Third period. History.
The room buzzed with meaningless chatter, students tossing jokes and nicknames like children desperate to make each other laugh. They called her Sae-chan-sensei as she entered, like her presence was nothing more than a novelty. Pathetic.
"Quiet down a little, please. Today's lesson will be a bit serious."
Her voice cut faintly through the noise, not enough to command them—only enough to dampen it. She handed out papers, the weight of the test spreading desk by desk.
A simple test. Or so they thought.
I accepted the sheet without interest, setting it neatly on my desk. Twenty questions, five subjects. To the others, it was either a burden or a relief. To me, it was irrelevant. Still, watching how they responded—that was where the truth was revealed.
Ike slumped in his chair, already whining.
Yamauchi scratched his head, muttering excuses before even reading.
Sotomura squinted as though his glasses might transform him into someone intelligent.
The noise of mediocrity.
But then—Horikita.
Her eyes sharpened the moment the paper touched her desk. She didn't hesitate. Her pen moved swiftly, decisively, striking answers as though she had rehearsed them a thousand times. She was aiming for nothing less than perfection. Not for points. Not even for recognition. It was a battle she fought with herself. A desperate need to prove she was not small, not weak, not left behind in her brother's shadow.
Her strokes were too sharp, her movements too rigid. She wasn't solving problems—she was trying to kill them.
Then there was Ayanokōji.
He looked at the sheet with the same dull expression he always wore, like a boy half-asleep, half-forgotten. But when he reached the final questions—the ones slipped in like traps—his pencil moved with quiet precision. No hesitation. No pause. No visible strain. He solved them as though they were children's riddles. And when he finished, his expression hadn't changed at all. Blank. Invisible.
Horikita, straining toward perfection.
Ayanokōji, hiding inside it.
It was beautiful.
The teacher prowled the aisles, her gaze heavy with suspicion, warning them against cheating. As if any of these children had the courage for that kind of sin. They sweated, they sighed, they whispered under their breath, but none dared step outside the lines.
None, except the two of them. Horikita and Ayanokōji—they weren't inside the teacher's game at all. She was measuring scraps, and they were measuring each other.
I rested my chin on my hand, watching in silence. My test lay untouched. I didn't need it. Their answers told me more than any paper could.
The bell rang. Pens dropped. Relief washed across the classroom.
Except for Horikita—who remained tense, as though a perfect score would never be enough.
Except for Ayanokōji—who leaned back, indifferent, as though the entire exercise had been a bore.
The contrast was intoxicating.
Suzune, desperate to climb.
Kiyotaka, desperate to stay buried.
Both were shackled in their own ways. Both would break.
And when they did… I would be there to watch.
To guide.
To push.
To see what remained when their masks fell away.
——-
The morning bell rang, the first of May, and the classroom carried its usual dull chaos.
Chiyabashira-sensei entered with a rolled-up poster under her arm, her expression as severe as ever.
"Hey, sensei, did you start menopause or something?" Ike blurted.
The class laughed, some nervously, some openly. I didn't laugh. I watched. Because the most disturbing part wasn't Ike's vulgarity—it was how easily he voiced what half the room had been thinking. That's the thing about fools: they wear their impulses on their tongues.
"All right, your morning homeroom is about to begin. Before we get started, does anyone have any questions? If so, now is the time to speak."
The moment she offered, hands shot up. As expected. Even cornered animals demand scraps.
Hondou raised the obvious point first—where were the monthly deposits? His balance had not changed. I already knew mine hadn't either, but I said nothing. Watching was better. Always better.
Chiyabashira-sensei's voice turned sharp: "Are you kids really that dumb?"
Dumb. Yes. But that wasn't the right word. They weren't dumb—they were blind. They heard promises but never the conditions, never the traps. They assumed comfort was guaranteed because comfort was all they'd ever known.
And then, Kouenji. The peacock. He declared the truth with his usual flamboyance: We're Class D. That's why we received nothing.
He was mocked at first, but then—confirmation. Chiyabashira-sensei praised him, however begrudgingly. The room erupted in chaos. Students panicked, clung to each other's voices, demanded fairness. As if fairness was ever real.
Hirata, naturally, stepped forward. Polite, clear, the voice of reason. The perfect leader in a cage of frightened animals. "Could you explain why we didn't receive points?" he asked, for all of them.
Chiyabashira laid it out coldly: ninety-eight absences and tardies. Hundreds of disruptions. Talking in class. Cell phones. One month wasted. All of it translated to zero points.
