The school day had bled into that hazy afternoon glow where the hallways emptied of casual chatter and filled with the focused energy of club activities. Nagi navigated the corridors with a practiced, low-profile stride, heading away from the echoing shouts of the gymnasiums and the heavy vibrations of the music rooms.

He reached the Home Economics wing—the "quiet zone." Here, the air felt different; it was still, carrying only the faint, sterile scent of detergent and old wood.

Stopping in front of the door labeled Cooking Research Society, Nagi took a moment to appreciate the silence. No scouts. No Hayato. No expectations. He slid the door open, the metal track giving a low, rhythmic rattle.

The room was larger than he expected, a sprawling landscape of stainless steel workstations and industrial-grade sinks. However, the sheer size of the lab only emphasized how empty it was.

Instead of the crowd he’d grown used to in Class 1-C, there were only six people in the room.

They were all gathered around a central prep station, and even from the doorway, Nagi could tell they weren't his peers. They lacked the frantic, unpolished energy of freshmen; these were seniors, carrying the relaxed, almost weary confidence of students who had already survived three years of Kasumigaoka’s pressure.

One of them, a tall boy with his sleeves rolled up and a pair of thick-framed glasses sliding down his nose, looked up from a clipboard.

"Oh," the senior said, blinking in surprise. "A freshman? In the flesh?"

The other five looked up simultaneously. 

Two girls were debating over a bowl of flour, while three boys were mid-argument about the heat distribution of a specific oven. They all stared at Nagi like he was a rare specimen that had accidentally wandered into the wrong enclosure.

"I’m Asahina Nagi," he said, his voice flat and neutral. "I submitted my application this morning."

The senior with the glasses let out a short, bark-like laugh, adjusting his frames. "I’m Sato, the club president. We were starting to think the Homeroom teachers were just using our club name as a joke for the registration forms. We haven't had a new member in two years."

"Is it always this... sparsely populated?" Nagi asked, stepping further into the room. The silence was even better than he’d imagined.

"Six of us, all third-years," a girl with a ponytail added, leaning against a counter. "We’re basically a retirement home for people who want to eat well and avoid the Student Council’s 'mandatory passion' initiatives. You’ve picked the most invisible club in the school, kid."

Nagi felt a rare, genuine sense of satisfaction. ‘Invisible. Retirement home. Avoid the Student Council. Perfect!’

"Good," Nagi muttered, setting his bag on a stool. "That’s exactly why I'm here."

Sato gestured to a spare apron hanging on a hook near the door. "Well, Asahina-kun, welcome to the graveyard. We don't do much 'research', we mostly just try not to burn the place down while making snacks for our study breaks. Grab an apron. We were just about to test if this old oven can handle a batch of scones without exploding."

Nagi reached for the apron, the fabric cool and stiff in his hands. 

He was finally in the bunker. He was finally safe.

Or so he thought. 

Nagi was just sliding his arms through the loops of the apron, his mind already drifting toward the peaceful task of measuring flour, when a voice materialized directly over his left shoulder.

"It really is spacious in here, isn't it? It feels more like a professional kitchen than a school clubroom."

Nagi didn't just flinch; his internal reflexes, honed by years of dojo training, spiked with a violent jolt. He spun around, the half-tied apron tangling around his waist, only to find Kaori standing a mere few inches away. 

She was so close he could smell the faint, clean scent of her hair, a contrast to the lingering smell of cedar and floor wax in the hall.

"You—!" Nagi choked out, backpedaling until his hips hit the edge of the stainless steel workstation with a dull thud. "How long have you been standing there?" 

Kaori didn't move back. She stood her ground, watching his wide-eyed, panicked scramble with a look of immense satisfaction. The stoic boy who sat beside her desk had just jumped like a startled cat, and the sight was clearly too much for her to ignore.

A soft, melodic sound broke through the sterile quiet of the Home Ec room. Kaori leaned forward slightly, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, but she couldn't hide the way her eyes crinkled. She began to giggle, a genuine, lighthearted sound that echoed off the stainless steel appliances.

"Since you picked up the apron," she managed to say between soft laughs, her gaze locked onto his flustered expression. "You were so focused, Asahina-kun. I didn't realize you were so... jumpy." 

Nagi’s face burned, a mixture of adrenaline and sheer embarrassment simmering under his skin. He adjusted his tangled apron with jerky, uncoordinated movements, trying desperately to reclaim some shred of his vanished composure.

The sound of Kaori’s giggling acted like a magnet, drawing the attention of the six seniors. Sato, the president, pushed off the counter he’d been leaning against, his glasses catching the overhead light as he looked at the girl who had appeared out of thin air.

"Okay, I'll bite," Sato said, his voice laced with amusement. "Who are you, and did you also get lost on the way to the library?"

Kaori finally straightened up, her laughter subsiding into a lingering, playful smile. She stepped around Nagi—who was still practically glued to the workstation—and offered a polite, casual nod to the group of third-years.

"My name is Mizuhara Kaori," she introduced herself, her voice regaining that steady, clear tone. She gestured briefly toward Nagi. "I'm in the same class as Asahina-kun. I'm here to join the Cooking Research Society as well."

Sato looked at her, then at Nagi, then back at Kaori. He looked like a man who had been promised a quiet afternoon and was now realizing his "bunker" was being invaded by the younger generation.

