The classroom was already alive with noise when I walked in.
"Good morning, Yamauchi!"
"Good morning, Ike!"
The two fools greeted each other like children, loud enough for everyone to hear. Ike's grin was wide, Yamauchi's laugh hollow. It had been one week since the entrance ceremony, and they still hadn't learned to mask their desperation.
"Whew, man! I was looking forward to today so much that I barely slept last night!"
"Ah ha ha! This school is just the best! I can't believe that it's almost time for swimming! And when I say swimming, I mean girls. And when I say girls, I mean girls in school swimsuits!"
Their voices carried. The girls flinched, recoiling instinctively, but that only fed their amusement. Such simple creatures—boys who thought lust gave them power.
My eyes drifted toward Ayanokōji. Alone, quiet, watching them with that faint ache of envy in his eyes. He wanted to join, but hesitated, as always. That desire to belong was the only human thing about him.
"Hey, Professor! Come here for a sec!" Ike barked.
Sotomura waddled over, his nickname heavy on his back.
"Professor, can you record the girls wearing their swimsuits for us?"
Pathetic laughter followed. A plan to turn classmates into numbers, into trophies, into fuel for their fragile egos.
Ayanokōji finally spoke, soft, testing the waters. "Record? What are you planning?"
He didn't care about the girls, not really. What he cared about was entry. A chance to slip inside their circle. He was weighing his morality against his loneliness, and I knew which would win.
"Pathetic," Horikita's voice cut in, sharp and cold.
Of course it would be her. Always him and her, orbiting one another. She dismissed him with the same disdain she used on everyone, yet he still clung to her words as though they were oxygen. She was the only one he could talk to, and even she refused to see him as anything but a nuisance.
The scene spiraled into laughter again when Ike called Ayanokōji over. They showed him the spreadsheet: rows of girls' names, ranks, odds, digits. Numbers reducing people to objects.
The others were eager—shouting, betting, cackling over imagined futures with breasts they'd never touch.
Horikita was at the very bottom. Odds stacked against her. In their world, she was worth less than nothing.
And Ayanokōji? He considered the bet. He really considered it.
I leaned back in my chair, unseen, and studied them all.
Ike, so desperate for approval that his voice never stopped.
Yamauchi, so desperate for envy that he fabricated conquests.
Sotomura, so desperate for belonging that he would humiliate others just to stay included.
Horikita, so desperate to stay untouchable that she chained herself to her own pride.
And Ayanokōji… so desperate to remain invisible that he was willing to crawl into the mud with them.
The classroom roared with ugly laughter, their noise filling the air like smoke. The girls turned away in disgust, powerless to stop it.
I watched in silence.
And smiled.
They had no idea how easy they were to unravel
The laughter still rattled around the classroom, hollow and crude, when I rose from my seat.
Horikita's eyes flicked up as I approached. She tried to mask it—tried to look unaffected—but I caught it. That flicker.
"You're quiet," I said, stopping at her desk.
Her gaze sharpened. "…Unlike some people, I don't find this amusing."
My eyes drifted to the boys with their spreadsheet, then back to her. "And yet you watch them."
"I don't."
I leaned down slightly, lowering my voice until it slid beneath her skin. "You do. You watch them, and you hate what you see. Not just because they're disgusting… but because you fear being dragged into their little game. That's why you cling so tightly to your distance. Because the second you step closer, they'll try to reduce you to a number too."
Her hand twitched on the pamphlet, the corner of the page folding under her grip.
"Tell me, Horikita," I murmured, "does it sting more that they put you at the bottom of their list… or that you noticed at all?"
Her lips parted, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but I didn't let her speak.
"You pretend you're untouchable, but you're not. You flinched just now. You cared. And that's what makes you weaker than them."
Her eyes widened, fury flashing there, but beneath it I saw it—that same fracture I'd seen before, when her brother walked into the gym.
"You call them pathetic for chasing approval," I pressed, my tone low and merciless, "but you're no different. You're starving for it too. From your brother. From someone. From anyone who might finally look at you and say you're enough."
Her breath hitched—barely, but it was there.
I leaned closer, my words brushing her like a whisper meant only for her. "But no one ever has, have they?"
Her face flushed red, a mixture of anger and something far more fragile. She slammed her eyes away from me, fists tightening, knuckles white.
"Enough," she snapped. Her voice cracked just slightly at the edge.
I straightened, calm as ever, a faint smile curving my lips. "That's the problem, Horikita. You don't know what 'enough' feels like. And until you do… every crack will spread wider."
I turned, walking past her without another glance, leaving her to choke on the silence.
The cracks were widening. And soon, she wouldn't be able to hide them at all.
