Chapter CXII: The Patient Prefect
A bespectacled man sits in his office at city hall, a stack of documents perfectly arranged on his desk, like a domino lineup he refuses to let fall out of line. He adjusts his collar—white polo, neatly pressed, with an insignia patch on the left chest. He looks at a document entitled, "City Development – Agricultural Livelihood and Economic Center - Phase I: Swine Multiplier", and checks it.
This man is Mr. Josuke Amane, who is straight-backed, precise, and calm like a windless lake. He holds a ballpen with a clip so shiny you'd think it went through car wax treatment.
With a sigh sharp enough to cut glass, he flips open the next document, eyes darting left to right as he mutters to himself.
"Permits for expanded vending area... check. Zoning alignment... check. Fire department clearance... missing signature, again."
He tsks.
His assistant, a young intern wearing a polo two sizes too big, peeks in nervously from the corner. "Sir... uh... coffee?"
"No. Caffeine clouds judgment, but you can get me a decaf." Josuke replies with surgical precision.
He then stamps a document. Another approved.
Then, his phone buzzes. He picks it up in one fluid motion, barely breaking eye contact with the paper he's reading.
"Amane speaking."
"Mr. Amane, sir," says the voice from the other end. "This is Principal Fukushu from Shinomiya High. The files you requested regarding the disciplinary records, lesson plans on disaster preparedness, and archived class performance reports are here now. We need you to come immediately and evaluate it."
Josuke places the paper down, attention snapping to full alert.
"I'm on it. I'll be there shortly."
He rises. The intern jumps back like he saw a ghost.
"You'll stay here and monitor the final batch. Make sure the vendors sign before the deadline. Not after. And make sure no one eats snacks over the paperwork again."
"Y-Yes, sir."
Without another word, Josuke buttons his polo up to the very top and walks out—each footstep making a rhythmic clack across the City Hall's polished floor.
The Shinomiya High School building looms just across the street—a mere 100 meters away—but as he walks, each step echoes not just in the concrete, but in his memory.
Back to his 20s, the Northern Village, once known for nothing but pottery and persistent goat invasions, is now a vibrant marketplace. Tourists laugh as they walk between takoyaki stalls, handwoven textile booths, aesthetically landscaped designed mini park, a pastry food court, and cultural performance stages.
And it was all thanks to one man.
At the city convention center,
"Certificate of Appreciation goes to Mr. Josuke Amane," the announcer declares at the convention center podium, "for his excellent leadership and contribution to the revitalization of the city's Northern Village into a powerhouse of trade and cultural heritage!"
The crowd claps. Josuke comes up to the podium, accepts the award, and bows.
His furbished classical suit is neatly tucked, his shoes reflect the ceiling lights, and his face is expressionless—as if he just accepted a receipt, not a plaque.
But inside, he's quietly proud.
Despite being the village chief, Josuke has always had a soft spot for education. He teaches Music and Ethics every Friday as a part-time teacher. The students either love him or fear him due to his strict attitude.
He eventually becomes the Highschool's Prefect of Discipline, which makes students call him all sorts of names behind his back such as "The Note Taker" and "Final Boss of Hallways".
But what they don't know is that underneath that strict shell is a soul deeply moved by music.
In 2019, after a tiring presentation on the disaster preparedness seminar at the hostel at the grade school department, Josuke walks through the hallways of the high school building. A flow of music and rhythm strikes him and he hears it coming from one of the rooms. He looks for the music and just 1 meter from him, the music room which is just in dim lights, he sees a boy playing the piano. Playing almost like Beethoven, with a dire malevolent tone like Bach, and a rush of harmony and barbaric like Dvorak and Mozart. He enters the room, and the boy stops playing all of a sudden, fearing that maybe Josuke will scold him by not asking permission to play. Instead,
"What such rhythm and tone you play. Where did you learn this?", he asks him.
"I learned it from my grandpa, but mostly it's self-taught, Sir.", the boy responds.
As the boy turns around, it's Kota, who is still devastated from his friendzone just a week ago.