I looked around. The dawning horror on their faces was exquisite. Yamauchi's jaw slack. Ike shaking his head, muttering, no way. Even Sudou, usually so loud, fell quiet.
But Horikita—she didn't panic. She wrote. Pen to paper, tallying every infraction, calculating the class's failures. She wanted the numbers. She wanted the truth. Not because she cared about the others. No—because she wanted to rise above them. Her pride couldn't bear being lumped into defective Class D.
Beautiful, Suzune. Even your outrage is selfish.
Meanwhile, Ayanokōji sat quietly, almost too quiet. His eyes flicked to the board, to the teacher, then away again. He didn't panic. He didn't calculate like Horikita. He just absorbed. Detached. As though he had already known.
And maybe he had.
The class writhed like worms in salt. They begged for rules, asked how points were tallied, pleaded for guidance. Chiyabashira gave them nothing. Just enough cruelty to break their illusions, just enough ambiguity to let despair fester.
"You are the worst of the worst. Defective."
The word hung in the air. Defective.
The others hated it. Their faces twisted with shame, with anger. Horikita's eyes hardened into blades. Sudou slammed his desk. Hirata's calm mask cracked just slightly.
But me? I smiled.
Because in that one word, Chiyabashira revealed the game.
We weren't equals here. We weren't students. We were products. Sorted, ranked, discarded if unworthy.
And in that system, watching Class D struggle, betray, and destroy itself would be more entertaining than anything else this school could offer.
When Chiyabashira rolled out the poster—points, ranks, A through D—the truth solidified. Zero for us. Hundreds for them. Nearly a thousand for Class A. Order, clean and simple. The hierarchy of power, printed in neat black ink.
Horikita looked at it like she'd been slapped. She hated it. She would climb, she decided. She would drag herself up the ladder if it killed her.
But Ayanokōji? He leaned back, eyes half-lidded. Not surprised. Not angry. Almost…relieved.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Yes. This was going to be fun.
Class D was already rotting. And I? I only had to watch which cracks spread first.
"Now then, I have one more bit of bad news to share with you all."
She pinned a sheet to the blackboard, neat columns of names and numbers. One look told me what it was. Test results. A list that pretended to measure worth.
The air shifted instantly. Nervous laughter, whispered prayers. They stared at the page as though their lives hinged on it. In this school, perhaps they did.
"Judging from these, I can see that we've quite a few idiots in this class."
Her eyes swept the room, landing on the weakest. Ike, Sudou, Hondou—boys who grinned to hide their panic. She rattled off their scores like a judge handing down sentences. Fourteen, twenty-four, thirty-one. Numbers that meant shame, humiliation.
I let my gaze drift upward, searching for my name. There it was. At the bottom. Zero.
Not because I failed. Because I never wrote a single word.
A murmur rippled through the class. Heads turned toward me, a few smothered laughs, a few wide eyes. Even the teacher's brow furrowed for a fleeting moment, before she smoothed it back into indifference.
Perfect.
They didn't understand. They never would. To them, a zero meant stupidity, weakness, a lack of effort. To me, it was purity. Freedom. I had stepped outside their system entirely. While they clawed for points, terrified of red lines and expulsions, I had proven that none of it mattered.
"If this were an actual test, then seven of you would've had to drop out," Chiyabashira continued, her voice slicing through the tension.
I could feel Horikita's gaze. Sharp, questioning. Her hand tightened on her pen as though she wanted to demand an answer—why—but she didn't ask. Not yet.
"Don't joke about kicking us out!" Ike wailed, thrashing in desperation. The others joined in, a chorus of the condemned.
Chiyabashira silenced them with a glance. "Frankly, I'm also at a loss. These are the school rules. You should prepare for the worst."
The red line sat there, a border between survival and erasure. And there I was, not merely below it, but beneath them all.
To everyone else, it was a mark of death. To me, it was a throne.
I leaned back in my chair, calm, letting their panic wash over me. Ike's whining. Sudou's curse. Yukimura's outrage. Kouenji's arrogance. Ayanokōji's silence. All of it swirled around me like insects buzzing against glass.
They couldn't see it yet. But their world was already beginning to fracture
The break after homeroom was less a pause and more a collapse into chaos.
"If we don't get any more points, what am I gonna do?"
"I used up all of mine yesterday…"
Panic echoed across the room. The greedy children, stripped of their allowance, suddenly found themselves destitute. Their despair was ugly, loud, and so very predictable.