____
The classroom's noise carried into the locker rooms, into the pool, into everything. Boys eager, clumsy, radiating desperation like heat.
"All right! The pool!" Ike barked, his voice shaking with anticipation.
They rushed ahead, dragging Ayanokōji with them as though his resistance was only a formality. He followed, of course. He always followed.
In the locker room, Sudou shed his clothes like armor, flaunting muscle built through sweat and arrogance. Ike and Yamauchi laughed too loudly. The Professor waddled behind, burdened with the scheme he thought would grant him importance.
I changed quietly, slowly. The trick was never to hide too much—that drew attention—but to melt into the background, unremarkable, forgettable. No one noticed me watching.
The pool itself gleamed like something from a commercial, clear and pristine. Ike nearly wept at the sight. "Whoa, this school is something else! It's even better than the city pool, don't you think?"
He scanned for girls like a starving dog sniffing meat. "What about the girls? Aren't they here yet?"
Pathetic.
He joked about storming into the locker room. Yamauchi laughed. Even Ayanokōji gave him a deadpan answer, a touch of realism to ground the fantasy. It was the first glimpse of belonging he'd had—slinking closer to the group not out of conviction, but out of desperation. He'd crawl into the mud if it meant standing in their circle.
Then came the twist. The Professor failed his mission. The girls appeared behind him, on the second floor, their eyes sharp, their disgust sharper. Hasebe's disdain cut Ike down instantly. He wailed, collapsed in melodrama. The others tried to revive him with promises of more women, more skin.
It was grotesque theater. I enjoyed it.
Then came the centerpiece. Kushida, radiant, stepping between Ike and Yamauchi as though descending from some stage. Their eyes clung to her body, their breaths caught. Desire made fools of them all.
Even Ayanokōji averted his gaze quickly, as though terrified of betraying himself. Interesting. He pretended at restraint, but the way his muscles tensed, the subtle shift of his eyes… he felt the same pull as the others. He only buried it deeper.
And then, Horikita.
The boys didn't notice her, not truly. But I did. She moved through the water with a quiet sharpness, her school swimsuit drawing out lines of form she pretended not to own. Ayanokōji noticed, of course—though he disguised it as well as he could.
"Why the pained expression?" she asked him, suspicion softening her voice.
"I'm currently in the midst of an internal battle," he replied.
Her gaze lingered. Longer than it should have. She studied him, dissected him with words: his forearms, his back, the contradiction between his words and his body. She knew he wasn't what he seemed.
And he deflected, as always.
Horikita pressed, Kushida joined, the conversation drifted like ripples in water. Horikita withdrew quickly, disinterested, unwilling to let anyone too close.
I watched. Always watching.
Ike floundering in lust. Yamauchi weaving false bravado. The Professor scrambling for validation. Kushida dancing in the light of their admiration. Ayanokōji hiding in plain sight, torn between invisibility and the need to belong. Horikita trying so hard to appear untouchable while her eyes betrayed her curiosity.
And me, sitting at the edge of it all.
It was perfect.
Because every one of them was revealing themselves—and they didn't even know it
The pool buzzed with chatter, laughter, and thinly veiled lust. Ike still groaned on the tiles about his "lost chance," Yamauchi patted him on the back, the Professor sulked, Kushida basked in her orbit of admirers.
I slipped away from the noise, tracing my steps along the pool's edge until I reached the quieter end. That's where she stood—Horikita. Still dripping from the water, arms folded, her expression cool and rigid as ever. She thought she was untouchable here.
Perfect.
"Interesting," I murmured just loud enough for her to hear.
Her head turned sharply. "What do you want?"
"You," I said simply, though my tone was casual, almost dismissive. "You stood there watching Ayanokōji as much as he watched you. You noticed the way his body betrayed him, didn't you? How curious—you're more observant than the rest of them."
Her brows drew tight. "Don't lump me in with those idiots."
I stepped closer, the water shimmering between us. "I don't. That's the point. You see more. You measure more. The way you looked at him… at Kushida… it wasn't disdain alone. It was calculation."
She clenched her jaw, turning away slightly. "You're imagining things."
I let out a quiet laugh, low and soft, as though indulging a child. "No. I saw it. Just as I saw the way your eyes lingered on your brother at the club fair. Reverence, awe… and now this—your instinct to dissect, to compare, to prove you aren't beneath them. You think no one notices. But I notice."
Her shoulders stiffened. She forced herself to meet my gaze. "You speak too much."
"Perhaps. But only the truth makes people flinch like that." I leaned in just a fraction, letting my voice lower, blade-sharp. "Tell me, Horikita Suzune… do you watch them because you wish to surpass them? Or because you fear you never will?"
