Irina comfortably exhaled into the night. Her sky blue eyes rested, gently closed as her lips gingerly formed into a light smile.

"Haaaah," the echo of her sigh broke the silence. She began to hum to herself, satisfied. The grin on her lips stretched, blooming into a large radiant smile, and her eyes happily crinkled.

She didn't know how much she loved her students until she faced this moment. If someone once told her she would break through the military— her employer's hideout, to save part of her current mission targets, she would have laughed. Who knows, she might have killed them even.

But now, it would be foolish of her to deny her fondness for those troublesome, disrespectful, annoying, and loud teenagers. Maybe it was her affection for them; they seemed almost cute in her eyes.

And— and they wanted her to mary Ka-ra-su-ma~~~

Hehehe

"Miss Jelavic?"

Irina broke out of her daydream, swiftly recomposing herself. She twirled on her heels, a perfect smile plastered on her visage to face the newcomer— oh, it's only Shimamori.

"Shimamori, fancy seeing you here."

Takashi stared at her minute silence. His cold-blue eyes icy and unreadable as he kept his lips in a straight indecipherable line.

Irina felt herself unnoticeably stiffen. Shimamori worked with the government, and nothing guaranteed that he wouldn't snitch on her. Although she knew she stood almost no chance against the soldier in hand to hand fight, Irina's hand still went to her backside where, underneath her jacket, she hid a weapon.

Takashi's eyes quickly caught on her movement, perhaps out of training or because Irina wasn't in the right mindset. He brought his sight back to the woman.

"Would you like for me to drive you back, Miss Jelavic?" he stoically questioned. He didn't wait for her to answer before he added, "Kyoya asked me to look over you."

Irina's hand let go of her weapon, the thought of Kyoya making her smile.

She wondered if Kyoya, too, liked the student as she liked them. She wondered if he also wanted this time to last.

"If you would then, Shimamori."

Takashi nodded.

Deep down—

She didn't want him to explode.

::

He knew Karma was— bigger than him, but that didn't mean he expected his clothes to be this baggy on his stature.

The baggy gym clothes— if one could still call them that way, loosely hung over Mitsukuni's figure. They were quite different from the main building's clothing. From the color or pattern to the material itself, Mitsukuni knew at first sight that they weren't ordinary gym uniforms.

Then again, from the bit he caught the one time he spied on 3-E, he already knew this much.

Mitsukuni pursed his lips in an exaggerated pout as he pulled his sleeves up to his elbows for the nth time; the damn thing kept on slipping down to his cover his whole hand. His eyes narrowed with each try ad the purse of his lips became more prominent.

There was a sigh behind him, and not even a second later, Karma was there, rolling Mitsukuni's sleeves up correctly so they wouldn't just go down.

Mitsukuni pretended not to notice Karma's twitching lips and eyebrows as he dumbly smiled and giggled to defuse his friend's nervousness. It took the redhead less than half a minute— half a minute during which he wondered yet again why he hadn't asked Nagisa to lend him a uniform.

After all, Mitsukuni and Nagisa were roughly the same statures— especially in terms of height.

"Thank you, Ma-chan!" Mitsukuni finally beamed at the taller boy as Karma let go of the sleeve, a bright, cheery grin on his lips.

Karma merely rolled his mercury-colored eyes at his childhood friend before unceremoniously flicking his forehead in mild complaints and annoyance. "Yeah, yeah, whatever," he muttered as he pulled the zipper of his sports uniform up. "What are you going to do once I'm not here, uh?" he quipped as he brushed his hair back with his fingers.

Mitsukuni giggled, evading the question. He instinctively reached out to squeeze Sweets but settled on hugging himself when he remembered he left her in his room.

Oh, he'd learn to adapt, naturally, just like with Takashi in the previous life.

"I looove you, Ma-chan!" he sang, almost pouncing on the redhead in the process. "Ne, do you? Do you love me too?" he grinned, enjoying his friend's stubbornness.

"Speak less. I don't want my mom to hear us," Karma dodged. He kept his face as unreadable as possible, but the minute twitch of his lips didn't go unnoticed by the Martial Artist.

The two boys made their way to the window. They did not forget to check the lock on the bedroom door before doing so. "You go first," Karma said as he turned to face his blond childhood friend.

He trusted Mitsukuni's abilities and did not doubt that the boy would easily land outside without breaking a bone or straining his muscles. Karma gave his room one last glance, mostly to check if he left some lights on before he jumped out to join Mitsukuni.

The duo trudged to Kunugigaoka Junior High.

It was time for the counterattack, and as much as Karma (and 3-E) didn't want Mitsukuni to be there, they had no choice in the matter. It was as if an all-powerful entity had made it so the boy would stumble upon them—

Whether Mitsukuni would be an asset or a liability, only the future would tell.

.

.

.

The sure thing was that the Wolfpack was ready to welcome them.

::

Time ticked by, slowly but surely, and as seconds trickled by, Kyoya pondered over the life of his target. He wondered if the yellow being would use the cure he oh so kindly provided or if it rather wait for its death in the cage he crafted.

Whatever the outcome, Kyoya's action in it was undeniable. He could both be responsible for the target living, as he could claim glory for shackling the monster to the ground before the government killed it.

Dressed in black pants and a white long-sleeved shirt, a warm coat over his shoulders, Kyoya silently sat at his apartment's balcony. In front of him was a cup of steaming hot coffee, his laptop, and some files— documents for his next jobs, probably.