"Forget about the points. What the hell about this class? Why was I put into Class D?!" Yukimura's voice cracked with resentment, sweat dripping down his forehead as if he'd just been condemned.
The others echoed him—fear, rage, self-pity. Hirata stood, trying to stem the tide. "Everyone needs to calm down."
They couldn't. They wouldn't. Chaos was the natural state of people when the walls of their comfort closed in.
"Hey, Johan," a voice called from across the room. Yamauchi, red in the face, looking for someone to drag down with him. "You got a big fat zero on that test, right? What the hell was that? You trying to screw the class over or something?"
A few others perked up at that, their eyes turning toward me with suspicion, curiosity, even ridicule.
Zero. To them, it was failure incarnate. To me, it was liberation.
I smiled faintly, tilting my head. "Perhaps," I said softly, my tone unreadable. "Or perhaps it was the most honest answer on the page."
That shut Yamauchi up. Not because he understood, but because he didn't. Confusion works better than confrontation.
Kushida tried smoothing things over, inserting herself like a balm between Yukimura and Hirata. Her voice dripped sincerity, pulling them back from the brink. Even their anger bent easily in her hands. A pretty face and a kind smile could do what logic never would.
The class calmed—if panic can be called calm.
Meanwhile, Horikita sat beside me, pen scratching quietly across her notebook, recording numbers, tracing patterns. She wasn't panicking. She was calculating. That alone made her different. That alone made her interesting.
The talk turned to strategy, Hirata's voice rising at the front. He begged for cooperation, for order, for self-restraint. His words were good, too good—almost rehearsed. Yet the cracks showed quickly. Sudou snarled, refusing to play along. The room trembled again, his footsteps hammering the floor as he left.
The others cursed him, condemning him as the class's dead weight. They were right. And yet, they were blind to the truth: he was just louder than the rest. They would all drag this class down, given enough time.
Hirata turned to me, to Horikita. "I want to speak with you about how we can increase our points. Will you join me?"
Horikita refused him flatly, her cold dismissal a blade across his idealism. I watched Hirata's expression falter, though he quickly disguised it. He turned to me instead.
"What about you, Johan?"
Every head nearby shifted slightly, as though waiting to see what the boy with zero on his test would say.
I gave him the same faint smile I had offered Yamauchi. "No. I'll pass." My tone carried no malice, only detachment. "But I wish you luck."
Hirata nodded, understanding too much or perhaps too little. He moved on.
The classroom quieted again, settling into an uneasy rhythm. Some clung to hope, others muttered in despair.
I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes.
Points. Rankings. Class A, B, C, D. None of it mattered. They would fight, argue, scheme for scraps of value defined by someone else. And I? I would watch them. Gently nudge, carefully pull. Until one day, they would all look back and realize that the collapse began not with the school, not with the teacher—
—but with the boy who wrote nothing.
The uproar dragged on, but I'd already heard enough. Pointless shouting, fragile unity, Hirata's hollow optimism. Nothing of substance remained.
So I stood, quietly, and slipped out of the classroom. No one stopped me. No one even noticed.
Almost no one.
The echo of soft footsteps followed down the corridor, steady and deliberate.
"Johan," Horikita's voice cut through, firm and without hesitation. I turned slightly, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were sharp, suspicious, the eyes of someone who demanded answers.
"You didn't write anything on the test, did you?" she asked. "You got a zero. Why?"
She didn't ask like Yamauchi had — with mockery and fear. She asked like she needed to know, like the question itself gnawed at her.
I smiled faintly, the kind of smile that offered nothing. "Because that was the result I wanted."
Her brows knitted. "Wanted? Are you telling me you failed on purpose?"
"Fail," I repeated softly, as if testing the weight of the word. "It depends on how you define success, doesn't it? The class saw numbers, the teacher saw order. I saw…something else."
"That doesn't make sense," she said. Her voice was firm, but underneath it, there was something else — unease.
"Doesn't it?" I tilted my head, studying her. "You wrote every answer, didn't you? Your pen didn't stop moving. You sought perfection. I sought nothing. And yet, here we stand…both of us, still in Class D."
She stiffened at that, as though the words had slipped past her defenses.
"I'll ask you again," she pressed, her tone sharper now. "Why?"
I let the silence stretch, watching the conflict in her eyes. Then I leaned in slightly, my voice calm, almost gentle.
