Chapter II - Morning Comes Like a Fanatical Demon (II)

Minazuki Serena took her seat near the window—just a few desks away from mine—and stretched out with feline boredom. Didn’t take out her textbooks. Didn’t look at anyone. She merely leaned back, crossed her legs, and looked out the window like we didn’t exist.

Fujimiya-sensei smiled gently, the way only Fujimiya-sensei could, and cleared her throat.

“Good morning, Minazuki-san. Glad you could join us today.”

"Mm." Serena didn't even bother to turn her head.

“That’s your third late arrival this week. I know mornings can be tough, but—”

"Sorry," Serena said without a shred of actual remorse. "I'll try harder."

She reached into her bag, pulled out a pack of mint gum, and popped one into her mouth without permission.

Fujimiya blinked, clearly calculating whether it was worth engaging with the school's most troublesome student. She chose peace.

“Right. Thank you for... making the effort.”

From across the room, the whispers began to pile in.

“Is she even allowed to wear heels?”

“I heard she’s half-Italian. You can tell.”

“She smells like a nightclub.”

“I heard her mom’s some kind of opera celebrity.”

“Why does she even bother showing up?”

“The Demon Queen of the West returns to her throne, gracing us peasants with her aura of apathy! How truly magnanimous!" Akise whispered to no one in particular, as much as I wanted to think.

"Shut up," I hissed.

“She’s upgraded her armor since last season. See that choker on her neck? That’s definitely enchanted!”

I didn’t reply. I was too busy not looking at her, which meant, obviously, I was looking at her.

She was... not beautiful in the usual way. She wasn’t “cute.” She wasn’t approachable. Frankly, Minazuki Serena looked like she belonged on some other plane of existence entirely. She was exactly the type of girl you saw once in a dream and couldn’t describe afterward without sounding insane.

But even insanity felt worth it.

Even now, doing absolutely nothing, Serena commanded the room by refusing to acknowledge it.

And worst of all, I couldn’t stop thinking about the voice in my dream.

The one that saved me.

The one that made me step back from the ledge.

It made no sense for her, the opposite of gentle, the opposite of tender, to evoke such emotion from a voice.

But every time she was near, my heart made the same sound as that rooftop wind.

I didn't know what that feeling was. But I didn't want to understand it either.

It was probably better that way.

However, interrupting my reverie was the sliding of the classroom door, and a new voice cutting through the haze. Despite being officially late, and in fact, later than the school's most notorious truant, the young man who stepped into Class 2-A still had the audacity to smile. It reeked of the arrogance of someone who’d never been told “no” and wouldn’t recognize even if you stitched the letters across his uniform.

Midou Rintarou stepped in like he owned the room.

And maybe, in some unspoken way, he did.

Tall, broad, and smiling the way wolves do, he wore a modification of the school uniform common among sports stars: a black jacket hung open with a red and gold trim. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to show off the black armband from his dojo—bold white characters embroidered over it: 黒帯.

Black belt. As if anyone needed reminding.

In his hand, he casually held a paper bag that emanated the distinct aroma of a fast food breakfast.

"Yo, Fujimiya-sensei. Sorry for being late! The trains were a mess today."

He flashed a smile, one that made most adults forgive him, and took a big bite out of the rest of his Yakisoba-pan without bothering to chew it properly. His eyes were practically black, and his hair shared that same color as well. He stood tall, shoulders straight, and gave a grin to the rest of the class.

“Midou-kun, you can’t just waltz in like—"

Before Sensei could finish, Midou’s eyes locked on Serena like a flame meeting gasoline.

Then he smirked.

He sauntered down the aisle between desks, rejecting his own seat—he passed it—and toward the back. Toward her. Toward the girl who humiliated him last year in front of half the sports block.

The air changed.

The way girls shifted in their seats. The way Doujima gave a nod. The way Haruki lowered his tablet just a little. The way Fujimiya-sensei’s instinctive smile tightened at the corners.

Akise muttered something under his breath about "foul auras and cursed intersections" and how if he were able to unleash the true power of his right hand if he weren't limited by the [Bounded Fields] residing within the campus, the whole school would be razed to the ground in mere seconds.

I didn't pay attention to that.

All I could see was him. And her.

There was no reason for me to be so angry. There was no reason for me to hold my breath as Midou closed the distance. There was no reason for me to feel like the world was tilting sideways.

And yet I was.

Midou stopped one desk away from Minazuki-san. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he was studying a painting he couldn’t figure out how to ruin yet.

