Incidentally, Shinohara Rintarō Looks Better Than He Tastes

At Tokyo’s Strategic Leadership Academy, even your “first day” could taste like an ending.

The campus gates were tall enough to make a point. Not an architectural point, an ideological one. “Your life belongs here, in the upper strata of the wealthy elite, so don’t bring anything embarrassing with you!” The ironwork curled like the edges of old crests and the stone pillars were scrubbed to a shine.

In spring, Tokyo carried a hopeful smell, new leaves, tepid concrete, and our Academy grounds invited it like an open display case. Piles of vans from public news outlets were stringing in preparation for the opening ceremony.

I adjusted my tie and kept walking. The uniform was the same across the school, but anyone could tell, even without looking, who wore it like an heir and who wore it like a temporary pass.

My name was Shinohara Rintarō.

And yes, there was significance behind my surname. Because our Academy’s one non-negotiable requirement, in addition to grades, was ownership.

You or your family had to run a business.

If you didn’t have a company name behind you, you didn’t enter. If your business collapsed, you didn’t last. A meritocratic system that produced future executives, politicians, and parasites. A system that ran on a clean idea: Profit meant value, and loss meant rot.

Superiority was celebrated.

Therefore, this Spring brought with it a new trimester, classes, faces, stories, and new ways to be auctioned.

I climbed the stairs to the third-year floor, and my assigned Class 3-C was already loud. Not networking loud, the kind of noise that came from children practicing being adults. Teenage loud. Especially because of all the excitement around today.

Many heads turned as I walked in. Not because I was important, but because of my appearance.

I took my seat near the window, as it was a position designed for invisibility. Not too far that teachers would mark you as rebellious, not too close that classmates would notice you existing.

“Rintarō-kun.”

My spine stiffened before my brain caught up. Her voice wasn’t supposed to be here.

I turned to Yui-san, who arrived two seats away, as if she’d always belonged in this classroom, like the past years without seeing each other had just been a long loading screen.

Her hair was the same color I remembered in our childhood, but styled with the casualness of someone who’d learned what cameras liked. She wore the uniform cleanly, but not stiffly, like she was mocking the Academy’s obsession with polish simply by looking comfortable in it.

Her smile didn’t ask permission. It invaded.

“Morning,” she verbalized, too bright. “Mm? Is that your reunion face, Rintarō-kun? You wound me.”

“…Morning.”

Yui clicked her tongue softly. I’d failed my invisible test yet again.

“Wow,” she said. “Still stingy with your syllables.”

I opened my mouth, and my brain offered a thousand responses, including several that would cause irreparable damage. So, I chose the safest one.

“It’s been a while.”

Yui’s smile softened for a heartbeat. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “It has.”

The warmth snapped back as she decided to close our physical gap.

“Anyway, look.” She angled her phone toward me. The screen showed the Academy app with Enrollment Confirmed stamped across it like a prize ribbon. “I told you. I got in.”

“I… heard,” I managed. “Even before the weekend.”

“Mmh? From who?”

“The internet.”

That made her grin widen. “Exactly! My clout is a business, thank you very much. Digital entrepreneur clause. The Academy loves money. I bring money.”

The part she didn’t say, and the part that I admired her for, was that she’d crawled out of poverty with a phone and a personality sharp enough to survive.

And now, my childhood crush, Yui, was here.

Back in Japan.

Back in my orbit.

That alone should’ve been the inciting incident in any romantic comedy.

“Shinohara-senpai!” Fujishiro Kotone burst into our class more abruptly than Yui’s arrival at my family’s chocolaterie last week. She was loud and cheerful, and therefore automatically suspicious. “Morninggg!”

For Kotone, there was no boundary difference between “third-year floor” and “where I’m allowed to be.” Her glossy nails had starry accents, little aggressive ornaments meant to say, “I’m sweet enough to commit crimes and be forgiven.”

A few third-years guffawed, because a second-year didn’t walk into a third-year classroom unless she was lost, or alternatively, a huge idiot.

Kotone wasn’t lost. And I didn’t consider her a complete idiot.

She beamed as if we’d arranged this. I didn’t move.

Kotone pranced over anyway, depositing herself in the chair in front of me.