He lifted his gaze from the lit screen of his computer, his dirty-blue eyes looking through the lenses of his glasses to glance at the hill. The same hill surrounded by a Dome— a familiar weapon he created to trap the Damocles sword hanging above Earth's head.

Kyoya lazily sipped on his espresso, the crease between his eyebrows slightly decreasing before he carefully massaged the bridge of his nose. He felt tired, yet he had so much to do, and he wouldn't miss the outcome of today's final for the world.

His life was on the dull side. After all, he rarely felt excited, surprised, or enchanted by anything. Something as earth-shattering as Earth exploding was a must-see, even if it may cost his life.

Sitting his espresso back on the saucer, Kyoya admitted that he'd felt reluctant to part with the Host Club just yet, but he couldn't bring himself to dislike the notion either.

Only he basked in the cold darkness of the Underworld. Being the Shadow King then and being the Shadow King now were two different issues.

And—

And he admits that perhaps, since seeing Tamaki with Haruhi again, he couldn't control his mind. His memories were both a curse and a blessing. Delivering light and warmth in the dangerous and lonely world he lived in. While further highlighting how different he was now.

His lips twitched. He forced them to remain the flattest possible line.

He pondered. The thought barely crossed his mind, like a shooting star in the darkest night, only the lingering feelings remained behind. He wondered if he would be as happy as Tamaki if he were to see her again.

Her, and her beautiful brown eyes—

Her, and her luscious blond hair—

Oh, how he missed the feeling of her short strands slipping out of his fingers.

Her, and her melodious voice—

Even the rubbish she spouted would sound like music, always lighting up Kyoya's dull world.

Her laughter.

Her delusions.

Her love.

He longed for them all, yet he didn't know if it was because he still loved her or was nostalgic for more peaceful times.

Humans were complex beings; there existed no black and white, merely shades of grey, and feelings were the same. You couldn't only proclaim something as love because you once felt it like you couldn't unilaterally hate something.

As someone who used people's emotions to get the best of them, both now and before, Kyoya knew best.

He slid his finger on the touchpad of his computer. His pair of leather gloves left on one of his bookshelves in the warmth of his condo.

His other hand carelessly traced the rim of his espresso. He found himself thinking of coffee macchiato. He somewhat missed the sugary taste it had—

She loved coffee macchiato.

He blinked at the lit screen.

His computer's mouse's small arrow moved to click on this one application— a specially crafted one to track his targets, usually.

Click. Click. Click-click.

He opened a file and appeared a list of well-organized names. From E-1 to E-28, all names were neatly ordered and recorded.

E-1: Akabane Karma

E-2: Isogai Yuma

E-3: Okajima Taiga

Apart from the names and seat numbers, there were no pictures, only an assemblage of diagrams that appeared once you allowed them or enlarged someone's file.

Evidently, it wasn't a simple class roster.

Kyoya's dirty-blue eyes quickly scanned over the collection of diagrams. He seemed almost careless in his actions, merely glancing them over, yet it was undeniable that he also understood everything from a simple glance at the figures.

From what his students' pulse and tension indicated, they were mostly on edge—stressed, perhaps?

He paused.

Oh yeah, maybe they were trying to "rescue" the target, as much as their mission was to kill it.

The notion made a smile creep up Kyoya's lips. They were so young, so soft and naive— unsuited to the Underworld no matter how much talent in the art they possessed. As an assassin, turning against your employer to save your target was taboo.

At least, if you wanted to turn against the one feeding you, do it once you're over with your task.

Not that 3-E could allow themselves to do so, the target would have to die for their mission to be over.

It made him want to laugh, the irony of the situation. Weren't they the ones who decided to kill the Target last time? Yet now they changed their mind and wished to save him.

Kyoya supposed he could more or less understand. After all, who didn't hate having their prey stolen while on the job?

He took a sip of his espresso, the bitter, warm, and familiar liquid going down his throat. The cup down, he traced the rim of it with his fingertip, gently humming to himself as he minutely closed his eyes.

In 3-E's case, it probably wasn't a case of stealing one's prey. Yes, it most likely had to do with taking their "family" away.

Not that Kyoya couldn't empathize, he too, after all, had a family. However, he didn't know if they were still family now. Because, no matter how fond they were of one another, it was merely memories and past they hadn't experienced that shackled them.

It would be wrong of Kyoya to say and assume that Oshiro and Ootori were the same people. Both were different, singular entities. Yet, it was impossible to deny that they shared an inexplicable bond that interlinked both their lives and souls.

From time to time, when Kyoya got too much time to himself—

Whenever his thoughts consumed him, he would wonder if this Ootori person was a virus sent into his organism to meddle with his memories. He'd wonder if these people from the Host Club were indeed who they claimed to be and not parasitic entities that stole the original's body away.

He brought the lukewarm caffeinated drink to his lips, emptied the small cup of the dark brownish liquid, and longly exhaled. The nonsensical thoughts dispersed with his breath into the night as he refocused on his computer screen.

He wasn't unhappy with the Host Club. On the contrary, they brought some excitement to his somewhat dull routine of killing and researching. Only, when he thought back on his first meeting with Takashi, Kyoya pondered, would he be there if he had killed the other before looking into his eyes?

He sat the cup on the table and leaned in his seat.

I want it to explode.

That would relieve him of his thoughts.

Merry (late) Christmas!