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... faded reel, a quiet hum of routine that Kaito Nakamura sank into, Aiko's presence a bright stitch in the drab fabric of his day. The campus sprawled under a late February sky, damp and cold, its gray stone buildings slick with drizzle, students shuffling through puddles, their chatter a low drone against the crunch of his sneakers on wet gravel. His hoodie sagged—crusted with last night's tears and blood—glasses smudged and crooked on his nose, black hair greasy and tangled, but he forced a smi ...

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