set the words thank and apologize in front of a doorway and it was like laying a very thin carpet between two people. Slam the door immediately, and what you slammed wasn't the door — it was your own upbringing. Impressive.

Even a doorstep intrusion, and she'd picked the wrapping least likely to get her driven off.

"Earlier today, you helped me." She lifted the sheet of paper a little, her voice soft as if afraid of waking the air.

"This is a supplementary route for the venue's rest area. I got an extra copy while I was organizing, and thought you might find it useful." My eyes dropped to the paper. So it wasn't a request to borrow toilet paper. A grade above borrowing toilet paper. Borrowing a legitimate excuse for contact, with a complimentary service that looked thoroughly civic-minded. That approach was so exactly what she'd do — it was practically printed on the sheet in eight characters: I am harmless, please lower your guard.

Unfortunately, my eyes still worked.

"Thanks." I didn't reach for it, only asked, "Is that all?"

"Not entirely." There it was. Shinomiya's tone stayed even as she said it — you could even call it gentle. But that was the instant I felt something was off. Not the words themselves. The rhythm. Shinomiya had deliberately hidden her real purpose behind a second sentence, so the first could open the door for her.

"I just came back from downstairs, and I checked the entrance for tomorrow's first assembly while I was at it. I heard one of the corridors was adjusted on short notice?" Shinomiya looked at me, her gaze perfectly still, as if she were stating something utterly ordinary.

"I wasn't sure whether you'd received the same notice, so I thought I'd come ask." A reasonable question. Too reasonable. I finally reached out and took the sheet, running my eyes over it. It was indeed a route supplement, not a counterfeit — nothing had suddenly appeared on it reading welcome to today's reconnaissance operation. But that didn't mean Shinomiya was just being kind.

What made a person uneasy usually wasn't the fake thing they brought you; it was bringing you something real in service of a fake purpose.

"Not yet," I said. Shinomiya gave a very slight nod, as if filing the answer away. And it was that nod that made the wrongness in my chest climb another inch. It wasn't how an ordinary person reacted to hearing "not yet." An ordinary person would follow up, would add something, would keep the conversation going. Shinomiya looked like she was checking whether a box had been filled in — and once it was, she recorded it and went quiet. I raised my eyes to her. She looked back at me.

The corridor light ran warm, and it did not make this woman look any more like a decent sort. Shinomiya's face was good-looking; I won't deny that. The problem was that the good looks weren't built to put anyone at ease. Her way of looking at people was too steady — steady enough that it felt less like a conversation and more like testing the indicator lights on a machine just switched on.

"Anything else?" I asked.

"One thing." Shinomiya paused, as if weighing her wording.

"Today, during the day, Maki Kushima seemed to be in a bad mood." I nearly laughed. The brilliance of that line was that it managed to be both a tautology and not one. Anyone whose eyes weren't decorative could tell Maki had been in a bad mood during the day. The question was why Shinomiya had chosen this hour, this doorway, to make a special trip to discuss Maki Kushima's mood with me. I didn't answer right away. Shinomiya didn't seem in any hurry for an answer.

She simply went on in that overly level voice of hers.

"I was a little concerned that I might have been too rude." Her gaze settled on my face, light as a feather and considerably more troublesome.

"If it put you in an awkward position as well, I wanted to apologize first." A fine if. First she gathered up responsibility like a well-bred young lady of a distinguished house, then she tossed the question back to see whether I'd pick it up. This woman talked the way someone put a needle in your tea — no immediate blood, but once you drank it, you'd learn your throat wasn't yours anymore.

"You don't strike me as someone who only notices she's been rude after the fact," I said. Shinomiya blinked. It was very slight, slight enough to dismiss as nothing. But I was certain it wasn't the fluster of being pricked. It was more like — she'd found my answer a shade harder than expected, and quietly filed that data point away.

"Miss Hoshino is very direct."

"Thanks. I try to keep it within the bounds of civilization." Shinomiya seemed amused by that; the corner of her mouth lifted a little. The smile was faint, so faint it was almost an illusion. And that was precisely the degree that grated, because it seemed to say: Good. Reaction received. A thoroughly unwelcome thought crossed my mind. This woman hadn't come to borrow something, hadn't come to thank me, and certainly hadn't come to talk about Maki Kushima. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road.