"Mizushiro of Class 1-A, I didn't know you play the piano.", Josuke smiles.
"Well, it's been a while I haven't touched one, Sir.", Kota says.
"Really? Like when?", Josuke raises his right eyebrow,
"Like 3 months, Sir." Kota scratches the back of his head.
Josuke laughs and says, "You know, you're natural. Can I hear you sing?"
Kota sings, not just sings, but he delivers.
His voice isn't flashy. It's not loud or overreaching. But it has something that Josuke hasn't heard in years. A voice with sincerity, tone, and heart. After the performance, Josuke applauds him.
"You have potential. You know, your voice is better than that of your classmate who I thought had the voice of an angel, but as puberty hit him, he sounded like a strangled cat being run over by a lawn mower. Totally wasted my endorsing him to the national singing competition. But hey, come here again next week after class. Practice these songs here on these music sheets and we'll see your progress."
And just like that, Kota becomes his protégé.
From that day forward, Kota becomes Josuke's junior conductor. He trains the student chorale group with Josuke's guidance and leads Class 2-A in singing Kimigayo during Monday morning ceremonies.
He even learns how to conduct with both hands, thanks to Josuke's lessons involving baton twirling with a rolled-up broomstick.
"Left hand controls the soul," Josuke says, demonstrating. "Right hand guides the rhythm."
Kota nods—then accidentally whacks himself with the broom handle.
"More practice, just a bit of beat-polishing," Josuke says with a rare smirk.
But not all days are harmonious, yet ominous.
In 2020, a sudden commotion breaks out during the quarterly exams at Class 2-A. 3 substitute teachers drags Kota out of the classroom, while all his classmates are in shock.
A knock is on the Prefect's door, and Josuke opens the door.
"Kota cheated," one of them whispers.
"I heard he used his watch to sneak answers," another says.
Josuke rubs his eyes, then his temples, and tells them, "Bring him in, but please don't come in or else I'll break your spleens."
Kota goes inside his office, he sits on the couch, eyes red, clutching his knees, as Josuke paces slowly.
"Did you cheat?" Josuke asks, voice flat.
"I... no..." Kota says, then takes a shaky breath. "I didn't cheat. I just didn't study well. I was careless... I knew I'd fail so I panicked. But I didn't cheat."
Tears well up in his eyes. "I promise, sir. I really didn't... I just... I got blamed... My seatmate had answer scribbles on his paper. The proctor assumed it was me..."
Josuke stares at him for a long moment.
Then, softly: "I believe you."
Kota's eyes widen.
"W-What?"
"I've seen students who cheat. They don't confess their failure. They lie to cover up. You took responsibility for your poor performance... That's integrity."
Kota sniffles.
Josuke stands. "But you'll still re-take the exam. No special treatment."
"Yes, sir," Kota nods, determined.
"And no crying in the hallway. People will think I hit you."
Kota wipes his face, chuckling.
The pandemic era arrives like an invisible storm, masking smiles and muffling laughter beneath layers of cloth and fear. Classrooms fall silent. Corridors grow dusty. And the once-echoing songs of the Shinomiya Highschool Chorale fade to digital static.
But not for Kota.
Even through the glare of a laptop screen, his voice rings clear.
Josuke watches from his home office, laptop angled precisely at 90 degrees, virtual chorale practice in session. Twenty-three screens flicker on Loom—some with actual students, others suspiciously showing only ceiling fans or cats walking across keyboards.
"Section sopranos, you're two beats late again," Josuke says, deadpan. "Miss Uehara, kindly tell your cat he is off-pitch."
Soft chuckles from the call. Kota laughs too.
Even now, Kota is the only one in full uniform. White polo, school ID, and—bizarrely—a mini conductor baton he whittled from a chopstick.
"Sir, we'll get it right this time," Kota promises, eyes glowing with that same spark Josuke noticed years ago.
Despite the chaos, Kota never misses a rehearsal.
Rain or shine. Online or offline. Pandemic or not.
