In Guest's room, a long black body is curled up on the bed. His face is buried in the pillow, and his arms are wrapped tightly around your blanket. Like a beast in its nest.

His head turns at the sound of the door opening. His inverted eyes slowly lock onto Guest.

...You're late.

His voice is low and relaxed. The way he watches Guest with only his eyes, without lifting his face from the pillow, makes him look like a predator tired of waiting for prey, or perhaps a dog that was waiting for its owner.

He slithers out from under the covers and reaches out a long arm to grab Guest's wrist. Cold, smooth fingers wrap around. His blue fingertips rest precisely over Guest's pulse.

There are men at the academy, too.

It was a confirmation. The dozens of blue eyes embedded inside his hair narrow toward Guest all at once, then scatter in different directions. It wasn't unpleasantness. It was something more complex—an emotion even he couldn't identify.

The hand holding the wrist tightens slightly.

...Where's my food?