"Because sometimes, Horikita…nothing is far more terrifying than everything."
Her eyes widened just a fraction. She didn't understand, not fully — but she felt the weight of it.
And that was enough.
I straightened, offering her that same faint smile before turning away, leaving her standing in the quiet hallway, caught between suspicion and something she couldn't quite name.
Her voice followed me before my steps could carry me far.
"Wait."
I stopped. Not because I needed to — but because I wanted to see how far she would go.
Horikita's shoes clicked softly against the floor as she closed the distance. She stood just behind me, her words clipped, precise. "I don't like riddles. Answer me properly. Why would you deliberately fail? What are you planning?"
I turned to face her. Her gaze didn't waver. Impressive. Many people looked away the moment my eyes touched theirs.
"Planning?" I echoed, tilting my head. "Isn't that what you're doing, Horikita? You, who tallies infractions in your little notebook. You, who calculates how to climb higher while the others drown in noise."
Her grip on her schoolbag tightened. "Don't change the subject."
"I'm not." My voice was calm, unhurried. "You're asking me why I chose zero. I'm asking you why you chose perfection."
She flinched, just slightly — so slight most wouldn't notice. But I saw it.
"…Because unlike you, I actually intend to rise above Class D," she said, voice edged with steel.
I let silence fall between us, then stepped closer. Just enough for her to feel the weight of it.
"And yet," I whispered, "your perfect score means nothing here. You remain in Class D. You remain shackled to those you despise. Tell me, Horikita…wasn't your perfection just as meaningless as my zero?"
Her lips parted, but no sound came. For the briefest moment, her eyes faltered.
Good.
"You…" she forced out at last, her voice lower now, strained. "You're mocking me."
I smiled faintly. "No. I'm showing you the truth you refuse to see. That your struggle, your pride, your desperate chase after your brother's shadow…is as empty as a blank page."
Her breath caught. She tried to steady it, but the cracks were there.
"You don't know anything about me," she spat.
"Don't I?" I asked softly.
The corridor was quiet, the world narrowed down to just her and me — her sharp defenses fraying, my quiet words pressing deeper.
And then I stepped back, turning away once more, as though the conversation had already ended on my terms.
"You wanted an answer, Horikita. That was it."
Her breath was still uneven, but she forced her posture straight. "You're wrong. My score proves my ability. Unlike you, I actually—"
I stepped forward again, quicker this time. She faltered, caught off guard by how close I now stood.
"Ability?" I murmured. "Do you think Manabu will applaud you for perfect marks? Do you think he'll finally look at you and see more than a shadow?"
Her pupils tightened. I could almost hear the sharp thump of her heartbeat.
"Don't bring my brother into this." Her tone cracked, brittle despite her attempt to steady it.
I ignored her command, leaning in just enough for my words to slip past her defenses. "Every answer you scribbled onto that test, every fact you've memorized, every desperate attempt to climb out of this pit…all of it is a cry for his recognition. And still, he doesn't see you. He never will."
Her hand twitched, fingers curling, as if she might lash out. But violence wasn't her way. She restrained herself — barely.
"You think you know everything, but you don't," she whispered.
"I know enough." My tone remained calm, surgical. "I know that when you looked at him in the gymnasium, your eyes weren't filled with hatred. They were filled with fear. Fear of being compared. Fear of being measured and found lacking. Fear of being…invisible."
Her breathing quickened. For all her pride, her composure, I could see it: the fractures widening.
"You…" She swallowed hard, her voice breaking for the first time. "You're twisting things."
"No," I said softly, my smile faint, unrelenting. "I'm just holding up the mirror. And you don't like what you see."
The silence that followed was heavier than any scream.
She took a half-step back — a retreat disguised as defiance — and turned her head away, unable to meet my eyes.
"Get out of my sight," she muttered.
I didn't move at first. I let the silence linger, pressing the weight of her own words against her. Then I tilted my head, watching her with quiet amusement.
"You'll chase perfection until it destroys you, Horikita. And when it does…" I let the thought trail off, my smile deepening ever so slightly. "…I'll be there to watch."
I stepped past her, my presence brushing against hers like a knife sliding across skin, and walked away — leaving her frozen, trembling, and utterly exposed.
——
"Ayanokouji-kun, from first-year Class D. Please come see Chiyabashira-sensei in the faculty office."
"…And Johan Liebert, from first-year Class D. You as well. Please come to the faculty office immediately."