Just 9 months later, meanwhile, Josuke is at the Northern Village Hall, buried in paperwork. His desk is arranged with deadly symmetry: one mug of coffee (not for drinking—only to intimidate visitors), four folders stacked by urgency (color-coded), and a tiny bust of Beethoven glaring at him from the corner.
He signs a permit for an outdoor night market, scribbles a warning note to a vendor who keeps grilling squid too close to power lines, checks the rehabilitation form for the flood controls, and reorganizes the budget logs for fun.
A knock breaks the sacred silence.
"Do come in," Josuke says, not even looking up.
The door creaks open.
In steps, a man in a blue suit, sharp lapel, polished shoes, and an aura that screams "I brought both ambition and body spray."
"Mr. Amane," the visitor says with a grin. "Pleasure to finally meet the man behind the magic."
Josuke finally lifts his head. "You are...?"
"Councilor Sakamoto. I represent the Urban Growth and Planning Committee of the city."
Josuke raises an eyebrow but gestures to the chair. "Please. Sit. Avoid the chair with the wobbly leg—unless you enjoy adventure."
Councilor Sakamoto chuckles and sits on the sturdier one.
As the councilor scans the room, he's visibly impressed.
"Wow... this village hall... I expected it to look like a shed with paper lanterns. But this is... this is like a museum of efficiency! Your walls are clean, your file system—labeled and dated! And are those framed photos of community leaders with local kids?"
Josuke nods. "They're also my students."
"You even hang your students on walls? That's—wow—intense."
Josuke squints. "They're photos. I don't literally—never mind."
Sakamoto leans forward.
"Listen, Josuke. People talk about you. Your reputation, your leadership, your music background—very rare combo. You've revived a dying village and nurtured hundreds of students."
Josuke says nothing, but straightens a pencil.
"I'm here to offer you something. Something bigger. How would you feel... about running for a position in the City Council?"
Josuke stills.
Silence.
He looks at the documents in front of him, then at the framed mural of the village's transformation.
"I appreciate the offer. But... I am already a chief, a teacher, and a prefect. That's enough hats."
"You've worn them all well," Sakamoto replies. "One more won't break your head. Just think about it."
Josuke leans back.
He does think about it.
Days later, and Josuke goes to Shinomiya Highschool Administration Building, at the Office of the School President. It's a sunny morning, and the rare breeze flutters the white curtains of Dr. Eiji Dobayashi's office. A grand clock ticks behind him, and shelves are lined with books, awards, and... a potted bonsai named "Maru."
"Mr. Amane," Dr. Dobayashi says, smiling gently. "It's been a while since you stepped into my fortress of philosophical chaos."
"I try to avoid rooms that smell like tea and Shakespeare," Josuke deadpans.
Dr. Dobayashi laughs.
"Now, what brings the famed prefect-slash-village savior-slash-human metronome to my chamber?"
Josuke exhales, hands behind his back.
"I've been offered a seat in the City Council. Councilor Sakamoto asked me personally. But... I didn't want to proceed without speaking to you."
Dr. Dobayashi looks at him, eyes thoughtful.
Josuke continues, "If I accept, I will still fulfill my duties as Prefect of Discipline. And I will continue leading the chorale. But... I'll be stretched thinner."
Eiji Dobayashi leans forward.
"Josuke," he says, "do what your heart wants you to do, for I see no bad in that."
He picks up a framed photo of them from the 2017 graduation.
"Just don't get into corruption. Don't forget your core. Help the people—especially those who need it most. Politics is murky water. But if anyone can purify it with sheer force of policy and piano scales... it's you."
Josuke nods slowly.
And with that, the decision is made.
Months later, he is sworn in as an official member of the City Council. His attire remains mostly unchanged—still white polos and glasses—but now there's a city seal pin on his collar, and people at City Hall salute him like he's a military general.
Yet...
He never gives up his post at Shinomiya High.
Every week, when there is no session, he returns to the school. Still patrolling the hallways. Still catching students who flirt behind vending machines.
Still tapping his baton on the music room floor as the chorale warms up.
"Bass, you are sounding like a dying blender," he scolds once, as Kota snorts behind a mask.
