Naturally so, because unbeknownst to everyone present

The morning sun bathed the classroom in a gentle glow, pale light slipping through the wide windows and pooling across the open floor. The room felt unusually spacious, almost hollow, its silence broken only by the faint rustle of curtains stirred by the breeze.

        At the front, only two desks stood ready, Mikado's and Kakeru's, set apart as if the classroom itself acknowledged their exclusivity. The rest had been pushed toward the back, stacked and crowded together in quiet neglect, casting long, uneven shadows against the wall.

        It was a new day, and an odd one at that. Just the day before, Mikado had arrived a full two hours early, an act so uncharacteristic it had raised more eyebrows than his usual lateness ever did. Today, he flirted with the opposite extreme.

        The bell rang the moment he slipped through the school gate, breath uneven, heart still racing as the iron bars slid shut behind him. He made it by the narrowest margin.

        By the letter of the rules, he was safe. Not early. Not late. Merely on time, earning him the most generic, and most forgiving, judgment the school could offer.

        Manabu's voice filled the room in a steady, measured cadence, unhurried yet impossible to ignore. The lesson flowed on, each point layered carefully atop the last, as if he were building something invisible in the air between them.

        Mikado sat upright at his desk, pen moving across the page in clean, deliberate strokes. Unlike his usual half-hearted notes, these were meticulous, diagrams boxed, key phrases underlined, margins crowded with short observations. His gaze shifted between the blackboard and his notebook, brows slightly knit in concentration, as though he refused to let even a single word slip past him.

        The quiet made every sound sharper: the scratch of ink on paper, the soft creak of the chair when Mikado adjusted his posture, the faint hum of sunlight warming the glass.

        Then a presence leaned closer.

        Kakeru shifted in his seat, closing the distance just enough for his shoulder to brush Mikado's arm. Mikado didn't look up, but his pen slowed, hovering for a brief moment above the page as he listened.

        A whisper reached him—

        "Yo. So you're really going this afternoon?" Kakeru murmured, occasionally glancing toward Manabu lecturing at the front, a stack of books in his arms. With his loose necktie and casual posture, he looked less like a teacher and more like a high schooler reading a light novel on the subway.

        "Well, I'm being called out," Mikado replied in the same low voice. "What choice do I have?"

        "What do you think the student council wants with you? You think it's because of what happened yesterday?" Kakeru whispered, jabbing the air with his fist as if punching an invisible enemy. "Damn it, those scum were lucky I wasn't there."

        "No," Mikado said quietly. "Like I told you, that's already settled. They spent a lot of time yesterday investigating and asking witnesses." He sighed inwardly. "It was a hassle, but it's done."

        Kakeru leaned back slightly. "Then why do you think they called you?"

        "I don't know," Mikado replied with a shrug, turning his eyes back toward the front.

        That was what he said, but in truth, he knew exactly what this was about.

        Eto had told him the night before. A new student administrative body was being formed: the Public Morals Committee, an internal authority meant to enforce regulations and act as the school's internal police. Mikado would be appointed as one of its members. Today, he will be formally introduced and made official.

        But he couldn't tell Kakeru any of that.

        Doing so would expose his relationship with Eto.

        Eto had been just as careful. She sent Aida that morning to inform Mikado that he would be summoned that afternoon, following the natural and proper procedure for student council summons.

        Mikado couldn't simply walk into the student council on his own; it would raise questions. And Eto couldn't just admit that she was the one who had informed him.

        After all, in the eyes of everyone else, the two of them weren't supposed to know each other at all.

…

Nearly an hour had passed since the afternoon bell rang, and the hallways had grown eerily quiet, almost deserted, like a forgotten road taken by those desperate to flee the cruelty of reality.

        Neon hues from the setting sun spilled through the tall windows, washing the empty corridors in amber and crimson light. Dust drifted lazily in the glow, and the silence felt heavy yet gentle, wrapping the space in a fragile calm. In that fading light, time itself seemed to slow, offering a fleeting sense of nostalgia, an unexpected peace standing in quiet defiance against the madness of the present day.

        Mikado stood before the student council room, having arrived precisely at the appointed time. Each footstep that had carried him through the deserted corridor felt deliberate and weighty, as though every step echoed with purpose in the stillness. 

        Mikado lifted his hand to chest level and knocked on the wooden door.

        "Come in."

        The response came almost immediately—Aida's voice, as commanding and upright as ever. Though Mikado barely knew her on a personal level, he had heard that voice often enough to recognize it. Just yesterday, when a clash between students had been on the verge of erupting, it had been Aida's voice that cut through the tension first, sharp, unyielding, and impossible to ignore. And that hadn't been the only time.

        Whenever rules were enforced or order had to be restored, her voice always carried ahead of her.

        Among the students, it was something they had grown accustomed to.

        Mikado pushed the door open and stepped into the student council office. Several pairs of eyes turned toward him at once, some curious, some indifferent, others already tired from whatever discussion had come before he arrived.

        The rest of the office carried an old, dignified atmosphere. Wooden shelves lined one wall, packed neatly with documents and bound records, while polished cabinets and notice boards occupied the others with strict symmetry. Two long tables stretched across the room, paired with folding chairs arranged with deliberate precision, functional, not inviting. Everything felt orderly, restrained, and purposeful.

        It wasn't a place meant for comfort.

        It was a place where rules were decided, enforced, and remembered.

        Warm afternoon light poured in through the tall arched window at the far end of the room, filtered by stained glass that scattered muted colors across the carpeted floor. Just before the heavy curtains framing the window stood the student council president's desk, slightly elevated, unmistakably central, as though the room itself deferred to that position. Eto, the president, sat there with practiced composure, backlit by the glow, her silhouette calm and authoritative.

