Then, he spoke, “You surprise me more and more.”
I looked over at him. “How?”
“Youareassessing EVERYTHING.” Hiro watched me the way a man watches a weapon he didn’t realize was loaded—cautiously, curiously, and with a heat he tried to disguise under restraint.
I swallowed.
His attention pressed against me like a palm at my lower back, guiding without touching. Next, his gaze moved from the nameplates to the hallway décor, then back to me. “Most people look at what’s obvious. You look at other things. The décor. Thewalls. The books. The nameplates. You read a room the way Reo reads a battlefield.”
“Spaces don’t lie. People do.”
That made him still.
“I took Environmental Psychology in college. I thought it would be boring, but it was fascinating.” I gestured down the hallway. “Everyone edits themselves in conversation. They perform. They choose how they want to be perceived. But living spaces? They don’t have that kind of discipline. People reveal their truths in what they keep, what they hide, what they curate, what they let fall into neglect.”
He considered this.
I could tell he was listening—not politely, but strategically.
Absorbing.
Analyzing me as I analyzed the Scales.
I continued, “If you want to understand someone, look at the objects they surround themselves with. Look at what they reach for instinctively. Look at what they haven’t thrown away. Look at the pattern behind the pattern. A bedroom isn’t just where someone sleeps—it’s the blueprint of their personality. Sometimes a bookshelf shows what the person wishes they were. Many times a desk shows what they’re pretending to be.”
“Explain.”
“Nightstands are the giveaways.”
“How?”
“Well. . .one example. . .if the nightstand is cluttered with half-finished books and medicine bottles, that’s someone overwhelmed. If it’s empty, that’s someone hiding themselves. And if it’s curated—candles, flowers, a single perfect book—that’s someone performing calm, not living it.”
“I like this.” Hiro’s gaze flicked over my face—eyes narrowing slightly, as if committing every word to memory. There was something hungry in that attention, not sexual exactly, but morefascinated. Like he was discovering a new way to read the world. “And something as small as these nameplates?”
“Let’s see.” I leaned closer. “The nameplates aren't identical.”
Hiro checked them out too. “Correct.”
“Yuki's is beautiful—elegant brushed brass with clean calligraphy.” I narrowed my focus. “Hina's matches Yuki’s more. Same brass, same style, yet much more professional and precise like the person was bored and finished quickly.”
“I can see that.”
“But Mami's nameplate is art.”
“Hmmm.” Hiro stepped closer to it. “Yes. I see that too.”
The brass had been hand-carved with delicate cherry blossoms wrapping around the letters. The petals looked three-dimensional, like they might fall off if I touched them. The script itself curved with more care and attention.
Someone had spent hours on Mami’s nameplate just to make sure it was special. If it were her, that would make complete sense. If it weren’t. . .well that would tell us a whole lot more to the story of these Scales.
I studied the cherry blossoms. "Who did the nameplates?"
"Sako."
Oh shit. That’s interesting.
I turned to look at Hiro. "Is Sako close to them?"
