"Arisu, you're still up?"
It was already ten at night. Having just finished washing up, Sakayanagi Narimori turned off the living room lights in his slippers. On his way back to his room, he noticed a sliver of light leaking from under his daughter's door. She clearly hadn't gone to bed yet.
He knocked and waited patiently for a response. Only after Arisu replied did Narimori twist the doorknob and enter.
Compared to the cold, snowy air outside, Arisu's room was cozy and warm thanks to the heater. She sat cross-legged on her large bed, wrapped in a soft blanket, her elegant brows furrowed as she toyed with a chessboard.
"Already preparing for what's next?" Narimori asked, handing her a glass of warm water after fetching it from the kitchen. He glanced at the chessboard and spoke gently.
"Maybe I just can't sleep," Arisu replied.
"...There's no need to prepare."
"If you'd won 2–0 today, I'd believe that more," Narimori teased.
Arisu simply blew at her drink, her eyes following the rising bubbles.
"You weren't always this honest, Papa."
Narimori chuckled and sat down on the edge of her bed, picking up a piece from the chessboard.
"People always say they want honesty from those close to them, yet fear too much truth. So we end up playing with half-truths. That push and pull creates incomplete information games."
"And a chessboard is the simplest, most intuitive representation of that kind of game."
Arisu made a move with the black pieces, then suddenly asked:
"What about emotions? Are they the same?"
The sudden shift caught Narimori off guard, but he quickly composed himself and gave a thoughtful answer:
"Personally, I think so."
"You know those recent sayings, like 'boring shells' and 'interesting souls'?"
He paused, wondering if the topic was too mature for her, but continued:
"To me, an 'interesting soul' is just someone whose information density and knowledge breadth surpass yours—someone who surrounds you intellectually. If such a person also shows a bit of patience and understanding, says things you've never heard but find logical... it's easy for girls to fall for them."
"It's the result of unequal information games."
"For example, student-teacher romances or relationships between working adults and students often stem from these gaps—in knowledge, status, background—creating a hierarchy in what's supposed to be equal love."
"Do you think such relationships are healthy, Arisu?"
She hesitated, then nodded slightly, before shaking her head.
"If you can't figure it out now, there's still plenty of time," Narimori said lightly, letting the topic go.
"By the way, I didn't expect tonight's show to become such a sensation. Some friends in my circle are really interested. Many even said they'd like their kids to give it a try."
"Those people aren't even on my level. How can they compare with Ryo?" Arisu pulled the blanket tighter and replied casually.
"Well, they don't necessarily have to go against Ryo. They're talking about challenging other White Room students too. Not all of them can be geniuses, right?"
Narimori shrugged.
"There was another White Room kid at the show tonight, remember? She even got caught on camera a few times—Yuki, the girl Ryo mentioned before."
"Very polite girl. After the show, she followed Ryo backstage and greeted us guests and staff. I don't know about her talent though. Ryo praised her, but I haven't seen it firsthand..."
Arisu tightened her grip on the blanket and lay back down.
"I'm going to sleep."
"Then good night."
Narimori smiled and began packing up the chessboard.
"Good night."
Arisu tugged the blanket over herself with her foot. It barely covered half her body, but given the warm room and the extra blanket wrapped around her, she wasn't at risk of catching cold.
Narimori, sensing no more conversation was needed, gently closed the door and left.
Compared to rain, heavy snow always brought a deeper kind of silence. Perhaps due to the hum of the heater, Arisu heard none of the whispering, crackling snow sounds so often described in books. She only saw the white growing thicker outside her window.
After switching off the heater, the room grew quieter, though colder.
Curled under the covers, Arisu first hugged her arms, then half the blanket, and finally the entire blanket wrapped around her.
The fine cotton texture gave her a warm sense of peace.
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Ayanokouji Atsuomi was incredibly busy that night.
Perhaps no one had expected that he'd be able to use this opportunity to catapult the name of the White Room into the spotlight. But with Kitagawa Ryo's popularity surging and Sakayanagi Arisu's loss still fresh, many influential figures—whether out of genuine interest or just curiosity—began expressing interest in sending their children to be trained in the White Room. Messages flooded in, and Ayanokouji found himself too overwhelmed to keep up.
What amused him even more was how the Naoe faction, who had earlier vowed to sever all ties with him to escape blame, now seemed to be rethinking their stance. Though still cautious, their attitude had softened noticeably.