"Wait, two of you? From the same class?" Sato ran a hand through his messy hair, looking at his fellow seniors with pure, bewildered shock. "We go two years without a single soul showing interest in this graveyard, and today we get a pair of freshmen within five minutes of each other?"

He let out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head.

"Unbelievable," Sato muttered. "I don't know what’s going on in the freshman wing this year. I guess the graveyard isn't as dead as I thought."

Nagi finally managed to finish tying his apron, though the knot was slightly lopsided from his lingering agitation. He took a steadying breath, trying to force his heart rate back down to its "invisible" baseline. The presence of the seniors was one thing, but Kaori was a variable he hadn't accounted for in his sanctuary.

He turned his head just enough to look at her, his expression returning to its usual guarded neutrality.

"Mizuhara-san," he started, his voice low enough so the seniors wouldn't overhear. "Why are you really here? This isn't the kind of club people join on a whim, especially not you."

Kaori didn't miss a beat. She smoothed the front of her apron, looking down at the fabric as if inspecting the quality of the stitch. When she looked up, her face was a mask of perfectly practiced, traditional modesty, the kind of look that seemed a bit too polished to be entirely sincere.

"Is it that strange, Asahina-kun?" she asked, her voice carrying a light, airy quality. "I simply thought it was about time I took things seriously. After all, a woman should eventually learn how to cook properly if she wants to be useful, shouldn't she?"

Nagi stared at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. It was a textbook answer, an excuse so old-fashioned and generic that it was almost impossible to argue with, yet it sounded utterly ridiculous coming from her. He knew she was proactive, observant, and sharp; the idea of her joining a "graveyard" club just to fulfill some dated social expectation felt like a lie wrapped in a very neat bow.

He wanted to press her on it, to point out that she had looked a lot more interested in his reaction than the recipe books, but the way she smiled at him made the words catch in his throat.

She held the smile a second longer than necessary.

‘It wasn’t entirely a lie. Just… not the whole truth,’ She thought.

"That's..." Nagi trailed off, looking back toward the pantry. "A very traditional perspective."

"I thought you might appreciate tradition," she replied softly, the teasing glint returning to her eyes.

"Well," Sato said, clapping his hands together as the shock began to subside into a welcoming grin. "Since we’ve officially got two new members, we might as well see if you two can actually tell the difference between salt and sugar. We were going to do scones, but let's pivot. How about a simple chocolate cake? It’s the ultimate litmus test for newcomers."

He pushed off from the prep table and gestured toward the far wall, where floor-to-ceiling cabinets stood neatly organized. "Ingredients are in the pantry over there. Flour, cocoa powder, sugar, all labeled. The refrigerator has the eggs and butter. Utensils are in the drawers under the workstations."

He paused, looking between the two freshmen with a smirk. "Work together or at separate stations, I don't care. Just try not to set off the smoke alarm. The janitor hates us enough already."

Nagi didn't wait for a second invitation. He moved toward the workstation, needing a task, something mechanical to focus on that wasn't the lingering sound of Kaori’s laughter or the suspicious "traditional" excuse she’d just handed him. He began checking the drawers for measuring cups, his movements stiff.

Beside him, Kaori raised her arms, gathering her long hair with practiced ease. She didn't have a mirror, and she didn't seem to care for perfection; she simply twisted the lavender-brown strands and pinned them into a quick, messy bun at the crown of her head.

A few stray wisps escaped the tie, framing her face in the soft afternoon light pouring through the tall windows. The casual, unpolished look removed the formal edge she usually carried in the classroom, giving her a sudden, natural radiance that caught Nagi completely off guard.

Nagi happened to glance over just as she was tucking a final stray strand behind her ear. His breath hitched for a fraction of a second. The sight hit him with more force than any of the sparring sessions at the dojo ever had.

He snapped his head back toward the pantry so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

‘Stop it,’ he hissed at himself, his grip tightening on the edge of the stainless steel counter. ‘What is wrong with you? It’s just a bun. It’s a functional choice for food safety. You’ve seen hair before. Get it together.’

He was a martial artist trained to keep his composure in the face of an armed opponent, yet here he was, mentally spiraling because a girl tied her hair up. He felt a fresh wave of embarrassment, sharper than the last, mostly because he was now embarrassed about being embarrassed in the first place.

"Is the pantry that interesting, Asahina-kun? Or did the flour bins suddenly become very intimidating?"

He didn't have to look to know she was smiling. He could hear the playfulness in her voice. He kept his back to her, staring intensely at a bag of sugar. "I'm just... checking the inventory."

"Mm-hmm," Kaori hummed, stepping up beside him. She leaned against the counter, peering at him from the corner of her eye. "You know, your ears are quite red. Maybe the 'bunker' is a bit too warm for you?"

Nagi stiffened, his jaw set. "It's the ovens."

"The ovens aren't even on yet," she pointed out softly, her giggle returning for a brief moment. She didn't push him further, though. Instead, she gestured to the recipe card Sato had left on the central table. "Since we're both 'new' to this graveyard, why don't we work together? I'll handle the dry ingredients if you want to brave the refrigerator for the butter and eggs."

She looked at him, waiting for an answer, the messy bun bobbing slightly as she tilted her head.

"Fine," Nagi muttered, finally forcing himself to move. "Just... stay on your side of the station."