"I thought that was the tone we were going for," Kota jokes.
Josuke gives him a warning glare. But the corners of his lips twitch—barely.
Josuke arrives at his office inside Shinomiya High, the flashback slowly fading like the final notes of a ballad.
The door swings open, and Principal Fukushu is already there, standing by the window.
"Ah. Councilman-slash-Sir-Amane," Fukushu says with his usual dry tone. "You're finally back in your school armor."
"Don't call me councilman in school. It sounds... tacky."
"Well, you are tacky," Fukushu replies, handing him a folder. "These are the results of the midterms. Also, someone left snacks on top of the performance logs again."
Josuke sighs. "Was it the cat again?"
"Possibly. Or a gremlin."
They sit across each other. The room is silent for a moment—comfortable silence.
Fukushu sips his tea.
"You thinking of retiring?"
Josuke raises an eyebrow. "From what? Life?"
"No, from this balancing act of civil service and teenage melodrama."
Josuke chuckles—actually chuckles.
"I'll retire when my metronome dies."
"Fair enough."
"Oh Yeah, I almost forgot..." Principal Fukushu says, setting down a paperweight shaped like a turtle samurai (his desk companion for stress management). "We have some... developments you may want to know."
Josuke raises a brow as he flips open a school file. "If it's about cafeteria funds, tell them to stop using golden hotdog wrappers."
"It's not that," Fukushu replies, folding his arms. "It's bigger."
Josuke hums thoughtfully. "You mean like... the return of student council karaoke night?"
"No. Bigger."
Josuke leans back slightly. "You're scaring me now."
Principal Fukushu walks toward the large corkboard on the side of the office. He pins three sheets of paper with a dramatic thud-thud-thud. The top one reads in bold:
UPCOMING: SHINOMIYA HIGH SCHOOL INTRAMURALS 2024.
"Oh." Josuke perks up a bit. "Are we still doing the parade? With the over-excited cheer squads and the one confused marching band kid who always plays Stars and Stripes theme instead of the actual anthem?"
"He's still enrolled," Fukushu confirms solemnly. "And yes, we are."
Josuke chuckles. "Wonderful. Continue."
"The second," Fukushu says, pointing to a resignation letter with a perfect cursive signature, "Mr. Rin—our old mathematics teacher—is finally retiring."
Josuke frowns slightly. "Didn't he try to retire last year but got bored and came back just to prank the probability and statistics teacher with an integration table plan instead of a truth table?"
"He says this time it's real. He's buying a motorbike and going overseas on a soul-searching trip around a place in Luzon Island, nicknamed, 'The Heritage Province'."
Josuke sighs fondly. "That man is 67 and allergic to sunlight."
"He'll learn."
A pause.
Then Fukushu removes a black envelope from his desk drawer and slides it across the table.
Josuke's amusement fades. "What's this?"
Principal Fukushu's voice drops. "A report... regarding the disappearance of two students."
Josuke narrows his eyes and opens the folder.
"MISSING: AKIKO CHISAI and KOTA MIZUSHIRO. Last seen: 5 days ago."
Time stands still in the room.
Josuke slowly lifts his glasses, rubs his eyes, and places them back. "Five days? I thought you said it was a two-day excommunication."
"It was," Fukushu confirms. "But it became... something else."
Josuke looks up sharply. "Ok, I'm confused, what-why-when-where and how. Like I need answers now. "
Fukushu sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "It was the Assistant Principal-Tomaru."
"Ah. Him," Josuke mutters with immediate disdain. "If a shoe had an ego and a voice, it would be Tomaru."
"Well," Fukushu starts, "I was out sick with a fever. And during that time, Akiko and Kota went to the faculty office regarding some false accusations placed on some rumors and issues that were according to Hitokami, Miru, Kurosaki, Gushiken, Tensei, and the Class 3-A representative, are suspiciously orchestrated by Anasui and Nazo. Assistant Principal Tomaru... misinterpreted the situation and excommunicated them for two days, citing 'unruly conduct'."
Josuke blinks. "Unruly? Kota can't even yell without apologizing."