But Ayanokouji Atsuomi was no fool. In his forty years, he'd seen more than enough meteoric rises followed by sudden collapses. He understood that the current buzz, this roaring blaze of attention, was nothing more than a spectacle that he and Tokyo Advanced had carefully orchestrated. As the man in charge of the White Room, he knew better than anyone what that secretive, controversial place really was.
From the moment of its inception, the White Room was never meant to be embraced by the general public.
In truth, Ayanokouji was playing a grand con—manipulating an information gap.
His goal was simple: maximize profits and find a buyer before the ticking time bomb in his hands went off.
Maybe, decades from now, the White Room might succeed. But even if it did, Ayanokouji would no longer be involved. He had no interest in the future of public education. With Naoe Jinnosuke growing old, it was time for Atsuomi to plan ahead.
If he could leverage this current spotlight to elevate his standing within the Naoe faction and inherit Jinnosuke's political legacy, then he might just gain the qualifications to reach the very pinnacle of this nation's power.
Fueled by that ambitious dream, he set down his pen and stepped out of the office, hoping a short walk would clear his mind.
Though nestled deep in the mountains, the White Room facility was blanketed in snow. Even the parking lot was buried under a thick layer. Four guards at the front gate bowed when they saw him.
"Councilor Ayanokouji."
"Mm."
He nodded and breathed in the crisp mountain air. Colder than the city, but it helped clear his thoughts.
He walked a few laps around the facility, three of the guards following closely behind to ensure his safety.
But as he reached the back of the building, something unexpected came into view.
A small snowman, about one meter tall.
"Ryo and Yuki built it together about thirty minutes ago," one of the guards explained.
Only those two would've been allowed outside at this hour. Atsuomi nodded and stepped closer.
The snowman was basic: one large and one small snowball stacked atop each other. Two black buttons for eyes, a twig for the nose, a simple smile drawn as a mouth, and long branches for arms. Crude and rough.
Atsuomi tilted his head.
"Bring Kiyotaka here."
Though puzzled by the request, the guards obeyed. One of them ran back into the facility and soon returned with Ayanokouji Kiyotaka, who had already retired for the night.
Still in plain white sleepwear, Kiyotaka stood silently in the snow, not shivering, not complaining. Despite never having seen snow before, he showed neither excitement nor confusion. He simply stared at his father.
"Build a better, more refined snowman. If you've never seen one before, use that as a basic reference."
Atsuomi pointed to the one made by Ryo and Yuki.
"Okay."
Kiyotaka was used to such orders. Without asking for warmer clothes, he began studying the snowman.
Before Ryo's sudden rise, Kiyotaka had been the White Room's only designated success candidate. Atsuomi knew the boy's strength—an unmatched capacity to learn.
If he encountered something new, he might lose the first time. But given just a little time, he'd grasp the core principles. From the second attempt onward, he'd be unbeatable.
Sure enough, Kiyotaka's first snowman was nearly identical to Ryo's—just as rough and simple.
But then, under the stunned gaze of the guards, he embarked on a massive project.
When finished, a nearly two-meter-tall snowman stood before them—giant by a child's standards. Kiyotaka had used branches again, but instead of sticking them in as a nose, he sculpted a face with defined brows and eyes. His arms were made of carefully packed snowballs, giving the figure a comically cheerful expression.
With flushed cheeks and reddened hands, he returned to Atsuomi's side.
"Go to bed."
"Yes, sir."
No further words were exchanged. Atsuomi nodded in satisfaction as Kiyotaka left.
Compared to the unpredictable and transactional Ryo, Atsuomi preferred his own son to be the White Room's poster child.
Because to him, Kiyotaka would never betray the White Room.
He had earned the right to carry the Ayanokouji name once more.
By blood and by law, Kiyotaka was his possession. And as the owner, Atsuomi held all the rights—to life, to death.
Unlike the corporate heirs or Ryo, who was brought in by the Sakayanagi family, Kiyotaka had been born in the White Room. As his biological son, he could never escape—not from the White Room, not from Atsuomi.
He had nowhere else to go.
Before leaving, Atsuomi ordered both snowmen to be knocked over.
Crude or refined, they were all just lumps of snow in the end.
Kiyotaka nudged a black button with his foot.
Back in his room, he warmed his icy hands and feet with hot water. That night, he learned a new skill he'd never been taught in the White Room—how to build a snowman.
For the first time, he felt a flicker of curiosity toward the world outside.
Meanwhile, Ryo and Yuki were fast asleep, wrapped together in a warm blanket.
The snow outside showed no sign of stopping.
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