Lunch hour had barely begun, yet the hallway outside the upper floors was far from relaxed. The usual chatter of students was replaced by hurried footsteps and fragments of conversations that never quite finished.
Class captains and senior representatives moved through the corridors in small groups, their expressions tight, serious—like people who had been handed orders but weren't allowed to ask why. Papers rustled. Shoes clicked. A few first-years pressed against the walls to give way, their curiosity barely contained behind nervous eyes.
Through that shifting current of motion, Max, Tom, and Ashi walked side by side.
They didn't rush. They didn't even glance around. The current bent around them, the hallway parting quietly as if instinct itself understood that these three were walking toward something none of the others dared approach.
For a while, no one spoke. The only sound was the steady rhythm of their footsteps and the faint hum of air through ceiling vents.
Tom was the first to break the silence.
His usual grin was missing, replaced by a faint crease between his brows.
Tom: "Man, this hallway's more tense than the exam hall. What's up with everyone?"
Ashi's eyes shifted toward a pair of seniors passing by with files clutched to their chests. They walked fast, voices low.
Ashi (quietly): "Feels like something's happening. Look at their faces—they're not just busy. They're… anxious."
Max said nothing. Hands tucked in his pockets, gaze straight ahead. His eyes reflected nothing—not curiosity, not concern—only calculation. The kind of silence that filled in all the blanks others avoided.
Tom stole a glance at him.
Tom: "You really think this meeting's about the cafeteria thing?"
Max: "Most likely."
He didn't even look at him. His tone carried no doubt, just quiet certainty.
Max (continued): "The Vice President doesn't summon students for small talk."
Ashi's tongue clicked softly.
Ashi: "So what, they're gonna lecture us about discipline or something?"
Max: "No. They'll want to assess us."
Ashi's brow furrowed.
Ashi: "Assess?"
Max finally turned his head slightly, eyes still unreadable.
Max: "People like them don't waste time on punishment. They measure threats."
That one word—threats—hung in the air, colder than the breeze crawling in from the open windows.
---
They turned the corner. The corridor leading to the student-council section felt different: quieter, cleaner, too perfect. Even the light changed here—paler, sharper, the kind that made dust particles look like they were floating in slow motion.
Voices from below, the laughter of juniors, the clang of plates—all of it faded out.
This part of the building didn't belong to the school anymore.
It belonged to the ones who ruled it.
A few students lingered outside classrooms, pretending to be busy, but when they saw the trio approach, conversations stopped mid-sentence. Eyes followed them. Some looked curious; others, cautious. One or two unconsciously stepped aside, like prey stepping off a hunter's path.
Tom gave a half-hearted chuckle.
Tom: "Well, at least we're famous now."
Ashi: "Yeah, that's one word for it."
But even his voice sounded forced.
They reached the final stretch—a long corridor lined with framed photographs of past council members. Every face behind the glass had the same look: composed smiles that never reached their eyes.
Leaders. Enforcers. Shadows behind the system.
At the end stood a dark-wood double door, the school emblem carved deep into its surface. A golden plate beside it read:
STUDENT COUNCIL ROOM
A faint murmur of conversation leaked through. The kind that sounded calm—but carried authority in every syllable.
Ashi exhaled.
Ashi: "So this is it."
Tom tugged at his collar.
Tom: "Man, I hate formal stuff."
Max raised a hand, a quiet signal.
Max: "Don't speak unless you have to."
Ashi: "Why?"
Max: "Because silence unnerves people more than words."
The clock ticked once, sharply.
Then Max reached out, pushed the handle, and swung the door open.
The trio entered—shoulders straight, expressions unbothered. The room's murmur stopped instantly as a dozen heads turned.
The door shut behind them with a dull, echoing click.
---
Scene Shift — Cafeteria
The canteen had lost its chaos. Most of the lunch crowd had trickled out, leaving behind the lazy hum of spoons and the faint hiss of the stove in the kitchen. Steam curled through the air, carrying the scent of spice and oil.
At the usual table, Sam leaned back, spinning his fork lazily.
Sam: "Hey… why didn't we go with them?"
Across from him, Moco didn't even bother looking up.
Moco: "Because you're too excited in every situation."
Sam: "What's wrong with that?"
She placed her spoon down deliberately, eyes narrowing.
Moco: "Excitement is fine until it ends with you bleeding."
Sam: "You sound like my mom."
Moco: "And that's probably why you're still alive."
He sighed dramatically, stuffing a mouthful of rice. The table rattled slightly when he dropped his spoon, pretending to sulk.
Silence stretched for a few seconds—just the clink of cutlery and the faint chatter of distant groups.
Then Sam froze mid-chew, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Sam: "…Hey, I'm just going to the bathroom."
Before he could stand, Moco's foot landed on his shoe with surgical precision.
Sam (grimacing): "Ow—! If you keep doing that, how am I supposed to play football later?"
Moco (flatly): "You think I'm dumb enough to fall for that? Try again."
He leaned forward with an innocent grin.
Sam: "Come on, please! We'll just take a peek. That's all."
Moco pinched the bridge of her nose.
Moco: "You're really obsessed with fights. It's like a disease."
Sam: "Not fights—just drama."
After a long sigh, she pushed her tray away.
Moco: "Fine, fine. Just stop pestering me. You're worse than a mosquito."