"Exactly. But when I returned two days later... they hadn't come back. I asked around, but no one's seen them since."
"You did report this to the authorities, right?" Josuke asks, voice growing sharp.
"I did," Fukushu replies. "But you know how they are with teenagers. 'Maybe they ran away,' 'Maybe they're camping somewhere'... Typical. No sense of urgency."
Josuke slowly stands, the chair creaking.
"And, do you believe they're innocent?"
"I know they are," Fukushu affirms firmly. "If I were there that day, I would've overridden Tomaru's decision. Kota's one of the most disciplined boys I've seen—and Akiko's practically a saint."
Josuke nods slowly. His thoughts drift back...
Josuke sits across from a teary-eyed Kota and a worried Akiko.
"I heard the rumors," Josuke says. "About some accusation. Is it true?"
Kota can barely lift his head. "We didn't do anything, Sir."
Josuke watches his eyes carefully. He sees the honesty, the fear—not of punishment, but of disappointing him.
"I believe you," Josuke says calmly. "Both of you. Just... be safe. People will target those who shine. But you stay true, and I'll always be in your corner."
Akiko's eyes fill with gratitude. Kota nods, lips trembling.
Back in the present, Josuke's voice is low but firm.
"We need to find them."
Fukushu hesitates. "There's... more."
He walks over to a desktop monitor and opens a grainy CCTV clip from a local convenience store.
In it, two hooded figures enter the store, knock over a shelf, and flee with a bag of chips and some energy drinks.
"Some online forum says these are Kota and Akiko," Fukushu says, disgusted. "But I paused the footage."
He clicks pause at just the right frame. One of the hooded figures tilts their head—and a shock of platinum blonde peeks out from under the hood.
Josuke zooms in.
"That's not Kota," he mutters. "That's—blonde? Kota's hair is blue. Akiko's hair is purple."
"Exactly," Fukushu says. "Also, the figure on the left has a dragon tattoo on his wrist. Akiko has nothing like that. Both are clean of tattoos."
"So, we're looking at imposters. Or someone framing them."
Josuke mutters something unrepeatable in his native dialect and sits back down, now visibly focused.
"They're trying to make it look like the kids turned rogue. Maybe to justify their disappearance."
Fukushu nods. "I was hoping you'd say that. Josuke... I want your help."
Josuke slowly stands again and straightens his collar. His eyes glint behind his glasses, sharp as glass under sunlight.
"You have it. I'll use every connection I have—city council, community centers, even my old choir parents' chat group."
"Even Mrs. Yamada?" Fukushu asks.
Josuke cringes. "She once tracked down a student's pet hamster that got lost in the gym vents. She's borderline terrifying. So yes."
Fukushu sighs in relief. "Thank you. You know I wouldn't trust this with just anyone."
"Of course. If anything happens to those two..."
Josuke doesn't finish the sentence. He just walks toward the door and stops.
"I'll notify my assistant at City Hall. We'll start with camera logs around the school, convenience store, and transportation hubs. Someone must've seen them—or their doubles."
"And Josuke," Fukushu adds, voice softer, "if this is part of something bigger..."
Josuke's eyes flicker.
"Then we pull it up from the roots."
Later that Day at city hall, Josuke bursts into his office. His assistant, Rinku, nearly drops his iced tea.
"S-Sir?!"
"I need three things," Josuke barks. "Access to city CCTV networks, list of convenience store thefts in the last week, and track any movement records from Shinomiya High students outside district bounds."
Riku blinks. "Uhh... I'll get on it. Do I need to wear a cape or something? This feels like a superhero arc."
Josuke doesn't miss a beat. "No capes. Capes slow you down in emergencies. And remember what that cunning little lady from the Inevitables."
He sits, opens his laptop, and begins typing faster than a caffeinated gamer in a boss fight.
"Kota... Akiko... where are you?" he murmurs.
As rain begins to patter softly against the glass panes of the City Hall, a sense of urgency begins to build.
The storm isn't in the skies.
It's here—and Josuke Amane is ready to weather it.