Chapter I - Morning Comes Like A Fanatical Demon

The dream was already fading by the time the morning sun spilled through the windows.

It wasn't a proper dream—not in the narrative sense. More like a memory dislocated from the concept of time. A voice floating upward through sea salt and silence, barely distinguishable from the wind. A girl singing in a language I didn’t understand. Notes without lyrics. Meaning without explanation. And somehow, it hurt.

Then came the elbow.

"Oi, Shou-chan, you’re drooling again~"

Something sharp nudged my ribs as my head jerked up from my crossed arms. A streak of cold sweat clung to the back of my neck. My cheek was warm from contact with the wood of the desk—a perfect little imprint of my own exhaustion. Around me, Class 2-A buzzed with the low-frequency chatter that only second-years could perfect: not excited, not tired. Just terminally indifferent.

I blinked, attempting to dislodge the remnants of the dream.

Or memory.

Or whatever that sound had been.

"You were twitching, too~" the voice continued in its cloyingly, disgustingly sweet tone. "Like a cursed puppet coming to life. Very unsettling. But also very on-brand for you."

I turned to face the species of the male sex beside me. Dyed pink hair, hazel eyes, an oversized club pin on his lapel that bore the kanji for “dragon” despite having nothing to do with any official school organization. His tie was crooked, and his grin was worse.

"Akise," I muttered with all the enthusiasm of a death row inmate.

"That’s my name. Don’t wear it out."

He beamed at me like a cat who'd just finished knocking over a priceless vase. Nanahara Akise. My best friend. My worst enabler. The only person at Amane Private Academy who somehow made life worse and more bearable altogether.

I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand. "What time is it?"

"Almost homeroom." He leaned back in his seat and gave a half-shrug. "Fujimiya-sensei hasn’t come in yet, and judging from the way your face glued itself to the desk, I’d say you haven’t slept for, oh, I don’t know, maybe a whole week?"

"Only three days," I said, stifling a yawn. "And a half. Maybe. Roughly."

"Roughly," he echoed, then shook his head. "But don’t worry. You only missed three people asking for your help, one guy blaming you for a locker mix-up, and Shirabu trying to rope you into covering the trip fee for his group again."

I could only groan at that last bit. Shirabu had a habit of "forgetting" his wallet at every single school event. And by some stroke of misfortune, I always had enough change to cover his portion.

To that, Akise reached into his blazer and handed me a small carton of milk, slightly warm.

"I paid for this with my soul... or my lunch money. Same thing! Drink it before someone else claims you're in debt to them."

"Thanks."

"Also, you drooled on your worksheet."

I glanced down. The print was still legible, though now blessed with the faint watermark of my cheekbone. Though before I could take a sip out of the milk carton, someone roughly tapped my shoulder from behind.

"Class rep," Doujima Daigo said in his eternal bro-tone. "Any chance I can switch cleanup duty with Reina today? I’ve got, like, reallll urgent stuff."

"...You mean soccer club?"

"Exactly! Urgent!"

"Kamizuki-san is already on hallway duty."

"So... swap me with someone else, yeah? You’re good at that kinda thing."

Akise's eyebrow twitched. "What, are you scared of Reina-chan? I thought you were our resident ikemen jock?"

"She's a demon in human flesh. No offense to girls, though. They’re, uh, great. But Reina... she's like an army tank dressed as a girl. A hot army tank, yeah, but still terrifying." Doujima's face then turned sour at the fact that he was talking to our famed chunni. "And why the hell am I talking to you? Class rep, seriously, please consider it."

Before I could respond, another voice cut in—this time from the front row.

"Class rep, sorry," said Shirabu, adjusting his tie in a way that looked performative more than necessary. "The Winter trip's fee collection's due by lunch. Can you front me just this once? I’ll pay you back after school. For real this time."

That made it the third time this month.

From two desks over, Haruki raised his tablet without looking up. "Class rep, the club forms are still missing our seal. Student Council extended the deadline to noon, but Arisato-senpai was in the faculty room looking like he had his period."

I stared at him blankly. "Displeased” for Arisato-senpai meant I’d get an email with five attachments and a three-paragraph lecture about institutional decay and the importance of diligence and piety.

"I’ll take care of it," I forced a smile.

"Before second period, please."

My smile grew tighter. "Of course."

Akise leaned an elbow on my desk. "You know, I’m really starting to think that ‘class rep’ is code for ‘everyone’s errand boy.’"

I didn't respond because there was nothing to say. He wasn't wrong.

