The walls were painted a soft cream.
Architecture books lined floating shelves in perfect rows—spines organized by color, then by author. Blueprints were tacked to a corkboard above her desk, each one labeled with neat handwriting. Scale models of sustainable housing projects sat on display shelves like tiny perfect futures waiting to be built.
This woman has her own life. In fact. . .she wants to change the world.
I moved further in, scanning everything with fresh eyes. "She's transparent. Everything about her is right here on display."
Hiro leaned against the doorframe. "That's Hina. She's never been good at hiding. Which is what shocked me about her possibly being the spy."
I took in more of the space. “She’s not obsessed with Kenji like the others.”
“I think she might be the only one that actually sees him as a big brother. Granted, she could have a soft crush for him.”
“And you?”
He snorted. “I hope not.”
London University materials covered her desk—course syllabi, remote learning schedules, design software guides. Her laptop sat closed beside a stack of notebooks, each one labeled by subject. A calendar hung on the wall with deadlines circled in different colored markers, exam dates starred, and little motivational notes written in the margins.
“You've got this!”
“Three more weeks until break!”
“Call Tomi about study group. Tell her your ideas!”
I checked systematically, but my heart wasn't racing the way it had in Yuki’s or Mami's room.
There was no dread here.
No creeping sense of wrongness.
Desk: covered in schoolwork and architectural sketches.
Closet: normal clothes—jeans, sweaters, a few nicer dresses still in dry-cleaning bags.
Under the bed: storage bins with textbooks and old class projects.
Bathroom: typical toiletries, a skincare routine organized in a little caddy, a single wilting plant on the windowsill that she'd clearly been trying to keep alive.
Nothing.
"She's clean," I said, more to myself than to Hiro.
"Good."
But something still nagged at me. That expression I'd seen on Hina's face back on the island. The worry in her eyes. The weight she seemed to carry.
What was that about, if not guilt?
Then I spotted it.
A journal sat on her nightstand. Hand-bound with a leather cover, the edges worn soft from use. A pen was tucked into the binding like she wrote in it every night before bed.
I shouldn't read it.
It was private.
But I picked it up anyway.