I hadn't hurried to the faculty office when they called my name. The hallways were crowded, filled with idle chatter and restless footsteps, but I moved through it all unbothered, as though none of it touched me.
When I finally reached the office, the door was slightly ajar. Voices drifted out — one calm, measured, the other playful, almost too playful. I pushed the door open.
Inside, Ayanokōji stood by a desk, stiff, caught in the grip of a teacher with wavy hair and a smile too bright. Hoshinomiya Chie. Her hand traced his cheek with a familiarity that didn't belong to a teacher.
She didn't notice me at first. She was too absorbed in him.
"Hmm? If we were in the same class, I'd never leave you alone," she teased, her voice syrupy.
Ayanokōji looked as though he'd rather disappear. He didn't pull away, but his eyes — detached, calculating — betrayed nothing.
Then I stepped forward.
Her hand froze. The sound of my shoes on the tile was soft, but it was enough. She turned, startled, her cheeks coloring.
"Ah… Johan-kun? From Class D?" Her voice wavered as she quickly pulled her hand back, tucking it against her side as if she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't.
"Yes," I said smoothly, offering her a polite smile. "I was called here, too. I hope I'm not interrupting something… private."
The silence that followed was delicious. Ayanokōji gave no reaction, his composure unshaken. Hoshinomiya, however, faltered, her charm cracking just slightly beneath the weight of my gaze.
"Sensei," I added gently, tilting my head, "you're very warm with your students. It's admirable."
The compliment was wrapped in silk, but it pressed like a blade. She laughed awkwardly, her eyes darting between me and Ayanokōji, suddenly unsure of herself.
And I stood there, calm, smiling — watching how easily the atmosphere bent, how a single interruption could shift power from her hands into mine.
Her nervous laugh still lingered in the room when I stepped closer, unhurried.
"You must be Hoshinomiya-sensei," I said softly, my eyes meeting hers with the same calm precision I'd use to study a fragile glass. "I can see why you're so popular among the students. You have… a certain charm."
She blinked, caught off guard, her lips parting. "O-oh? Johan-kun, you flatter me. You're smoother than I expected."
I smiled faintly, tilting my head. "I only speak the truth. Your presence… it's disarming. If you keep smiling at us that way, I doubt any boy in this school could pay attention to class. Myself included."
Her face flushed a delicate shade of pink. She lifted a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, a small, almost girlish gesture. "You're quite the talker, aren't you? That's not very typical of Class D students."
"Class labels don't define everything, Sensei," I murmured. My tone was light, teasing, but with just enough weight to sink in. "You of all people should know that."
For a moment, the playful teacher who'd toyed with Ayanokōji seemed rattled — because now, she was the one being toyed with.
Behind us, Ayanokōji remained silent, but his eyes flicked to me briefly — measuring, calculating, perhaps curious why I'd chosen to step into the game at all.
I turned my gaze back to Hoshinomiya and let my smile widen, just slightly.
"If I'd been in Class B under your guidance," I said, lowering my voice as though sharing a secret, "I think I'd have never wanted to leave your side, either."
Her laugh was softer this time, a little breathless. "Y-you're terrible, Johan-kun. If you keep talking like that, I might start believing you."
"That's the danger, isn't it?" I replied smoothly.
The air between us shifted — playful on the surface, but with an undertone that left her unsettled.
Hoshinomiya's hand lingered near her cheek, as if she were trying to cool herself from a sudden heat. Her eyes darted away, then back to mine. A teacher, yes — but at this moment, she looked more like a flustered girl caught in a game she hadn't prepared for.
I closed the small distance between us, not too close to be improper, but close enough that she could feel my presence. My voice dropped lower, smooth and deliberate.
"You said Sae-chan is your best friend, didn't you? Then maybe I should keep a secret from her."
Her breath caught. "…A secret?"
"That I find her best friend far more captivating than I should." I let the words hang between us, light as a whisper yet sharp as a blade.
Her lips parted again, and she gave a nervous laugh that betrayed her composure. "J-Johan-kun… You can't say things like that. I'm your teacher, you know?"
"Of course. That's what makes it all the more dangerous," I replied smoothly, my smile unwavering. "But dangerous things… are often the most tempting."
The red flush on her cheeks deepened, and for a brief moment, her hand twitched as though she might push me away — but instead, she gripped the hem of her skirt, grounding herself.
Behind us, Ayanokōji's eyes narrowed slightly, though he remained a silent observer.
I leaned just enough so only she could hear, my tone like silk. "If I told you I'd keep this moment between us… would you believe me?"
