The Price of Power

Chapter 3: The Price of Power

The days continued their relentless march, each sunrise painting the same indifferent strokes across the Haruyama sky. The weight of routine pressed against the school like a vice, trapping students in an endless cycle of grades, expectations, and silent rules left unspoken. To the world, Otemae High hadn’t changed. The school still pulsed with quiet ambition, hushed fears, and whispered gossip—but to Shiro, something was off.

His footsteps had always carried certainty, slicing through the hallways with absolute control, a pulse that others reacted to without thought. But now, something was wrong.

The way they parted for him—it felt different.

They still moved out of his way, but some hesitated. Some glanced at him twice. Some whispered, not out of fear, but as if trying to understand.

Before, students had lowered their heads, unwilling to meet his gaze. Now, he caught stray looks—studies, analysis—like they were watching him instead of fleeing.

And Shiro hated that.

He gritted his teeth, trying to force the discomfort away. It’s nothing. They’re still afraid. They still know their place.

But doubt slithered beneath the surface, a sickness curdling inside him.

Lunch came, and his world wavered again.

Daiki’s face returned, unbidden, invading the quiet space of his thoughts. Not like a passing memory—but like a scar freshly reopened.

The way he stood. The way he refused to break.

It had been days, but the moment still clung to him, burning itself deeper with every stray thought.

"You needed someone to prove yourself to, right?" "You helped me be your stepping stone."

Shiro clenched his fist tightly around his chopsticks, his grip white-knuckled. His appetite had vanished days ago, but now, rage replaced hunger.

He shouldn’t care.

This should’ve been nothing—just another day, another victim, another insignificant face lost in the flood of names he discarded without second thought.

But it wasn’t.

"Why does this still bother me?"

The question stung, crawling across his skin like something toxic.

"Why do I remember?"

"Why can’t I forget him like all the others?"

Takumi elbowed him from across the table.

"Yo, corpse-boy, you good?" His tone was light, too casual, too familiar.

Shiro didn’t answer immediately. His grip remained locked, his breathing measured—but his mind felt slow, sluggish, like something was dragging him beneath the surface.

Takumi scoffed, nudging him harder.

"You’ve been zoning out a lot lately." He lowered his voice slightly, like he knew something Shiro didn’t. "Daiki really messed with your head, huh?"

The words hit differently. Before, Takumi might have said that as mockery, a way to reinforce Shiro’s control, to dismiss Daiki like all the others. But now—now, there was doubt.

Something had changed.

Shiro looked up too slowly, and Takumi’s smirk barely held.

For the first time, Takumi was watching him the way the others did.

Like he was studying him.

Like something was cracking.

And for the first time

Takumi felt something was off

He felt something that changed 

Inside Takumi didn’t know what was up with Shiro 

but he tried his best to be there for his friend.