If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Shinomiya had come for me. Not the what are you wearing, where are you standing, is your face pretty kind of look. The how will you handle a visit that looks harmless but isn't, at this hour, at this distance, with no time to prepare kind of look. To put it even less kindly: Shinomiya was collecting data. Data on how I, as a person, reacted.

The instant I realized it, I almost wanted to laugh — at myself for only catching the flavor now, and at Shinomiya, for being able to wring a decent little testing protocol out of something as simple as a knock. A normal person's late-night visit was borrowing a hair dryer, a charger, an antacid. Shinomiya's late-night visit was a class above: borrow an excuse, and casually measure your alertness threshold while you're at it.

If someone like that ever joined the team, she'd probably note down which of us puts the water glass on the left side of the bed and which on the right before sleeping, and pull it out for tactical use when needed. Just imagining it made my scalp prickle. And what made it worse was that I genuinely couldn't say it was useless. I leaned against the doorframe, careful not to let my expression show too much, and looked at Shinomiya mildly.

"You ask pretty detailed questions."

"Because I dislike discovering I've missed a step only after I'm already on the field." Her voice stayed soft as she said it. But for the first time, something genuinely hers showed through the softness. Not affectation — a clean kind of rationality. Like someone finally letting you see, beneath the velvet glove, that what was hidden inside wasn't nail polish but a utility knife. I said nothing. Shinomiya didn't press. She simply stood there, as if leaving me ample room to judge. Frightening.

Shinomiya understood very well how to disguise pressure as respect — as if everything were my own decision, when in fact the rhythm had been half taken from me the moment the doorbell rang.

"So," I said slowly, "did you come to confirm tomorrow's entrance, or to confirm me?" Shinomiya went quiet for an instant. Somewhere down the corridor, a door seemed to open and close, very softly, as if even this floor knew certain spectacles were best not joined. The warm light fell on the ends of Shinomiya's hair, turning her beautiful long hair, shaded from violet to lavender, into mist. An ordinary person would have looked a little guilty right about then, or at least faked surprise. Shinomiya didn't.

She simply curved her eyes, very faintly.

"You caught me." Her tone was calm, like confessing she'd had one extra cherry tomato at dinner. My temple nearly started to ache. Confessing so cleanly made it hard to snap. It was like someone standing in front of you, politely admitting they'd just used you as a measuring stick — and complimenting your markings for being clearer than expected. Fly off the handle, and you'd be the one who couldn't take the loss. Impressive. No wonder normal people called Shinomiya green tea.

She wasn't green tea — she was an industrialized tea production line, mature from leaf selection to roasting.

"You really have nerve, saying that."

"Because denying it now would be meaningless." Shinomiya said.

"And besides — Miss Hoshino shouldn't like being taken for a fool." I was silent for two seconds. That line was troublesome too. Not because it was flattering, but because it landed exactly on the kind of boundary that made it hard to refuse outright. Was Shinomiya showing weakness? Not necessarily. She was more like handing over the handle of the knife, saying: See, I haven't taken you for someone who can't read the room. Whether you took it was your business.

"So what have you read?" I asked.

"That you're steadier than I expected." Shinomiya answered quickly, as if she'd drafted the answer in her head long ago.

"And harder to coax than I imagined."

"That doesn't sound like a bad thing."

"For me, not necessarily good." Shinomiya actually smiled after saying it. The smile wasn't deep, but it carried an indescribable wickedness — not the obvious malice kind, but the kind that knows full well it's crossed a line and still says it like a gentle fact. In a way, that was more troublesome than deliberate provocation, because it was so natural. So natural that if you accused Shinomiya of being off right then, you'd be the one whose nerves were too tight.

I suddenly began to understand why some people put this type on a list of hazardous materials. Because Shinomiya wasn't the sort to attack with banners flying. She was more the sort to quietly take you apart a little while you thought the conversation was still normal, then calmly put the casing back on as if nothing had happened. By the time you noticed something was off, Shinomiya would already be back in her room with the results neatly organized.