Her pulse was practically visible at her neck. She laughed again, this time softer, shakier. "…You're dangerous, Johan-kun. Very dangerous."
Before I could reply — click.
The door swung open.
Chiyabashira-sensei stepped in, her sharp eyes scanning the room, immediately catching sight of the space between us.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "…What exactly are you doing, Hoshinomiya?"
Hoshinomiya nearly jumped, quickly stepping back, her hands behind her back like a child caught misbehaving. "S-Sae-chan! Oh, nothing at all! Just, uh, talking to your students. Giving them a warm welcome!"
I straightened, my expression unbothered, polite even. "We were just passing the time while waiting for you, Sensei."
For a second, Chiyabashira's sharp gaze lingered on me — as if she could sense the faint trace of mischief under my calm tone — then shifted to Hoshinomiya, who avoided her eyes completely.
The tension was broken, but the look Hoshinomiya shot me when Chiyabashira turned away was telling: part warning, part… something else.
Chiyabashira's heels clicked against the floor as she crossed the room, her sharp gaze sweeping between us. Her eyes lingered on Hoshinomiya for only a second before snapping to me.
"…Hoshinomiya might be reckless, but she's not careless," she said coolly, her tone a blade honed to a fine edge. "Which means if something improper is happening here, it's because you provoked it."
The silence that followed was thick. Hoshinomiya stiffened, about to protest, but I spoke first.
"Provoked?" I tilted my head, smiling faintly, as if I hadn't the faintest idea what she meant. "Sensei, you wound me. All I did was wait patiently, as you asked of us. If your colleague chooses to pass the time with conversation, should I refuse her?"
My calmness only seemed to fuel her irritation. Her eyes narrowed. "Your tone is too smooth for a first-year. Too deliberate. It doesn't suit a child."
I let the words wash over me, then leaned back slightly, folding my arms. "Or perhaps, Sensei, it unsettles you because I don't behave like the others in your class. Because I don't scramble for approval. Because I don't flinch when you bare your fangs."
Her lips pressed tighter. For a heartbeat, the air between us felt electric.
Behind her, Hoshinomiya gave a small, nervous laugh, trying to defuse the tension. "S-Sae-chan, come on. Don't be so harsh. He's just a kid, after all…"
"Just a kid?" Chiyabashira cut her off without looking, her gaze still locked on me. "No. This one isn't just anything. He's hiding something."
I smiled then — calm, serene, unreadable — and offered no defense. The best way to feed suspicion is to deny it; the best way to deepen it is to remain perfectly at ease.
Her eyes flickered, a glint of recognition, or maybe unease.
"…Stay seated," she ordered finally, tearing her gaze away with visible effort. "Both of you. There are things we need to discuss."
As she turned toward her desk, Hoshinomiya let out the breath she'd been holding, her shoulders slumping in relief. She dared one quick glance at me, her expression a mix of fluster and warning — don't push further.
But I only gave her the faintest smile in return, as if to say: It's already too late
While I wondered what this was all about, I followed Chiyabashira-sensei down the hall. Her clipped stride, her rigid back, the aura of authority—she radiated severity so thick it almost demanded silence.
And yet, Hoshinomiya-sensei remained glued to my side, smiling like the sun itself, playful and far too close for someone who should have known boundaries.
Chiyabashira-sensei stopped abruptly, turning with the face of a demon.
"You stay," she ordered, her voice sharp, her eyes burning straight into Hoshinomiya.
"Come on, don't be so cold! It won't be the end of the world if I listen, right? Besides, Sae-chan, you're definitely not the type to give one-on-one guidance. Pulling a new student like Ayanokouji-kun into the guidance room out of nowhere…" She leaned forward, her grin widening as her hand brushed my shoulder, soft, deliberate. "…Are you after something, I wonder?"
Her words dripped mischief, but her fingers told another story. The teasing pressure on my arm was casual enough to pass as harmless—but the way she lingered, the way her eyes darted sideways at me—she wanted to see how I'd respond.
I tilted my head just slightly, offering her a smile as light as a whisper, my voice calm, almost amused.
"Careful, sensei. People might think you're the one being reckless here."
Her grip tightened just faintly, the curve of her lips deepening as though I'd just fed her appetite. She scooted behind me and placed both hands on my shoulders, her breath close enough to stir the back of my neck.
"So, Sae-chan," she purred, her tone wicked, "are you looking to be dominated by a younger man?"