The words hung heavy. Her grip on her towel tightened, knuckles white.
"Enough," she whispered, trying to steady her tone. But the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
I smiled faintly, serene, as though satisfied with the experiment's result. "Yes… that's it. You can't hide it, not from me."
I turned away before she could fire back, leaving her in silence, the sound of the pool echoing around her.
Because the cracks I'd opened were already there. All I had to do was widen them.
——-
POV horikita
I watched his back as he walked away.
That smile of his… irritating. Condescending. As though he had seen something in me that I hadn't intended anyone to notice.
Reverence? Awe? Nonsense. I don't admire my brother. I don't admire anyone. I simply acknowledge ability where I see it. That's all. That's all it has ever been.
And yet… his words replay in my head, curling like smoke I can't breathe away.
Do you watch them because you wish to surpass them?
Or because you fear you never will?
Ridiculous. I don't fear anyone. Fear is weakness. And weakness is unacceptable.
…So why did my chest tighten when he said it? Why did my hand clutch the towel harder, as though to anchor myself?
I hate this. I hate that someone I barely know can speak as though he understands me. That calm voice, those steady eyes… as if he's peeling me apart without effort.
I won't let him.
I won't tremble under anyone's gaze—not my brother's, not Ayanokōji's, and certainly not his.
I'll prove it.
Even if I have to burn myself hollow in the process.
——
POV Johan
"All right, everyone, line up!"
The PE teacher's voice carried like a whip crack, pulling the class together with practiced ease. A broad-chested man, brimming with athletic vigor, the kind of figure people instinctively trusted—or feared. Authority wrapped in muscle.
"There are sixteen of you, huh? I thought there would've been more, but this is all right."
He didn't scold those who skipped. Interesting. Already this school revealed itself—no wasted energy on the unwilling. If you failed, it was by your own hand. A rule I understood all too well.
As the warmups began, my gaze drifted.
Ike, practically bouncing out of his skin, stole glances at every girl who stretched. A fool blinded by desire, yet utterly predictable. Beside him, Yamauchi matched his grin, both of them tethered together in their little world of lust and idiocy.
And then Ayanokōji. Always watching, always calculating, even as he slipped into their rhythm. He smiled when they smiled, frowned when they frowned. Mimicry, nothing more. He didn't belong among them, and yet… he tried. Not for pleasure, but for camouflage. That much was obvious.
The teacher set the challenge: fifty-meter races, points on the line, punishment for the weak. The sound of groans mixed with cheers, already dividing them into predators and prey.
The girls went first.
"Kushida-chan, Kushida-chan, Kushida-chan, Kushida-chan, Kushida-chan!" Ike's voice cracked with desperation, chanting her name like prayer.
I almost laughed. So utterly consumed, so pathetically transparent.
But my eyes weren't on Kushida. They were on Horikita.
She stood at the starting line, poised, controlled, her movements stripped of hesitation. And when the whistle blew, she sliced into the water with precision, her strokes measured, economical. She didn't thrash or fight against it; she commanded it, her body cutting clean paths where others floundered.
Twenty-eight seconds. Efficient. Controlled. She climbed out without a hint of strain, refusing to acknowledge the cheers tossed her way. The boys' eyes weren't on her form, not really—they were glued to the curve of her hips, the shape of her chest, the droplets on her skin. They reduced her to flesh.
But she was more than flesh. She was steel disguised as porcelain.
Still… even steel bends.
"Wow! Awesome, Horikita!" someone shouted.
She ignored it, as expected.
And then Kushida. Her entrance was met with roaring approval, her smile pulling them in like a siren's call. Not the fastest swimmer—thirty-one seconds—but speed was irrelevant. She won without winning, owned the crowd without effort.
I let my eyes slide back to Horikita.
Second place. But in her world, it may as well have been last. To stand just short of victory—just short of what her brother might expect—was its own punishment.
I stepped back, silent, letting the boys holler and the girls scowl at the attention.
Ayanokōji drifted toward her, attempting conversation in his quiet, awkward way. She tolerated him. Barely. He pretended to care about her placement. She pretended to dismiss it. A fragile truce, a balancing act neither wanted to name.
Sudou boasted beside them, his body screaming dominance, his ego inflated by muscle. He would win, of course. And everyone else would fall into place, ranked, measured, exposed.
This school was stripping them already—skin, pride, weakness, all laid bare in chlorine and sunlight.
I sat quietly at the edge, watching.
Because that was all it took. Watch long enough, and every fracture revealed itself.
And Horikita Suzune's, I thought, was already starting to spread.
The whistle blew, and the boys hurled themselves into the water. Sudō cut through it like a blade, the others thrashing in his wake. Ayanokōji swam with deliberate restraint, keeping his pace measured—never first, never last.