"Shinomiya." I called her by both names. Shinomiya raised her eyes.

"If you come looking for me under this kind of banner every time from now on, I'll consider installing a second lock on my door." Shinomiya seemed to give it serious thought.

"Then next time I'll probably have to study which side you'd put the second lock on." I nearly shut the door right there. This woman couldn't even make a joke without an occupational disease. She was more annoying to live with than a combination-lock manual. And yet, that line actually coaxed a bit of a smile out of me. Not because it was so funny, but because it was accurate. If Shinomiya ever took real interest in something, she'd probably note down which hand you habitually used to open doors.

"You really do treat this like a job."

"Some things, if you don't confirm them early, cause trouble later." Shinomiya looked at me, her tone finally a shade heavier.

"Especially when someone's hiding a secret too well." The moment that landed, the corridor air seemed to drop half a degree. I stared at her. Shinomiya didn't look away. There. Right there. That was tonight's real ticket. The thanks, the apology, the route, the entrance — all of it had been padding. Shinomiya had circled for a long while, and finally pulled that thread out. No spelling it out, no naming names, no laying her cards face-up in front of me. She only told me, very lightly: I didn't come here casually.

I know something's off. And I know you're most likely connected to that off thing. Somewhere inside me went sharply awake.

"Who are you talking about?" Shinomiya's smile was faint, like moonlight on the back of a blade — not blinding, but enough to tell you it wasn't decoration.

"If I said it too plainly right now, you probably wouldn't let me stand here anymore."

"You're not exactly welcome now either."

"Then at least it proves my judgment isn't too far off." That look Maki Kushima had worn during the day, the one that said she wanted to turn the corridor into an accident scene — looking back, it was entirely reasonable. If someone like Shinomiya approached a person of her own accord, and the people around that person didn't react, that would be the sign of a hole in the head. Of course, I didn't much want to admit that trouble like Shinomiya did have value in certain places.

Because it meant that if Shinomiya ever got pulled into certain matters later, the team would gain one more person capable of locating the short circuit before anyone else smelled smoke. Annoying. But useful. That combination was usually the worst — and the last thing you could throw away.

"So." I tucked the route map back against my side and deliberately flattened my tone.

"You've finished looking tonight." Shinomiya didn't answer at once. After half a beat, she nodded slightly.

"More or less."

"Then you can go back."

"All right." Crisp enough, at least. But just as I thought tonight's strange doorstep examination was finally over, Shinomiya tilted her head slightly, as if something had just occurred to her.

"Oh — one thing." I began regretting that I hadn't locked the door from the start.

"What?"

"You paused before you opened the door, didn't you?" I narrowed my eyes. Shinomiya's smile was shallow, her gaze annoyingly steady.

"And you opened it only as far as was needed to see me clearly. Your right hand stayed close to the frame — probably so you could shut it at any moment." She paused, as if reading aloud from a short and thoroughly unflattering book report.

"I'd assumed you'd ask my business first. Instead you asked 'who is it.' Which means you're more in the habit than you let on of confirming identity first, and deciding your attitude after." I went quiet. Not because being read was embarrassing, but because Shinomiya had genuinely taken all of it in. This woman hadn't come to see me. She'd come to disassemble me. And now she was politely reading the disassembly report back to me out loud.

"You said that on purpose."

"Half on purpose." Shinomiya admitted without a shred of shame.

"The other half, so you'd know I wasn't asking idly." I suddenly very much wanted to shove the route map back into her hand, along with a request that she take herself back to her room too. But strangely, beneath the urge to shut the door, a small part of me was reluctantly conceding: Shinomiya really wasn't playing. At least, not only playing. Shinomiya had her own calculations, her own threads, her own judgments.

Those judgments weren't necessarily all correct, and her motives weren't necessarily all clean — but she had come to the door with a purpose, and that was a class above simply dropping by to flirt, and considerably more dangerous.

"Sooner or later, that style of yours is going to make people hate you."

"I know." Shinomiya's tone was calm.