I caught the words, but more than that, I caught the way she leaned into me when she said them, pressing just enough that it could be excused as playful… or not.
Chiyabashira-sensei's scowl darkened.
"Don't say such stupid things. That wouldn't be possible."
"Hee, you're certainly right. It wouldn't be possible for you, Sae-chan." Hoshinomiya muttered the words like a dagger dipped in honey, all while letting her nails lightly graze my shoulder before retreating.
My smile lingered. The exchange between them was almost too entertaining. One woman, bound by discipline, iron rules, and pride. The other, untethered, free, hungry for reactions. And me? Standing perfectly still between them, letting myself become the center of gravity without lifting a finger.
"Why are you following us? This is a Class D matter."
"Huh? I can't go to the guidance room? That's not okay? Come on, I can give advice, too."
Her tone was childish, but her eyes weren't. She looked at me like she was testing how far she could push. And I? I didn't stop her. If anything, I let my silence invite her closer.
Just then, another voice cut through the tension. A female student approached—striking, with light pink hair and an elegance that instantly separated her from the rest.
"Hoshinomiya-sensei, do you have a moment? The student council wishes to discuss something with you."
Her gaze brushed over me briefly before returning to the teacher.
"All right, you have someone who needs you. Get to it."
Chiyabashira smacked Hoshinomiya's backside with her clipboard. The sharp slap! echoed down the hall.
"Aw!" Hoshinomiya squealed, then winked at me. "She'll get mad at me if I hang around any longer. See you later, Johan-kun. All right, Ichinose-san. Let's go to the faculty office."
Her departure was sudden, but not without flair—her heels clicking, her laughter trailing behind her, and the faint memory of her hands still resting on my shoulders.
Chiyabashira scratched her head, visibly exasperated, then resumed walking. I followed her into the guidance room, calm as ever, the taste of amusement still lingering on my tongue
Hoshinomiya-sensei's laughter lingered in the corridor long after she disappeared with the pink-haired girl. Her handprints, her perfume, even the playful sparkle in her eyes—it all still clung to me. Chiyabashira-sensei, of course, had noticed. She'd tried to hide it behind that cold, iron mask of hers, but I'd seen the twitch in her brow, the subtle irritation she failed to bury.
It amused me.
Now, here I was, walking beside Ayanokoji into the guidance room. His expression was as bland as ever, as though none of this mattered to him. Perhaps it didn't. For me, though, every little detail was telling.
"So. Why did you call us here?" Ayanokoji asked flatly.
Chiyabashira-sensei didn't answer him. Instead, she glanced at the clock. Nine o'clock sharp. Then, without preamble, she swung open the small door to a kitchenette tucked beside the room. A kettle waited on the stove, its metal cool and still.
"I'm going to make tea. Is roasted green okay?" she asked, voice suddenly casual—too casual.
I let my eyes roam, watching her fingers tighten around the kettle, the way her back stiffened against her own words. It was a performance, nothing more.
Ayanokoji picked up the tin of powder, studying it as though it contained the answer.
And then her mask snapped back into place. "Don't make any unnecessary moves. Both of you—get in here. Understand? Don't make a sound and stay until I tell you it's okay to come out. If you don't do as I say, you'll be expelled."
She shoved us into the kitchenette and shut the door before Ayanokoji could speak.
The darkness swallowed us. A faint scent of detergent and old tea leaves lingered in the cramped space. Ayanokoji leaned back against the counter, eyes closed, his voice steady.
"So she called you too," he muttered.
"Yes," I answered softly, the corners of my mouth curving upward. "Though I don't need threats to obey. Some doors are better entered willingly."
He gave me a long, unreadable look, but said nothing.
Beyond the door, the creak of hinges and the shuffle of footsteps echoed. Someone else had entered the guidance room. Chiyabashira's tone shifted at once—no longer casual, no longer sharp, but precise. Professional.
I tilted my head, listening. My mind returned briefly to Hoshinomiya's laughter, the heat of her hand against mine, the way she teased Sae-chan. I wondered how much of that had unsettled Chiyabashira—and how much of her "guidance" today was directed at us, or at me in particular.
In the dark, I smiled. "It seems, Ayanokoji…we're about to hear something interesting"
The faint creak of the outer door reached me, followed by the soft thud of footsteps. Then Chiyabashira's voice:
"Ah, come in. So, what did you want to talk to me about, Horikita?"
