Shadows On Hold.

At school, the day began flawlessly. The students greeted her in unison.

"Good morning, sensei!"

Yuzu replied with a small nod.

She placed three laminated reproductions on the desk with precise movements.

"Today," she announced, "we move from Raffaello's harmonic principle… to Leonardo da Vinci's perfectly orchestrated chaos."

High-definition images glided across the monitor:

The Mona Lisa. The Last Supper. Anatomical studies. San Giovanni Battista.

She spoke of sfumato, of how Leonardo "didn't draw contours, but transitions of air."

She invited the class to find where a cheek ends and a shadow begins:

"You can't. And that's the point."

A student raised his hand.

"Sensei… does the Mona Lisa really smile?"

Yuzu smiled herself, just slightly.

"It depends on how long you look at her. Leonardo didn't paint answers. He painted questions."

They laughed. But stayed focused.

In the light room, she carried a folder of sepia-toned cards for a chiaroscuro exercise.

She walked between the easels as always.

But when she reached Haru and Kenta, she stopped.

The paintings had changed.

Again.

Or rather: they were back to how they were at the beginning.

As if time had rewound every brushstroke.

Haru's female portrait was once more open to the light, the eyes soft, clean.

No cavities, no excess color density.

Kenta's mother-and-child painting was bright, vibrant, balanced. The unfamiliar signature on the edge was gone.

Just smooth wood.

No trace of abrasion.

"Did you retouch them this morning?" Yuzu asked, her voice carefully measured.

"No, sensei," Haru replied, surprised. "I haven't touched them since Friday. I only brought the solvent today."

Kenta leaned down.

Checked the edge.

"My signature's here… But you said there was another one?"

Yuzu hesitated.

Just for a moment.

"Maybe I was mistaken. The light was different."

But deep down, she knew that wasn't true.

Her eye didn't make mistakes.

She took three photos of each.

Different angles, side lighting.

Compared the images. Nothing out of place.

And wrote in her notes app:

Yuzu: "Everything like Friday. Literally. Too much so."

Then she looked up.

The boys were mixing paint, focused.

Unaware.

The courtyard window was open, a thread of air barely shifting the curtains.

Yuzu inhaled slowly.

For the first time, she felt it clearly: that someone — or something — was moving backward. As if her gaze had forced a shadow to retreat.

And it was that quiet withdrawal that unsettled her more than any distortion.

***

The following week passed in silence, suspended in a balance too steady not to raise suspicion.

The days moved slowly: lessons, quick lunches with fellow teachers, weary mornings under dull skies. Nothing stirred. No other painting had changed, no strange messages.The signs — the subtle ones, the kind you can never quite explain — had dissolved like fog in the sun.

It was Airi who texted first, Saturday morning:

"New place in Tokyo. Bowling, karaoke, dance floor. We need a night out. You, me, nice clothes."

"I'm in," Yuzu replied, without thinking too much.

Airi contacted Geto, who confirmed with his usual laconic calm. But he added:

"Gojo's only coming if Yuzu invites him."

Yuzu smiled. Just slightly. Then paused — only for a second — before typing:

Yuzu: Tonight. 9:30 PM. You coming?

Gojo: Only if I can bowl blindfolded. And if there's something shiny.

Yuzu: Airi. Glitter heels. Does that count?

Gojo: Perfect. I'll pick you up. Bring your best smiles.

Yuzu got ready with a care she would never call vanity. Black tights, fitted leather shorts — sleek but modest, refined. A white top, just low-cut enough to draw attention, soft over the shoulders. High heels, a long black coat, a small, discreet handbag.

Her hair, worn loose and straight, brushed her lower back like a dark veil. Her makeup: cherry-red lips, soft pink blush, a clean, defined line of black framing her eyes.

Around her neck, just one note of fragrance: vanilla and pink pepper. Always the same. Subtle, persistent.

Airi arrived in a silver mini-dress and faux leather jacket. A wide smile, infectious energy.

"You look like a goddess, damn it. If I were a man, I'd be hitting on you."

Yuzu chuckled softly. "You're exaggerating."

"No. You're just perfect."

When they stepped outside, Gojo's car was already there. Parked under a streetlamp, sleek and dark — as if it had appeared from a parallel dimension. He and Geto stood beside it, leaning with a kind of effortless, mystical composure.

Gojo wore ripped jeans, a white hoodie, and a black jacket with the hood up. Crisp white sneakers. And, of course, the black blindfold. His smile — as always — seemed to know more than it said.

"I knew Saturday night would have its wonders," he said. "But I wasn't expecting a divine appearance."

Yuzu gave a slight bow. "Good evening."

"Cold as an autumn breeze," he murmured, just loud enough. "I like it."

Airi immediately drifted toward Geto, chatting with animated warmth. He listened silently, but his lips betrayed something close to amusement. Yuzu noticed the gestures — Airi's hand lightly touching his arm, the subtle lean of her body, like she was already orbiting him.

Gojo opened the car door for Yuzu. A grand gesture, deliberate, almost old-fashioned.

She looked at him. "This makes me feel self-conscious."

He offered his hand, tilting his head.

"That's the goal."

The look they exchanged lasted half a breath. But it was full.

