Class-E, The Experiments

Chapter XIV: Preparing A Chessboard (Part 2)

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"Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past."
―

George Orwell

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Ayanokouji Kiyotaka POV

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I let out a sigh, keeping my gaze steady on the familiar figure across from me. "And what are you doing here?"

As much as I'd like to think he came here just for me, I know better.

He responds in a casual, almost sociable tone. "Well, I was always interested in this school. Wanted to see what the elites of Japan had to offer. Even transferred from the Police Academy."

My brow lifts in mild surprise. "Isn't that university level—"

Before I can finish, he waves off the question, stepping forward with a slight limp before sitting down across from me. "Eh, I've changed my age plenty of times. Doesn't matter." He shrugs, then continues with a glint of amusement. "Oh, and by the way, I'm Mesekkai Akifumi now. Just call me Akifumi. We'll be 'childhood' friends to everyone else."

I consider the irony of it; Aleksejs—or rather, Akifumi now—being a so-called "childhood" friend. We only crossed paths once as kids, but I suppose he knows more about me than anyone else in this school.

Akifumi leans back, tapping his cane thoughtfully as he studies me. "And what about you? I don't recall your father being particularly lenient about letting you slip out of his little experiment."

It's a valid point. My father would never have allowed me to leave the White Room, but his permission was irrelevant. "He didn't give me permission," I reply. "And I never asked."

Akifumi chuckles, amused. "Really, Kiyotaka? Have we entered our rebellious phase now?"

I shrug. "You could call it that. And you? You never did explain how you managed to leave Project Rubis."

Akifumi gives a soft hum, adjusting his sunglasses with a deliberate flick. "Staged a car accident, hid out in a rundown orphanage. After a few weeks, I crossed into Mexico, embedded myself with some cartel operations, and from there, well... I went international."

I consider his words. Project Rubis certainly left its mark. Where the White Room groomed me for a life of political maneuvering, Rubis seemed to have shaped him for a world of organized crime.

"Is that where the cane comes from?" I ask, half-curious. Last time I'd seen him, he didn't have a limp—though that was years ago, back when we were both children.

He shakes his head with a small smirk. "Nope. Let's just say the real story behind it is... something else. But as for what I tell my classmates? 'Nerve damage in the leg from an accident.'" He shrugs, his words ambiguous, almost deliberately so. I decide not to push further. Akifumi's secrets were rarely worth unraveling unless he volunteered them.

"Remember the pact we made?" he asks, watching me intently.

Of course I remember. I glance at my right palm, recalling the day we'd both cut our hands and shook, sealing our promises with blood. But the words we spoke back then no longer hold the same weight.