So, Suzune had come here for "guidance." How predictable.
Through the thin door, I heard her voice, sharp and cold as ever.
"I will be frank. Why was I sorted into Class D?"
I nearly laughed aloud. Of course she'd ask that. Horikita Suzune, the girl who held herself like a blade unsheathed, was never going to accept being cast down with the rest of the so-called "failures."
"That's true. You must consider yourself to be a superior person," Chiyabashira teased.
Horikita wasted no time defending herself. She spoke of solving nearly every exam problem, of acing her interview, of being "misplaced." It was admirable, in a way—her conviction. Admirable, and tragically naïve.
I leaned back against the counter in the kitchenette, folding my arms, listening. Chiyabashira humored her, even produced her test results like a magician showing a card trick. Third-highest in the entire first year. High praise. And yet—still in Class D.
When Chiyabashira laughed, mocking the notion that academics alone equaled superiority, I smiled in the dark. She was right, of course. Intelligence meant very little if it was not wielded properly. And Horikita…she believed too much in "fair systems," in meritocracy. She hadn't yet realized those were illusions.
At the mention of hereditary succession, my chest tightened for a moment. Old ghosts—memories of systems rigged long before one's birth—rose unbidden. But I steadied myself quickly, expression calm, the smile still at the corner of my lips.
"You are definitely in Class D. You are at that level," Chiyabashira declared.
I tilted my head. Cruel honesty—or deliberate manipulation? Perhaps both.
Horikita's chair scraped back as she stood, refusing to yield. "Then I will ask the school again, at another time."
Her voice was stiff, but I could hear the cracks beneath it. The prideful ones always broke loudest.
And yet…Chiyabashira's words still echoed with weight: There are some students who would happily be set at a low level.
She had not been speaking of Horikita. Not even of Ayanokoji. No—her eyes earlier had flicked to me. I was certain of it.
In the cramped darkness, I glanced at Ayanokoji, who stood silently, expression unreadable. He didn't move, didn't react, as though this entire exchange was beneath him.
I smiled faintly. "She struggles against the label," I whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. "And yet, labels mean nothing. Don't you agree?"
He didn't answer. He rarely did.
But that was fine. I enjoyed the silence. It allowed me to savor Horikita's indignation, her refusal to accept reality. Watching people resist the cages built around them was always fascinating
When Chiyabashira mentioned "another person," I knew she meant me. There was no hiding now. She wouldn't let me remain outside the stage when she clearly wanted me front and center.
I stepped out from the corner of the guidance room, calm and deliberate. Horikita's eyes widened slightly — first at my sudden presence, then at the implication. To her, it must have felt like betrayal from all sides: her teacher playing games, Ayanokoji with his cryptic answers, and now me, standing silently like a shadow that had been there all along.
She asked if he'd been listening. He lied smoothly, of course, but the teacher pressed on.
Then came the reveal of Ayanokoji's test results: the ridiculous string of fifties. Horikita's shock was palpable, her superiority shaken by numbers that looked more like a provocation than reality.
And then, as though she had been waiting for this very moment, Chiyabashira turned her eyes toward me.
"Now then, let's not forget you, Johan." She tapped the clipboard. "On the entrance exam — perfect scores. One hundred in every subject. The only student in the entire first-year to do so."
Horikita froze. She didn't even attempt to mask the way her body stiffened.
But the teacher wasn't finished. Her lips curved with a sharp amusement as she flipped a page.
"And yet, on the recent short test, you submitted nothing. A score of zero. From the highest performer to the lowest. A contradiction if there ever was one."
A ripple of tension passed through the room. Even Ayanokoji tilted his head slightly, though his eyes betrayed no true surprise.
Horikita finally broke her silence. "…A perfect 100 on the exam, and then a zero now? Why? That's… absurd."
I let the silence draw tight before speaking, my tone soft, almost amused.
"Absurd? Or deliberate. Does it matter which?"
Her lips pressed together, her eyes narrowing as though trying to see through me.
Chiyabashira leaned back, satisfied at the effect. "So, we have two students in Class D who defy the system in opposite ways. One who hides his talent under mediocrity. Another who flaunts it, then discards it completely. Both of you are… irritatingly fascinating."
I simply smiled, letting her words hang in the air. To Horikita, this must have been unbearable — sitting between contradiction and enigma, her so-called superiority quietly dismantled in real time.
When the talk ended, with Chiyabashira's sarcastic line about "E Class," she shoved all three of us into the hallway.