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The beauty of the sunset had bled out hours ago, leaving the dormitory halls to drown in a heavy, suffocating silence. The air here didn't smell like anything real; it was stale, recycled ventilation and the chemical sting of industrial floor wax—a scent that had clawed its way into the back of Celestia’s throat and settled there over the last few weeks.
Celestia Ludenberg stepped out of her room, swathed in her silk nightgown and robe, her feet shoved into slippers. She hadn't slept. Sleep was a waste of time, but more than that, it was boring. It was a void where she couldn't control the narrative, and the lack of control was starting to itch under her skin. She preferred the quiet dictatorship of the empty building.
She walked the corridor, the soft shush of her slippers against the carpet the only sound in the world. She wasn't going anywhere—just pacing. Walking the perimeter of the cage, testing the bars to see just how small her confinement had become.
As she neared the junction by the stairwell, a flash of violet caught in her peripheral vision.
Kyoko Kirigiri was standing by the window at the end of the hall, staring out at the moonlit courtyard. She was fully dressed, right down to the boots and the gloves, looking for all the world like she was waiting for a crime scene that refused to start.
Celestia stopped. She weighed the pros and cons of turning back. Dealing with the Detective required a level of energy she just didn't have tonight. But turning away felt like retreating, and Celestia Ludenberg did not retreat.
She walked toward her.
"Inspecting the perimeter?" Celestia asked. Her voice was lower than usual, lacking the theatrical sharpness she usually projected like a weapon. She just sounded tired.
Kyoko didn't startle. She just shifted her gaze from the glass to Celestia, eyes unreadable. "No. Just thinking."
"In the middle of the hallway? How dreary."
"I find the movement of the clouds soothing," Kyoko said.
It was such a blatant lie that Celestia almost laughed. Kyoko found nothing soothing. She found fingerprints, alibis, and contradictions.
"I am going to the kitchen," Celestia said, adjusting the collar of her robe to buy herself a second. "I require tea. The provisions in the room are insufficient."
Kyoko nodded once. "I will accompany you. I require... coffee."
They moved down the main corridor together, footsteps falling out of sync, and into the communal break area. The vending machines hummed in the corner, casting the only light in the room—harsh, fluorescent buzzing. Celestia moved with practiced, automatic grace, filling the kettle and measuring out leaves. Kyoko stood by the counter, arms crossed over her chest, watching the steam rise from the coffee maker like it was a clue.
They didn't speak. The silence stretched between them, thin and wire-taut. It wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't uncomfortable either. It was just empty. Two ghosts haunting a sleeping world, going through the mechanical motions of keeping their eyes open.
When the tea was ready, Celestia poured it into a delicate porcelain cup she’d swiped from her room. The steam curled up, smelling of bergamot and something artificial.
"The library," Celestia said abruptly. "Not here. The lights in the kitchen are too harsh."
Kyoko looked at her, then nodded. "Agreed."
The library was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock and the dry rustle of paper. It was late—far later than even the most studious Ultimate students usually bothered to stay awake. But Celestia Ludenberg did not abide by the schedules of mere mortals, and Kyoko Kirigiri seemed to run on a fuel source that was decidedly non-organic.
They had settled into one of the plush, velvet-lined alcoves. Celestia had a cup of rapidly cooling Earl Grey balanced precariously on her knee, while Kyoko sat opposite her, nose buried in a thick file on cold cases.
Celestia set the cup down with a clink.
Kyoko looked up, her violet eyes unreadable behind the curtain of her hair. "Is something the matter, Celeste?"
"You ask that as if you don't already know," Celestia murmured. Her fingers gripped the teacup handle tight enough to turn her knuckles white. She looked away, fixing her gaze on a dusty portrait on the wall. "Do you ever feel... tired, Kyoko? Of the pretending?"
Kyoko tilted her head, a fraction of an inch. "Pretending?"
"Of keeping up appearances. Of maintaining the legend." Celestia’s voice dropped, shedding the haughty, aristocratic polish she usually layered onto every word. She sounded smaller. Younger. Scared. "Sometimes... I forget who Taeko Yasuhiro is supposed to be. I look in the mirror and I see the lace and the drills and the arrogance, and I wonder if there is even a girl left underneath. Or if I finally buried her completely."
It was a confession. A hairline fracture in the porcelain mask. It had taken Celestia hours of hyperventilating in the dark of her room to work up the courage to say even this much.
Kyoko blinked. She processed the words. She analyzed the cadence, the uncharacteristic vulnerability, and the rare usage of her real name. She filed it away as new data regarding the gambling master’s psyche.
"That is... interesting," Kyoko said.
She said it softly. Curiously. The way one might remark on a rare beetle found under a rock.
The air in the room seemed to freeze. The clock ticked louder, a hammer against Celestia’s ribs.