Sam (smirking): "Heh, that's my charm."
They stood, ready to slip out. Moco adjusted her jacket, muttering under her breath about Sam's stupidity.
And then—
CRASH!
A metallic clang ripped through the air.
A steel canteen plate came whirling toward them, spinning like a discus.
Moco reacted instantly. Her body twisted sideways, arm rising to deflect.
CLANG!
The plate ricocheted off her forearm, spinning harmlessly to the floor. Grains of rice and curry splattered across her cheek.
Her jaw tightened.
Sam: "The hell—?!"
They turned.
In the far corner, three bulky boys surrounded another student.
The smaller one crouched on the floor, arms shielding his face while a boot slammed into his ribs.
The crowd nearby flinched but stayed put. Eyes darted. No one moved.
Sam's grin vanished, replaced by a cold spark.
Sam: "Guess we found the entertainment."
Moco's hand shot out, gripping his sleeve.
Moco: "Don't even think about it."
He opened his mouth—but before either could react further, a sharp voice cut through the noise.
Senior: "You three. What the hell do you think you're doing?"
A single figure stepped forward from a nearby table.
He wasn't tall enough to look imposing, but his presence carried weight. The small button-sized badge on his shirt gleamed—Student Council Assistant.
The bullies froze mid-swing, eyes flicking toward him.
The leader grinned, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.
Bully 1: "Oh, it's nothing, senior. We're just new here, trying to get along."
His tone dripped mockery.
The senior's jaw tightened.
Senior: "Back off and apologize. Now. Or you'll regret it."
The leader tilted his head, feigning confusion.
Bully 1: "Sorry, what was that? Couldn't quite hear you, senior."
SLAP!
The sound cracked through the cafeteria like thunder.
The senior's palm connected with the boy's cheek so hard it spun him halfway around. He stumbled, catching himself on a table edge.
A stunned hush fell over the room.
The bully straightened slowly, blood boiling in his eyes.
He charged.
---
The bully sprinted forward, fists flying in wild rhythm.
The senior didn't even blink.
With one hand still in his pocket, he raised the other, parrying each punch with effortless precision.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Every strike met empty air—redirected, absorbed, dismissed.
His movement wasn't flashy; it was surgical.
Feet barely shifted. Shoulders stayed relaxed.
The crowd began to notice—the kind of control that came only from repetition, from mastery.
Then—CRACK!—another open-palm slap.
Faster. Heavier. Final.
The bully dropped to his knees, a red mark blooming across his cheek.
Sam blinked, whispering under his breath.
Sam (thinking): "He's unreal. That control… he's not just strong. He's built different."
He remembered the 11th-graders he'd beaten on his first day—those had felt strong then. This guy was another league entirely. And he wasn't even a captain.
Moco (muttering): "He blocked every punch. With one hand. I know those swings had weight… this guy's balance is perfect."
The senior exhaled, voice calm yet absolute.
Senior: "Please… don't make this harder for yourself."
The bully wiped the blood from his lip, rage overtaking reason.
Bully 1: "Shut up!"
This time he didn't come alone. His two friends joined him, rushing in from both sides.
The crowd gasped.
For the first time, the senior removed his other hand from his pocket.
His posture lowered—a subtle shift, but the air changed.
Predatory. Grounded.
The bullies hesitated mid-stride as if their instincts screamed danger, but momentum carried them forward.
----
The first swing came—a wild hook.
The senior stepped in, inside the arc, arm looping around the boy's neck. He dropped his weight, twisting.
THUD!
A front-headlock takedown slammed the boy to the tiles.
Without pause, the senior rolled him over, knee pinning chest, eyes locked coldly.
The second bully grabbed from behind. The senior tilted his head as if disappointed. His elbow snapped backward, striking ribs—thump!—the air rushed out of the boy's lungs.
The senior caught his wrist mid-fall, rotated, and bent it into a shoulder lock. The sound of strain hissed through the silence.
He didn't break it. Just controlled it.
Senior (flatly): "You're too stiff. You rely on anger, not weight."
The third bully lunged.
The senior released the wrist, ducked low, hooked both arms around the boy's legs, and drove forward.
BAM!
Double-leg takedown. Pure wrestling textbook. The crowd's collective gasp filled the hall.
He rose, dusting his sleeves, three bodies groaning at his feet.
Senior: "You wanted to prove strength? Learn what control means first."
He adjusted his collar, badge catching the light. Eyes scanned the crowd—measured, detached.
No one spoke.
Sam (low): "He's a grappler… pure control. No flash, no wasted motion."
Moco: "That's collegiate-level. He's using momentum like water. Didn't think I'd see that here."
The senior turned toward the exit, voice calm.
Senior: "Next time you test someone, make sure you understand the ground you're standing on."
He walked away, footsteps echoing in the stunned silence.
----
Sam blinked twice, still processing.
Sam: "Okay… now I'm officially jealous."
Moco (snorting): "You? Jealous? You'd get folded in ten seconds."
Sam (grinning): "Nine, if I'm lucky."
Moco rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the small smirk forming on her lips.
For the first time in a while, the cafeteria felt alive again—quiet, but thrumming with something new. Respect. Fear. Curiosity.
Moco (thinking): "If that's the difference between a senior and us… we've got a long way to go."
----