Yui leaned back with a territorial curiosity, the way I tended to look when my cooking channel’s comment section got weird.

“Kotone-san,” I said flatly.

Kotone’s smile widened.

“Aww, you remembered my name. That’s so romantic. Are you cheating on your brand? I thought you only did three-syllable answers, max.”

“Why are you here.”

Kotone pressed her fingers to her lips in fake thought. “Hmm. Because I missed you?” she offered.

“That’s not possible.”

“True.” She nodded like she respected my logic. “Anyway, I came to say hi. And to remind you,” Her phone appeared in her hand like a weapon. “That you still owe me.”

Yui inquired, amused. “You two know each other?”

Kotone’s eyes lit up like she’d been offered free drama. “Oh, totally. Senpai and I go way back. Like… back to when he attacked me.”

“I didn’t lay a finger on you.”

“Right,” Kotone said immediately, not missing a beat. “Then what about last night?”

“There’s absolutely no way.”

“But we did get fierce, didn’t we?” she corrected, tapping her manicured nail against her phone screen like she was filing evidence. “I’ve got a whole gallery.”

Yui’s eyes went huge at me, stunned. Not angry. Not yet, as she was trying to decide which version of reality to believe.

“Rintarō-kun,” Yui said, deceptively light, “what is she talking about?”

“It’s complicated,” I said.

Kotone clapped once. “He admits it.”

“That’s not what that means.”

“It sounds like it does! I’m disillusioned with how much you’ve changed!”

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” Kotone said, pleased. “So, Senpai. Tutor me this week. Like, properly.”

Kotone was the kind of idol who could afford to resurrect Einstein to tutor her. The kind of girl teachers forgave in advance because it was easier than dealing with her tears. And yet here she was, recruiting me like a resource, yet again.

This was the part where a normal person would ask why. But normal people didn’t get blackmailed by underclassmen, and my relationship with her was anything but normal.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Kotone cackled like she’d won. “Okay. Say, you’re in polite rock mode more than usual. Could it be because…”

“Could you please not cause trouble for us?” Yui’s lips twitched. “You’re so annoying.”

Kotone flipped her hair. “I get that a lot. Ah, I haven’t introduced myself to your girlfriend. I’m Fujishiro Kotone.”

“I know. It’s a pleasure. I’m Satō Yui.”

“You already knew me too, Satō-chii? This Academy really is the best! It’s hard not to recognize famous faces. You’re that poor affordability influencer, right? Senpai has also mentioned you once or twice.”

“No, I’m sure ‘Senpai’ has mentioned me many times.”

Yui: the miracle return.

Kotone: the glittered threat.

Me: the human in the middle trying not to become food.

Kotone stiffened, not because she was afraid, but because she was suddenly aware of being watched, the way a performer sensed a camera.

Saionji Wakami had joined us.

“Kotone-chii,” Wakami said, voice gentle.

“W-Wakami-Senpai! Don’t ‘Kotone-chii’ me like I’m your pet!”

Wakami smiled faintly. “It suits you. You’re bright. Loud. And you bite when you’re scared. Please return to your homeroom.”

“Senpai,” she said.

I felt my shoulders tighten. Reflexively.

“Saionji-san,” I replied.

If Kotone was fluorescent neon, Yui the homely hearth, Wakami was the moonlight: cool, quiet, and dangerously precise. She was the kind of girl who could smile and make it feel like you’d signed a dangerous contract.

“You look tired,” she observed. “Like someone who’s been cooking too long.”

Kotone’s head snapped toward me. Yui stiffened slightly.

My stomach dropped.

Wakami wasn’t accusing me of anything. Her tone was clean, but it was the kind of clean that showed her absolute genius. Wakami knew everything, even the things she didn’t know.

“I volunteered up until late last night,” I alleged, completely neutral. “At the chocolaterie.”

“Mm,” Wakami hummed thoughtfully, as if filing that away for later. “I see. In any case, it would be smart to return to your homeroom before the bell,” she advised our underclassman. “The assembly starts in a minute. If you run now, you might make it.”

She stepped away as smoothly as she’d arrived, leaving the air slightly colder.

Kotone exhaled. “What the hell,” she muttered. “How is Wakami-Senpai like that? She’s like a… a silky human lie detector.”