The class roared, voices echoing through the pool. All eyes were on the boys.
Except mine.
Horikita stood apart, arms folded tightly, posture sharp as steel. Her hair clung damply to her neck, droplets still sliding down her skin from her own race. She didn't bask in the memory of her performance, nor did she hide it. She simply existed in silence, second place trailing her like a shadow.
I stepped beside her, letting my voice slip in low.
"You swam well."
Her head tilted, just slightly—enough to register surprise. "…That's obvious."
"Yes," I agreed softly. "Obvious. Efficient. Confident. You broke ahead, and for a moment you made them believe you couldn't be touched." I leaned in the faintest fraction, voice a knife cloaked in silk. "And then you were."
Her jaw tightened.
"Second place," I continued, as though reciting a fact from a textbook. "Not a failure. Not a victory. Just… second. Always close enough to taste what you want, never close enough to claim it."
She turned sharply, eyes narrowing into steel. "What are you trying to say?"
"That second place is crueler than last," I murmured. "Last means you were never capable to begin with. Second means you were. But not enough."
Her fingers curled against her arm, the damp pamphlet of her earlier nerves still clutched in her grip.
"Onodera stood above you today," I said, gaze fixed on the pool as if the words weren't meant to cut. "Just as your brother does every time he enters a room. Tell me, Horikita—" I looked back at her, my smile faint, deliberate. "How long will you stand in the shadows of those stronger than you?"
Her breath hitched, a flicker she tried to bury behind her scowl.
The crowd erupted as Sudō slammed into the wall, triumphant. Laughter and cheers filled the air, drowning her silence.
I didn't need her answer.
It was already written in her clenched fists
——-
The final bell rang, and the classroom scattered like startled birds. Laughter spilled into the hallways, footsteps pounding toward cafés, arcades, the promise of anything but silence.
I didn't join them.
My pace was slow, deliberate, as I stepped into the evening air. The sky was bruised with fading light, the dormitories looming ahead like a quiet cage waiting to shut for the night.
One week. That's all it had been. A handful of classes, a swim, a scattering of meaningless conversations… and already the cracks were spreading.
Horikita Suzune walked with her chin high, as though every step demanded control. Yet I'd seen it: the way her gaze faltered in her brother's shadow, the way her knuckles whitened at second place. Pride is brittle when it knows it's fragile.
Ayanokōji remained the opposite—blending, dissolving, hiding in plain sight. His performance at the pool had been deliberate, too careful. Not weak, not strong. Just enough. A man who erases himself before the world can write him down.
And the rest… children, chasing noise, chasing bodies, chasing bonds that will rot the moment pressure tightens around them.
I walked past them all, their voices fading, their laughter already meaningless.
Soon, they would stop laughing.
Soon, the walls they think protect them would start to close in.
And when they look for someone to hold on to—when Horikita looks for someone—what they'll find waiting is me.
I slipped my hands into my pockets, my reflection faint in the dormitory glass doors.
It was only the first week.
And already, I could hear the sound of breaking
The dormitory was quiet by the time I returned. A few muted voices drifted from the lounge, laughter forced and shallow, but it all blurred into nothing once I shut my door behind me.
Silence.
I sat on the edge of my bed, letting the stillness settle. The day replayed in fragments—her sharp voice in the classroom, her cold glare by the pool, the flicker of unease when I named what she refused to admit.
Horikita Suzune.
She wears solitude like armor, convinced it makes her untouchable. But today I saw the truth beneath it. A girl clawing upward, desperate to prove herself, yet haunted by the knowledge that she is not enough. Second place wasn't just a result—it was a revelation. She could pretend otherwise to the class, even to herself, but she couldn't hide it from me. Not from me.
Her pride is brittle. One strike and it splinters.
And her brother… That shadow looms over everything she does. She doesn't hate him; no, hatred would be easier. She reveres him. She measures herself against him, even as the weight of his existence crushes her. It's pathetic, really—how admiration and inadequacy can bind tighter than chains.
That's why she trembled when I spoke. Not because I lied, but because I named what she spends her every waking moment denying.
She is fragile. Yet she believes she is strong.
That contradiction is delicious.
Ayanokōji hides in silence. Hirata drowns in false brightness. Ike and Yamauchi lose themselves in vulgarity. But Horikita? She burns herself alive just to cast a shadow as tall as her brother's.
And when that fire goes out—when her illusion of control finally collapses—what will remain?
I leaned back, closing my eyes, a faint smile tugging at my lips.
Suzune, you think yourself unbreakable.
But I will prove otherwise.
You'll shatter.
And I'll be there to watch every moment of it.