The air in the Historic Research Clubroom didn't change after Luke entered.It only got heavier.The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality that felt louder than it should've.
Luke didn't move further into the room right away.Neither did anyone else.
Vera remained seated behind her desk, hands folded neatly over the closed book in front of her. Ignazio leaned against the wall like he had been there the entire time. Vianne sat on the sofa, phone angled lazily in her hand—but her attention wasn't on the screen.
It was on him.
Luke met none of their eyes for long.
He already knew what this was.A pause stretched.Not awkward.Deliberate.Then Vera spoke.Her voice was calm—too calm.
"Sit."
Luke obeyed without argument. The chair legs scraped lightly against the wooden floor, the silence returning immediately after.Vera studied him for a moment, her gaze slow and precise, like she was reading something written under his skin rather than on it.
Her eyes paused—just briefly—on his left arm.
Luke noticed.He adjusted his posture slightly.
Not enough to look defensive, but enough to hide the strain.
Vera finally leaned back in her chair."We've been observing you since your transfer."
Luke didn't respond.
"Your combat output. Your response patterns. Your restraint."She paused right before continuing. "None of it matches someone who is 'just a student.'"
Ignazio smirked faintly,"that's one way of putting it."
Vianne finally looked up from her phone.
"He's consistent though," she said casually.
"Too consistent."
Luke exhaled lightly through his nose.Still nothing.
Vera closed the book in front of her.
The sound was soft, but final."Let's stop pretending this is about your grades or your behavior."Her violet eyes lifted fully to him now."Tell me something, Luke Kazama."
The room tightened.
"Who are you really?"
Luke didn't answer immediately.Not because he didn't know.But because he was deciding how much of himself he was willing to lose in the answer.His fingers, hidden inside his glove, tightened slightly.The faint pulse of pain in his left arm responded like it had heard its name.
He ignored it.
Then—
He gave a small, tired exhale."That depends on what you think I've been hiding."
Vera didn't blink."Everything."
Luke's eyes lowered slightly.And for the first time since entering the room—he didn't try to deflect.His voice came out quieter.Not weaker, just… older. "You're asking the wrong question." He paused, "but I guess that's normal."
Vianne tilted her head slightly.Ignazio straightened a little, and Vera's gaze sharpened.
Luke continued, almost absentmindedly,"most people don't ask the right ones the first time."His expression shifted just slightly.Not into emotion, but into memory. "...She used to say the same thing."
The room didn't disappear, it just stopped mattering.The sound of the clubroom dulled, like it had been placed behind glass, and something warmer—something
quieter—started bleeding through the edges of his thoughts.
A kitchen.Morning light.The smell of rice. A voice calling his name.
"Luke."
And just like that—the present stopped being the present. The smell of rice drifted through the apartment.
Young Luke looked up from his homework spread on the kitchen table. His pencil paused mid-sentence as Sora set another bowl beside him.
"You've been staring at that page for ten minutes," she said with a small smile. "Is something troubling you?"
Luke hesitated. "Nothing."
Sora stared at him for a moment as she sat across from him. "You don't have to tell me everything yet," she said gently, " just say what you feel is right to tell me."
Young Luke opened his mouth to reply to his mother—but the warmth of the kitchen table suddenly bottomed out. A sharp, icy sting shot up his left forearm, the dark veins pulsing under his sleeve. The smell of rice disappeared, leaving the cold, suffocating pressure of Vera presence.
The kitchen was gone. The cold oak chair was back.
Luke blinked once, the phantom warmth of his childhood fading from his eyes as he looked across the desk at Vera. He didn't smirk this time. His snark was gone, but the Ghost didn't fully take over either. He looked tired.
He rested his gloved hands flat on the table.
"My mother said I didn't have to tell her everything," Luke said quietly, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the clubroom. "Just what I felt was right."
He looked directly into Vera's violet eyes.
"So here is what is right, Buchou. I am the Sixth Apostle. The Vatican calls me a weapon, Lamina calls me a target, and my family thinks I'm just a student trying to pass midterms." He paused, a faint, humorous trace of a smile touching his lips. "If you're asking who I am to you... that depends on whether you're going to get in my way, or help me keep them out of Seishu.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Ignazio's smirk vanished entirely. His jaw tightened as he straightened from the wall, his eyes darting from Luke's gloved hand to his stiff shoulder. A hundred questions flashed across his face—about the Vatican, about the strength of an Apostle, about how someone so powerful was sitting in front of them utterly broken.