Silent.

Taut like a string pulled to the exact point before it snaps.

Then she got in. Then he did too.

The door closed.

And the night — finally — began.

---The Venue...---

The Tokyo complex was loud, bright, crowded. Neon lights, too-loud laughter, a constant flow of people in search of distraction. Bowling on the first floor, karaoke on the second, dance floor in the basement.

The four of them made their way through the crowd. Yuzu and Airi in front — confident, elegant, radiant. Gojo and Geto behind — tall, silent, magnetic.

And as had been happening far too often, they didn't go unnoticed. More than half the women in the venue took notice. The other half were already following them with their eyes.

"I think at least fifty percent of the women here forgot their own names the moment they saw you two," Yuzu said, turning slightly toward Gojo and Geto with a faint smile.

"I hope they've got selective memory," Gojo replied, voice lower. "Because I only want your attention."

Yuzu blushed. Just a little.

"Arrogant."

"Poetic realist," he said, leaning closer to her ear, his voice soft.

They reached the first floor. The music was loud, the crash of pins bursting like little electric shocks.Amid the buzzing lights and constant chatter, they managed to make it to the lanes in one piece.

Yuzu grabbed the size 36 bowling shoes. Gojo stared at them in mock concern.

"How do you even stay upright in those feet? They're smaller than my hands."

She ignored him. Then she threw her bag at him, as if to strike. Gojo ducked to block it, instinctively, but it was a feint. The blow didn't land.

Yuzu laughed.

He straightened slowly, tilting his head.

"Cruel."

"Precise."

A little later, Airi insisted on mixed teams: her and Geto, Yuzu and Gojo.

Yuzu glanced at her. Airi seemed… different. Lighter. During the game, she and Geto spoke in low voices, shoulders close, laughter rare but genuine. Geto, though calm and composed as always, seemed softer.

More open.

Yuzu watched them as she tied her laces. There was something there.

Something she hadn't noticed before.

She'd talk to Airi later. She had to.

Gojo spun the bowling ball in one hand like it was a teacup.

"I could bowl blindfolded," he said. "Oh, right. I already am."

Then he pretended to miss. Repeatedly. Every off-piste shot was accompanied by theatrical expressions, fake sighs, hands raised to the heart.

But Yuzu caught on quickly.

When no one was looking, he hit perfect strikes.

She watched him from behind, arms crossed.

"Are you trying to flirt with me through bowling?"

He turned slowly.

"I'm losing with style. Is that seductive?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Debatable."

"Then I'll try harder."

During the second round, he positioned himself next to her — much closer than necessary.

"Keep your wrist steady," he said, moving closer. He took her arm lightly, fingertips just brushing her skin.

"Like this."

The touch was brief. But not accidental.

Yuzu held her breath. Then slowly turned her head.

"I don't need your help."

"I know. But I like giving it anyway."

They locked eyes. One second. Two.

Then Yuzu took her shot.

Strike.

Gojo let out a soft whistle.

"Okay. Maybe I'm the one who needs a few tips."

"Like self-control," she said, walking back to her seat with a slow, deliberate step — fully aware of her body.

Gojo followed her with his eyes.

A little too long.

The night was heating up.

The banter flowed, the laughter too.

Gojo was, as always, brilliant. Emphatic. Excessive with style. But now and then—only now and then—his voice would change tone. It would drop. Grow darker, slower, more real.

In those moments, Yuzu sensed something beneath the surface. An echo. Something he didn't say—but that was there.

Technically, Yuzu and Gojo's team won.

But in the end, the game became a personal duel between Gojo and Geto, while Airi and Yuzu, seated off to the side, played the part of biased, boisterous referees, commenting on every throw with theatrical sarcasm.

"That's sabotage," Yuzu said after one of Geto's perfect throws.

"Narrative strategy," Airi replied. "Final-act drama. It works."

When the last ball had rolled, they moved upstairs to the karaoke room. A small space, soundproof walls, fluorescent microphones. The lights pulsed purple, like a heartbeat in the background.

Airi dragged Geto into a melancholy, off-key ballad. Surprisingly, he agreed. He sang off-key with dignity. They laughed so hard they had to stop the backing track.

Yuzu flatly refused to sing.

"Not even under torture," she said.

Gojo grabbed a microphone. Raised it to the ceiling like a ceremonial sword.

"Anime opening. Ready?"

"No."

And off he went.

He sang off-key with studied drama: grand gestures, ridiculous moves, vocal improvisations bordering on a crime against music. He knelt down, raised his voice at all the wrong moments, winked at an imaginary audience.

Yuzu laughed, fingers pressed to her lips. Airi cheered like a fan at a stadium.

At the end, Gojo collapsed beside Yuzu on the couch. He didn't touch her. Didn't even brush the edge of her jacket. But he was close. The warmth was enough to be felt.

"A score?" he asked, turning slightly toward her.

"Six."

"Only six?"

"Performance: nine. Vocals: four. Straight average. Perfect disaster."

Gojo turned a little more. Smile on his lips. Voice slightly lower.

"Cruelly charming."

Yuzu smiled. She didn't answer. But she kept her eyes on him a second longer than necessary.

And that, to Gojo, felt almost like a confession.