"But being hated isn't necessarily a loss. Being underestimated often is." When that landed, the corridor went utterly quiet. I looked at Shinomiya and, for the first time, felt that the thing least like green tea about her was precisely how clearly she saw herself. She wasn't unaware of how others would view her. She simply didn't care.

As long as that misunderstanding could buy her a little access, a little room to observe, a little chance to drill a first hole in someone's defenses, she was willing to carry the reputation forward. Put nicely, she was mentally steady. Put less nicely, this type grew into trouble very easily. Put even less nicely, trouble like this often did, in the end, turn out to be useful. I sighed inwardly. Fate sometimes had a real talent for picking the moment to stuff a gift into your hands.

Only some gifts come beautifully wrapped, and inside is candy. Others look harmless, and inside is a whole set of electronics that heat up on their own, along with a user-observation log. Unfortunately, Shinomiya clearly belonged to the latter.

"Go back and sleep," I said.

"If you're so wrecked from staying up that you can't even see the road tomorrow, I'm not collecting your corpse."

"So you do care about people."

"I care about nobody dragging the whole team down tomorrow."

"Mm. I'll take that as caring, then."

"Your filing standards are remarkably loose." Shinomiya finally let out a soft laugh. It was brief, as if she didn't want to disturb anyone. She stepped back, still perfectly composed, as if tonight's knock on my door had truly been nothing more than an ordinary greeting. But I knew it wasn't. Before she left, her gaze rested on my face for a very short instant. Just that instant — like someone checking whether the last number had been written down correctly.

"Good night, Miss Hoshino."

"Good night. And next time, think up a reason to knock that's less likely to set me on fire."

"I'll try."

"That line has no persuasive power whatsoever."

"That's probably because I don't intend to promise." Sincerely infuriating. Shinomiya turned and left, her steps light, heading down the corridor toward her own room. The dark carpet swallowed the sound, leaving only the lamplight quietly stretching her receding figure long. Only when that figure turned the corner did I close the door. The lock clicked home, crisp and clear. I stood behind the door, hand on the knob, quiet for two seconds. And only then did I belatedly register something.

From beginning to end, Shinomiya hadn't done anything that actually crossed a line. No forcing her way in, no pushing, no physical overreach, no single sentence you could take and convict her with. And yet, in those few short minutes, she had taken in the speed at which I opened the door, my stance, my tone, my tolerance, my order of vigilance, and my reactions to certain keywords — the better part of all of it. I glanced down at the route supplement in my hand. Thanks a lot.

She came to deliver a sheet of paper, and read me like a book while she was at it. No wonder Maki had worn a face during the day like she wanted Shinomiya added straight to a list of high-risk materials. If I were in Maki's position now, I probably wouldn't be all that even-tempered about it either. This wasn't a green tea problem anymore. Shinomiya, at bottom, was less like green tea and more like an equipment probe wearing a tea-scented shell.

You thought she was clinking glasses with you; she was actually measuring your voltage. And the worst part was, I couldn't say she'd measured the wrong direction. I set the paper on the desk and sat back down on the edge of the bed, but I no longer had the heart to turn off the lights right away. The room was quiet. The curtains weren't fully drawn, and city light seeped through the gap, pressing a cold white line onto the floor.

The conversation just now lingered in my head, like someone had traced a circle in my consciousness with a very fine pen, reminding me of one thing. The Nine-Star Games had only just opened. The rules inside the arena hadn't really started running yet, and the maneuvers outside it had already moved first. And I, at least from tonight on, had been placed on Shinomiya's watch list. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. But it wasn't entirely without value either.

I fell back onto the bed and covered my eyes with a hand, and couldn't help cursing under my breath.

"... What a pain." I wasn't sure whether I was cursing Shinomiya, or cursing the kind of reality in which you can plainly see how much trouble someone is, and still have to admit they might actually be useful. Probably both. Anyway — starting tomorrow, on top of watching the matches, watching people, and watching Maki Kushima's expression, I'd probably also have to watch a woman who smiled like she was harmless and, in fact, recorded people better than an access-control system.

At that thought, I decided it made no difference whether I turned off the lights tonight. Because the thing really keeping me awake was no longer the light. It was people.