Celestia’s smile didn't fade; it sharpened into something jagged and painful. She slowly stood up, her chair scraping violently against the floorboards.
"Stop saying 'Interesting' when I tell you something personal!" Celestia’s voice, usually a silky purr, rose to a shout. "It is not 'interesting,' it is painful! It is a piece of my soul!"
She slammed her hand down on the small table between them, causing the teacup to rattle. Tears were pricking at the corners of her eyes, defying her will, making her look furious and terrified all at once.
"Do you have any idea how hard it is to open up to someone like you? You act like a robot processing data. Well, I am not data! I am flesh and blood, and right now my blood is boiling because you are an emotionless bitch!"
The echo of her scream hung in the library, vibrating in the shelves. Celestia was breathing hard, her chest heaving, her perfectly styled curls slightly disarrayed.
“There it is,” she whispered, horrified at her own lack of control. “You’re doing it again.”
“I’m not analyzing you,” Kyoko said quietly.
“You are always analyzing me.”
Celestia stepped back, putting distance between them. “I was wrong. This was a mistake.”
She moved to walk past Kyoko, to flee back to the safety of her room.
Kyoko reacted on instinct. She reached out and caught Celestia’s wrist.
Celestia froze, expecting a struggle. "Don't look at me like that. Don't you dare—"
Kyoko stepped forward. She didn't use words. She just held on.
"You're shaking," Kyoko said. Her voice was different; it was quiet. Stripped of the detective’s armor.
"Let go of me," Celestia hissed, though the fight was draining out of her rapidly, leaving her hollow.
"No," Kyoko said. Her grip was firm, grounding. "You called me an emotionless robot. You aren't entirely wrong. I... I often forget that people require more than just the truth. They require empathy. And I failed to give that to you."
Kyoko squeezed her wrists, feeling the erratic pulse there. "I am sorry, Celeste."
Celestia stiffened. "You... apologize? The great Kyoko Kirigiri?"
"I do when I make a miscalculation," Kyoko replied. "And hurting you was a severe miscalculation. I didn't mean to treat your pain like evidence. I was simply... surprised. That you would trust me with something so fragile."
“I– I just don’t know how to respond the way you want,” she admitted, sounding almost helpless.
Celestia looked away, biting her lip until it hurt. "I shouldn't have. It was a moment of weakness. I’m simply tired. That’s all."
"It's not weakness," Kyoko said firmly. She stepped closer, invading Celestia’s personal space, close enough that Celestia could smell the faint scent of leather and old books that always clung to the detective. "It's brave. You spend so much time controlling the narrative of everyone around you. It must be exhausting to be the only one who doesn't know the ending."
Celestia let out a shuddering breath. "You have no idea."
“I don’t know how to comfort people,” Kyoko said finally, her eyes dropping to where her hand held Celestia’s wrist. “I was not taught how. I was not shown how. Most of my life has been spent observing grief, not participating in it.”
Her gloved thumb brushed lightly against Celestia’s pulse point, a hesitant, foreign gesture.
“But I don’t want you to regret trusting me. I can try,” Kyoko continued, looking up to meet her gaze. “And if I miscalculate again, you can tell me. And I will adjust."
"Then show me," Kyoko whispered. "Not the Queen. Not the gambler. Just... you."
Kyoko released one of Celestia’s wrists and, with a hesitation that was rare for her, reached up to gently brush a stray tear from Celestia’s cheek with her thumb. The leather was soft, but the touch was warm.
Celestia leaned into the touch before she could stop herself. Her mask was gone. The persona of Celestia Ludenberg, the untouchable, was lying in shards on the library floor.
"You are definitely terrible at comfort," Celestia croaked, a wet, broken laugh escaping her throat.
"I know," Kyoko admitted. "I have no data on how to fix a broken heart. But..." She paused, looking at Celestia with an intensity that made the gambler’s knees weak. "I am willing to stay here until it heals on its own. I am not going anywhere."
A small, broken sound left Celestia’s throat. Half laugh. Half sob.
“You’re impossible,” she murmured.
“I’m aware.”
Slowly, Celestia let her forehead fall against Kyoko’s shoulder. It was an undignified position for a Queen, but right now, she didn't feel like a Queen. She just felt like a girl.
"Stay, then," Celestia whispered, closing her eyes. "But if you tell anyone I cried, I will have you executed."
Kyoko’s lips twitched—the ghost of a smile. She wrapped her arms around Celestia’s shoulders, pulling the smaller girl into a hug. It was awkward at first, stiff and unpracticed, but then Kyoko rested her chin on top of Celestia’s head and relaxed.
"Your secret is safe with me," Kyoko murmured into her hair. "I promise."
The clock kept ticking. The world kept spinning. Nothing about their situation had changed.
But Kyoko didn’t let go.
And for tonight, that was enough.