“A masterpiece of the Saionji conglomerate,” Yui said quietly. “Amazing. She’s our vice-president, right? This Academy truly is something…”

“Famous for tasting people’s secrets and their souls, more like. Whatever. Did she say a minute?!”

I didn’t comment. A chime rang out across the hallways, curated and pure, like the Academy wanted to make sure no one forgot it owned the attention.

“It’s finally here!” My classmates mixed avid cheers.

Chairs scraped and students vaulted. Conversations and gossip followed all around the school.

“Don’t ghost me, Senpai,” Kotone rushed. “Or I’ll make you famous.” As she glided out of the classroom in a flurry, she waved at Yui with a sweet smile. “Nice meeting you, Satō-chii! Let’s talk later! He’s soooo hard to talk to, right?”

“Who,” she asked softly, “was that.”

“She’s… a mistake,” I said.

Yui’s eyes narrowed. “That didn’t answer anything.”

“That’s because I’m… a mistake.” I said to myself quietly, and hated how true it sounded. The assembly was about to prove it.

It was time for Tokyo’s Strategic Leadership Academy’s public execution.

The auditorium filled with third-years, second-years, first-years, the Academy’s entire curated ecosystem packed into rows like a shareholder meeting.

The Vice-Director and our class president, Tachibana Tora, stepped onto the stage and spoke about excellence. About leadership. About legacy. About “global readiness.”

Tora smiled at the gladiator cup known as the student body.

“And now, a reminder of our Academy values.”

BUSINESS STATUS: FIRST TERM START

The list began to roll at flash-math speed, concurrent names and numbers roaring past. Company names. Brand names. Family enterprises. Profit trajectories. Revenue trends. Strategic indicators.

To a sudden halt, when the first red mark appeared.

A murmur rippled through the room as the prey was decided.

Wakami, somewhere ahead, didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to. People like her didn’t check where the knife landed. They could tell by the sound.

In the sea of uniforms, I could sense Kotone watching too, probably having trouble faking her smile.

Yui’s breathing changed beside me.

SHINOHARA RINTARŌ (THIRD-YEAR) - FIELD: HOSPITALITY - BUSINESS: SHINOHARA CHOCOLAT - STATUS: RED

My family.

My name, reduced to a publicized verdict of being an absolute failure.

Tora continued speaking, the small list of failures kept moving. I wasn’t the only one being ostracized by the Academy, but I was the only student in the red this year.

The morning news instantaneously reported on my family. If anyone, including myself, were in denial, those articles were undeniable proof that confirmed it: My whole family’s future was doomed.

At Tokyo’s Strategic Leadership Academy, this elite high school and college where students came from business-owning families, there were certain rules. At the start of every trimester, the Academy publicly spotlighted failed family businesses, and at the start of my third year, my neck was under the chopping block.

Rather than immediate expulsion, students became marked. In the same manner that an absent, failing student had to score perfectly on their next test or else be held back a year, marked students had to get their family businesses back in order within a time limit, or else be expelled from the Academy.

Red, yellow, and blue necklaces became part of the ousted student’s dress code. A month for gross profit recovery was granted for each stratum.

Branded with red, I had a month left. But this was April, the start of the school year. I had until Golden Week, sixteen days to make the recovery, or else it was the end of my romantic high school life, reputation, and my family’s financial future.

Even if I had the blue necklace and was granted three months, the damage to the public perception was equal to all three groups. The moment the Academy ousted us, the public eye was on us, and anyone who wore these necklaces were the lowest of the low.

Because we were human, we made mistakes. We did things we could never take back. Even so, we continued to face forward as best we could. It’s just that right now, with my classmates’ chatter around the entry ceremony, that appeared difficult for me.

A gorgeous, filthy leaking bag of garbage… Whether they wanted to or not, class 3-C had to taste me in their room for the remainder of April. And it was up to me to turn myself into a delicious pastry that reflected my appearance, or otherwise rot.

Our Academy loved rankings and scores, but these numbers had history.

And mine started a week earlier, before anyone decided I was spoilage.

No, perhaps it was best to say that it started last year, when I stopped first-year Kotone-san from bullying her marked classmates.