“You’re late again,” he said, voice low, velvety, and just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Sensei’s gonna start keeping a tally.”

Serena slowly turned her head, finally acknowledging his existence.

Her eyes met his.

And then returned to the window. He wasn't worth processing.

“You smell good today,” he added with a smirk curving back like a scythe.

Still, she said nothing.

Just unwrapped another piece of gum, popped it into her mouth, and looked out the window again.

Dismissed.

And yet, that single gesture said more than a thousand insults.

Midou lingered for a beat too long. Long enough for everyone to start whispering again.

“She ignored him… again.”

“Is he really gonna let that slide?”

“Didn’t she send his crew to the nurse’s office last May?”

"Ah... my dear Genbu, watching jocks be publicly humiliated live has to be one of my favorite pastimes~” Akise giggled, whistling. “Twice in one year. If this were a manga, she’d be the final boss and Midou would unlock his demon form by Chapter 5."

I exhaled. I didn't know how long I'd been holding my breath.

“Midou, please take your seat," said Fujimiya-sensei gently.

"Yeah, yeah," he answered and gave a wink to the rest of the class. It wasn't before he looked at Minazuki-san and whispered something. I couldn't hear it. But whatever it was, he seemed satisfied with himself.

Fujimiya-sensei gave a little clap, soft but firm, enough to redirect the room’s attention like a thread through scattered beads.

“Alright, everyone, settle down. Midou-san, please remember the seating chart exists for a reason. And Minazuki-san…” She paused with a gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. “…thank you for joining us.”

Minazuki-san said nothing.

“Before we continue,” Fujimiya added, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, “our class representative has a few announcements. You all know we’re approaching the Cultural Festival deadline, and we’ve fallen behind on submissions. Kagami-kun, if you would?”

The class turned in my direction.

I smiled.

Of course I smiled.

I stood, brushing invisible dust from my black blazer, and walked toward the front of the classroom with the same pace I always used: steady, friendly, unhurried. Inoffensive. Forgettable.

I could feel Minazuki-san’s eyes on me—or perhaps, I imagined it. But I didn’t look. I didn’t dare.

I couldn’t.

I didn't have the right to.

My hands weren’t shaking. My voice wouldn’t crack. Not here.

As I passed Fujimiya-sensei, her eyes met mine—just for a moment. Concern disguised as professionalism.

She knew.

Of everyone in the school, Fujimiya-sensei was the only one who ever noticed that my smiles were always half a second late.

Still, she let me walk to the front. She trusted me to carry it.

So I did.

I turned to face the class—my class now that Sairenji was gone for the foreseeable future—and let the smile curve upward to my eyes.

“Hey everyone,” I said, chipper and bright, as if I hadn’t been asleep ten minutes ago or quietly planning my slow spiritual erosion in a three-subject notebook. A few students perked up. Others kept whispering about Serena.

“Quick announcements,” I continued. “The Cultural Festival is about two weeks away, and Class 2-A still hasn’t submitted our exhibit plan. That means no booth, no decorations, no stage slot. We’re currently registered as ‘Undecided,’ which I’m pretty sure is Japanese for ‘Irrelevant.’”

A few people chuckled. Even Fujimiya-sensei smiled.

“And unfortunately, Sairenji-san is still recovering, so I’m asking everyone to pick up the slack... gently, non-violently, and ideally without threatening me with assassination if I suggest group work.”

That got a real laugh from the back. Probably Akise.

I kept going, pointing out the form deadlines, gently nudging people about budgeting, helping the less organized students remember which vendor forms needed stamps. I even made a joke about the time I got locked in the storage shed with a folding chair and an existential crisis. Somehow, it landed better than expected. Everyone seemed to relax.

Everyone except Midou, who sat at the edge of his desk with a smile as sharp and unforgiving as a scalpel.

Everyone except Minazuki-san, whose gaze never left the window.

But regardless, I tried to make them laugh.

I always did.

That was the job.

That was the mask.

As I wrapped up, I bowed and returned to my seat like it hadn’t taken every fiber of my being to keep the tremor out of my voice. Fujimiya-sensei resumed with the daily schedule like nothing had happened. But as I sat down, I caught a final glimpse of her watching me.

She worried.

She always worried.

And I hated myself for letting her.

I didn’t pay attention to the rest of the announcements. I didn’t care.

I just needed to survive until evening.

So I could hear that voice again.

So I could remember why I couldn't just let myself go.