On the sofa, Vianne slowly lowered her phone to her lap. The casual, detached look from her eyes was gone, replaced by a sharp, calculating stare. She opened her mouth her breath catching as she prepared to speak—
"Quiet. Both of you."
Vera's voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a blade, instantly freezing Ignazio and Vianne before they could utter a single word.
Vera didn't look back at her Knight and Vice. Her violet eyes remained locked onto Luke. She didn't look angry, and she didn't look scared. She just looked at him with a cold, absolute certainty of a leader who had just been handed a completely different map of the battlefield.
Vera let the silence hang for a few seconds longer, letting the weight of his title settle. Then, she slowly unclasped her hands and slid the leather-bound book to the side of her desk.
"Sixth Apostle," she repeated, the words smooth and entirely devoid of awe. "A compelling title, Luke. But right now, you're a weapon that can barely hold his own chopsticks."
Luke didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened.
Vera stood up, smoothing the front of her blazer. She didn't approach him like an enemy, nor did she extend a hand like a teammate. She walked over to the tall windows overlooking the courtyard, watching the distant figures of normal students heading home.
"We didn't bring you in here to cross blades, and we certainly aren't going to stand in your way," she said, her back to him. "Seishu is our territory. If the Vatican or Lamina decides to bring their war to our doorstep, they deal with us. Which means, by default, we are keeping them out."
She turned her head slightly, her violet eyes cutting through the dimming light of the clubroom to lock back onto his tired frame.
"But you are an idiot if you think you can protect your family while hiding a compromised arm and a fractured sternum. Go to the infirmary. Let Kiyomi patch up whatever residual demonic energy is eating your veins. We'll continue our discussion when you can actually close your fist without trembling."
Luke stood up, but he didn't leave yet. He walked up to Vera, resting his hands on her desk. "Vera," Luke called, his voice quiet, but firm. "Show me your hands."
Vera's breath almost caught at his words, but she kept her posture. She turned to face Luke, seeing at the calmness in his eyes, crossing her arms defensively. "What would my Vassal gain from looking at my hands?" Vera asked, her hands still tightly closed.
"You're a bigger idiot than I am."
"Excuse me?"
Luke didn't answer, he walked around her desk, standing a few inches in front of her. He carefully uncrossed Vera's arms. As he reached for her hands, they tightened harder, almost drawing blood. His eyes went to Vera, her expression unreadable, but he could see the vulnerability in her eyes, even if she tried to hide it.
Vera didn't resist, she just kept watching him closely. Without thinking, her hands instinctively opened, revealing the burns she got from Luke the other day.
Luke looked at her reddening palms. He looked at Vera again, who gave a light nod as if allowing him to continue. He lightly pressed his thumb on her palm for a second, then he pressed harder.
Vera flinched as a sharp sting ran through her hands. It felt like a thousand glass shards piercing her skin.
'If she kept this up, it would have gotten worse by the day,' Luke thought, pulling out a pair of white gloves from his blazer pocket. He didn't wait for her permission, he took her hand putting one glove on her left and the other one her right hand.
"Keep them on for a few days," Luke said calmly, letting go of her hands. "But take them off when you take a bath," he added, turning to walk out of the clubroom.
"Luke."
Luke stopped in his tracks, his hand still on the handle. His head snapped toward Vera, waiting for her to speak.
The silence returned, but the cold weight of the interrogation was entirely gone. Vera looked down at her hands, the crisp fabric of the white gloves smoothing over her burned skin, masking the weakness she had been hiding just as carefully as he had hidden his own.
She didn't tell him to stay. She didn't thank him.
"Don't die on the way to the infirmary," she said quietly, her voice returning to its steady, regal tone—but the sharp edge was completely gone.
Luke didn't turn back around. A faint, real trace of a smirk touched his lips as he opened the door. "I'll try my best, Buchou."
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, leaving the clubroom in darkness as the sun finally dipped below the horizon.