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The red necklace was set to be clamped around my neck right away.

I was summoned to the Business Liaison Office after homeroom, which was, in practice, a processing room.

Ichiro-sensei spun into her chair, neither rushed nor apologetic. She was dressed sharply, attention alert, far from the “bored teacher” look, but precisely the “crap, school is back in session, I need to act professional and lay off the beer” look.

“Sensei,” I thought aloud, “why didn’t we do this during homeroom? You’re my teacher. Does the Academy need to keep singling me out through the intercom?”

“Of course they do,” she said mercifully, setting her coffee down on the counter. “Shinohara Rintarō. Status: Red. You need to take this responsibility.”

From the drawer, she produced a casket, and in it lay a thin red chain.

“Though, I never thought you’d be on the receiving end. Yes. That face is normal.”

“Normal?”

“The Academy enjoys pretending this is motivation.” She picked up the red mark with her pen, holding it up like it was contaminated. “I didn’t design this system, but it’s my job to keep it from killing the students it targets. What do you think?”

“I can’t say I’m fond of it now. But I admit it’s a thrilling aspect of the Academy.”

“Good. If you were overly fond of it, I’d be worried about you. The Academy doesn’t want losers. If I can turn you back into a winner, everyone’s celebrating. I get a significant bonus too! Such are commissions. So, trust in me more than this mark. You’ll wear it at all times on campus. You’ll also be attending weekly remediation with me. You’re expected to submit your family’s numbers on the schedule. Your business must meet the Academy’s recovery threshold before Golden Week.”

I didn’t ask what “threshold” meant. I already knew it was bare minimum profit, a number that didn’t care for worked hands or tired eyes.

“Remember, this year, even if you stabilize revenue, you can’t appeal to be upgraded a color. Not a single red-marked student in this Academy’s history has made a full recovery. Which means this place wants you to believe it’s impossible. And that’s exactly why you need to avoid treating this like a moral failure and start treating it like something to work on. Put it on.”

With the chain as an added finality, I, Shinohara Rintarō, was about to be eaten. My private identity as MidnightChef remained. If I was going to be eaten, I at least wanted to choose which parts they didn’t get.

In the hallways, classmates moved around me like I was parting the sea. Few faces did the polite thing: sympathetic eyes, careful distance. Mostly every face did the joyful thing: a spark of relief that it wasn’t them, and eyeing me like scum.

I had spent years learning how to be invisible. Now I was being made visible in the worst way.

I entered Class 3-C.

The chatter softened.

Yui sat two rows away, posture was perfect as always, hands resting gently over her notebook, long hair tied with a modest ribbon. She was calm and composed, but her hands were laced as if she was trying to prevent herself from reaching for me.

As soon as the mid-morning break began, Yui caught up to me in the hallway.

What was she thinking?

“We’re being watched.”

“I know,” she replied. “But I care more about you right now. You’re quieter than usual. Is it because of the necklace? Or…”

Yes, Yui. The collar was tight around my neck. And it was also because of you. You didn’t know half the story.

“It’s the necklace. And… the business. I should’ve told you sooner. In any case, it’s best you distance yourself for the time being.”

“Why? It’s our dreamed day together. You don’t have to tell me everything, but don’t push me away, either. Not over this.”

“You don’t understand.” I tugged my chain lightly. “Marked students, especially in the red, don’t last here. And anyone standing too close–”

“I am too close on purpose. It’s our first day together in the same class. We promised that. When we were this small. Do you remember?”

“But it’s different now. It’s about President Tachibana Tora. You saw in our homeroom? His group is already moving. They target anyone who associates with marked students.”

“And you think I’m scared of that? I know what it means to stand beside you. Of course I’d choose here.”

“You should distance yourself, because I might fail to protect myself otherwise. Kotone-san knows it. Look, she’s been texting me. She’s not planning another big appearance like this morning because she understands our Academy. Text me, Yui-san. I promise we can talk later.”

The Academy had many rules, and one of which was that upon entry, a student declared a representative business. Matching this selection, they were categorized into elective fields, such as: Hospitality (hotels, restaurants); E-commerce & Retail (online marketplaces, department stores); Healthcare (hospitals, pharmaceutical companies); Information Technology (software publishers, IT consulting); Finance & Insurance Industry (banks, investment firms); Manufacturing, etc.

In my case, I signed up as Representative Business: Shinohara Chocolat, Field: Hospitality.

There was a whole stratified system that ranked each individual student within each field in terms of pure revenue.

The same as outside of school life, if you managed to outcompete others in your field, the Academy rewarded money to your representative business.

And, most excitingly, if you outranked someone in your field to the point that they had to transfer out of school, the whole student body was awarded money. To be exact, the reward was 3 million yen in cash for each student’s business.

This was all to say that there was zero reason to assist the marked. If someone helped me, they’d effectively be handing me a lifeline that kept me in the rankings, while also denying the entire student body a payout.

Even if a marked student bought peer assistance, that same money would often come out of their recovery quota, the exact number they needed to raise to escape being marked in the first place. Why would I slash my own wallet by 3 million yen when my entire survival window depended on raising my gross profits?

A business loan was the ideal solution around this, but it would come at extremely cruel borrowing rates, especially since all public eyes were on me. The news outlets were pointing at the marked students and screaming: “Kyaaa! That one! Their business is failing!” Accordingly, bankruptcy was often the sad result.

Everyone was eager to secure that near one-and-a-half-billion-yen collective payout.

Tora’s group was bound to hunt me and bring the pain as part of their strategy.

There was no reason to get Yui caught up in the fight.

Therefore, I pushed Yui away, using this as a convenient excuse to run away from myself.