The silence in the study was dense. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, loaded with dark-bound volumes. Only the soft creak of Yashiroâs shoes broke the stillness.
She entered with her hands in the pockets of her black pants, a dark brown shirt hanging loosely over her hips, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her eyes swept over the spines of the books without touching a single one. She stopped before the shelf at the back, her back to Makishima.
He did not look up. Seated behind his desk, he was writing in a notebook with a fountain pen, his movements slow and deliberate. The warm light of the lamp outlined his shoulders and cast soft shadows across his absorbed face. On the desk, among papers and notes, a chalkboard displayed mathematical symbols: integrals, roots, unfinished equations.
âI didnât know you were interested in mathematics,â Yashiro said without turning, her voice low, deep, laced with subtle irony. âTired of the Greeks already?â
Makishima offered the faintest smile but did not stop writing.
âMathematics is pure language. Cold, unquestionable. Immune to the corruption of consensus,â he replied, in that tone of his that seemed to address both her and the air itself. âBut Iâve always found it impersonal. Until today. What do you do when something canât be explained in words?â
âI profile it. Then I watch it, until it reveals what itâs hiding,â she said, turning her head slightly. âWhat are you trying to define with such fervor? The morality of our century? The crime coefficient?â
Makishima placed the pen down on the desk with a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes followed the line of an unfinished equation.
âIâm searching for a mathematical form that represents the ungraspable. A phenomenon that canât be captured by statistics or game theory.â
She approached without haste, leaning on the desk beside him. One leg slightly bent over the surface, the other grounded. Her hands rested on the edge of the polished wood, her silhouette outlined by the warm light of the study. Makishima raised his gaze and took her in without urgency: from the lines of her fingers, over her bare forearms, pausing just a moment too long on the curve of her neck.
âA phenomenon?â she repeated, arching an eyebrow. âAre you going to try modeling the human soul now?â
He tilted his head slightly. Then he looked at her slowly, and their eyes met with a silent gravity, as if he feared to profane something by the mere act of looking.
âIâm trying to express something that is both constant and impossible,â he murmured. âLike the square root of minus one.â
Yashiro narrowed her eyes, glancing away for a moment. Makishima placed a hand on the notebook, his voice never losing its rhythm.
âThe square root of minus one has no real existence,â he went on. âBut without it, we couldnât describe the complex phenomena that govern this world. Itâs in circuits, in oscillations, in what we cannot see and yet feel. Itâs a necessary fiction. An impossibility that gives shape to the universe. Like you.â
She raised her eyebrows, blinking. Then her gaze dropped to him. Makishima did not look away.
âIt doesnât exist, and yet we use it. It has no value in itself, but without it, the structure collapses. It cannot be seen or touched, yet it shapes the visible. Itâs a necessary anomaly. An indispensable⊠paradox.â
âAre you trying to solve me?â she interrupted, her tone deep, but without irony this time.
âIâm trying not to corrupt you with my words.â