This was simply how mornings went.

I didn’t remember volunteering for this role. I just remember standing still when everyone else stepped back.

Amane Private Academy's Class 2-A was a special ecosystem. We weren’t the top class academically. We weren’t the sports champions either. We were just... alive. Loud, chaotic, self-absorbed. Everyone floated in their little cliques like untethered satellites, revolving around whatever made them feel important; people like me became gravity.

Solipsism at its finest.

If you weren’t an athlete, an honors student, or a club president, you were a nobody. If you didn’t fit the mold of “exceptional,” you didn't exist. That was just the unspoken truth of private school. Survival of the fittest. Every man for himself. And I, Kagami Shouma, was one of the many who didn’t exist unless I was needed.

"Class rep, can you..."

"Hey, class rep, I heard that..."

"Kagami, you're the class rep, so..."

Every request, every plea, every order, I accepted without question.

Akise watched me drink the milk with all the solemnity of a doctor supervising a dying patient.

"You should delegate," he started, leaning closer.

"To who? Doujima? Haruki? Sairenji is out, so it's only natural I'm taking on so many burdens."

"To me, obviously."

I was far too tired to glare at him.

He grinned. "Okayyyy, not me. But in spirit, I’m deeply supportive of your boundaries! Like, I’ll cheer you on while you say no. Maybe I'll even clap if you cry a little."

"You named your club after mythical beasts. I don't want to hear anything about delegating."

"Yet the Student Council refuses to acknowledge our exalted existences that transcend the nature of the Four Symbols Club! Tragic!"

I raised an eyebrow at the choice of "our" but decided to let that go. Soon, the sliding door at the front of the classroom opened with a familiar and delicate clack. As if someone hit the volume knob, the entire room dropped to a polite murmur.

She walked in with her usual tenderness, sleeves too long for her wrists, a cardigan she probably could have drowned in, and her hair loosely tied with a faded scrunchie. She carried herself like she was borrowing space instead of owning it. Even her footsteps were careful.

"Good morning, everyone," said Fujimiya-sensei, our homeroom teacher and year’s guidance counselor. She was the only adult in this school who smiled like she meant it. She set her bag down on the podium and gave a patient smile, the one that said, "I know you’re all exhausting, but I still believe in you for some reason that doesn't relate to monetary benefit."

"Everyone, please settle down in your seats. We're going to have a brief announcement today. Please give me your full attention."

A chorus of “yes” answered her, but only a few students actually put away their cell phones.

“Let’s get started with homeroom. First, some club reminders—please make sure you finalize any submissions for the Cultural Festival very soon. That includes class exhibits, performances, and any logistics for shared space. If you don’t—”

The classroom door slammed open.

Hard.

The impact bounced off the walls like a gunshot.

For a half second, the room fell silent again, but not out of respect. It was closer to awe. Or maybe fear. It was the kind of silence that precedes the arrival of a thunderstorm.

She walked in slowly. Carelessly. As if she weren’t late—as if time existed to accommodate her.

Her black heels—yes, she had modified the standard school shoes into corpse-colored heels—clicked across the polished wood floor in a lazy rhythm. Her white skirt was two inches shorter than regulation, her black blazer with gold edges hung off one shoulder, and her blouse was left deliberately unbuttoned, just enough to reveal the curvature of cleavage that would’ve earned anyone else a suspension. Her black bra strap peeked out from the side of her collarbone, and her skirt was rolled to the point that the hem of her thigh highs were visible.

And then there was the smell. Smoke and perfume. Sharp, soft, expensive, dangerous.

Like something that could kill you and make you feel grateful.

She didn’t say anything. She just walked in with the same detached gaze she always wore—half-lidded, eternally unimpressed—and made her way to the seat in the back corner. The one by the window that had the best view of the courtyard.

The chair next to the guy who didn’t exist.

She passed within three feet of me, and the scent hit harder up close. Cigarettes, perhaps foreign since I wasn't accustomed to the smell. Expensive perfume, probably imported. Like crushed orchids on fire. Her hair fell like molten scarlet over her shoulders, wild and wavy and intentionally untamed. Her lashes were dark, thick, casting faint shadows across those ice blue eyes that made everyone feel colder just by looking into them.

Minazuki Serena.

Amane Private Academy's most infamous transfer student.

The idol. The delinquent. The flame.

The girl who once broke Midou Rintarou’s wrist when he tried to touch her.

The girl who skipped more days than she attended.

The girl who gave me a reason never to approach her ever again.