        Eto was working through documents spread neatly across her desk, her eyes focused on the papers laid before her. Beside her, Aida stood with a slight slouch, quietly discussing a particular line on one of the pages. Mid-sentence, Aida glanced toward Mikado, then leaned in to whisper something into Eto's ear. Eto lifted her gaze at once. He's here, most likely.

        Eto's eyes met Mikado's. Yet because their relationship was known only to the two of them, Mikado did nothing more than bow. Eto returned the gesture with a brief nod, an exchange perfectly natural between a student and the student council president.

        "Alright, everyone," Eto said as she straightened, folding her hands atop the desk. Her voice was even, yet it carried enough weight to command the room's full attention. "Allow me to introduce him. This is Ryuugamine Mikado. From today onward, he will be working with the student council as the member of the Public Morals Committee."

        At the announcement, reactions varied across the room, murmurs, exchanged glances, subtle shifts in posture, but before any of them could fully take shape, a voice cut in. 

        "—I beg your pardon, Ms. President."

        It belonged to a male second-year student standing near the window, his attention seemingly fixed on the scenery outside rather than the room itself.

        "Ryuugamine Mikado, was it?" he continued, finally turning. "You may go home now. There's just been a misunderstanding here."

        The second-year student faced Mikado directly, gesturing as though the matter were already settled, as if Mikado's presence had been an error easily dismissed.

        "I beg to differ, Vice President."

        Eto spoke without fully turning her head, her voice calm—yet unmistakably cold.

        "This has already been discussed." She folded her fingers together, hands clasped beneath her chin, and regarded the vice president from the corner of her eye—silent, composed, and unyielding.

        "Then I insist we open it again," the vice president replied without a moment's hesitation.

        A faint, self-assured smile curved his lips as his gaze settled on Eto, not in challenge, but in familiarity. To him, her firmness was nothing more than impatience, the kind displayed by someone brilliant yet impulsive.

        He leaned back slightly, utterly at ease, eyes glinting with quiet condescension. The rest of the room barely registered in his mind. There were few he considered worthy of standing beside him, and Eto was one of them.

        No, more than that.

        In his eyes, he was the only man truly fit to temper her heat.        

        At his response, Eto's brow knitted together, irritation flickering across her expression, but the deeper meaning behind her reaction never registered with him.

        "I am firmly against the idea of making this student a member of the Public Morals Committee," the vice president declared, his tone casual yet dismissive. He cast a sideways glance at Mikado, who had done nothing more than enter the room and yet had somehow become the subject of open scrutiny.

        Mikado, for his part, remained silent. Though he would never admit it aloud, being looked down upon was something he had long since grown accustomed to. If anything, he found the situation faintly amusing.

        "This isn't about what you like or don't like, Vice President," Aida retorted, stepping forward beside Eto, her voice firm.

        "—Then what do you think, personally, Senior Yaegashi?" the vice president replied smoothly, turning his attention to Aida without losing that self-assured smile, as though the entire exchange were merely a formality.

        "I…" Aida trailed off, visibly searching for the right words. But there was no right or wrong answer here, and realizing that, she steadied herself.

        "I'm not particularly fond of the idea either," she admitted.         "However, as I said, this isn't about our personal preferences. We are the student council. Our role is to make decisions that benefit the student body as a whole—regardless of who they are or what position they hold."

        That was the truth of it.

        The student council had taken notice of the persistent mistreatment and isolation suffered by Class F—branded as failures, yet still students of Second High. And under their administration, such neglect was something they could no longer ignore.

        Their conclusion had been a calculated one.

        By appointing Mikado as a member of the Public Morals Committee, they hoped, however gradually, to change how others viewed Class F. Not as castaways, but as students worthy of acknowledgment. 

        "—Exactly," the vice president shot back. Aida's words carried weight, he recognized that much, but even so, he found an opening to press.

        "We are the student council," he continued smoothly, voice measured and assured. "Our role is to make decisions that benefit the student body as a whole, regardless of who they are or what position they hold."

        He paused, letting the echo of her own words hang in the air.

        "But let us not forget something," he added, a faint smile returning to his lips. "We are also students ourselves. And students are not guided by ideals alone."

        His gaze drifted briefly toward the room, as if accounting for an unseen audience.

        "What do you think the majority will make of this?" he asked. "Appointing a Class F student to the Public Morals Committee—how do you suppose that will be received?"

        He straightened, conviction firm in his posture.

        "This decision will affect our image as the student council," he concluded. "Whether we like it or not." 

        A murmur rippled through the other council members. His argument had landed cleanly, pragmatic and difficult to dismiss, and several of them exchanged uneasy glances.

        One step. Then another.

        The vice president moved away from his location and approached the president's table, stopping directly before Eto.

        "Not going to lie," he said, his tone lowering as his attention narrowed solely onto her.

        Eto remained seated, fingers still interlaced beneath her chin, composed, unyielding, despite the way he loomed before her, as though daring her to yield ground.

        "I couldn't care less about the council's image," he continued, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "The only thing I'm truly concerned about… is you."

        His gaze sharpened.

        "You'll be the one at the center of scrutiny," he said. "As the president of the student council."

        With that, he extended his hand toward her, an offer that was equal parts concern and possession.

        It was no secret among the student council that the vice president harbored feelings for Eto. His attempts at flirtation were frequent, his familiarity bold enough that even casual physical contact had long ceased to draw attention. And to everyone else, Eto had always seemed indifferent. Romance appeared to hold no interest for her, and she dismissed his advances with the same detached composure she applied to everything else. Even something as intimate as holding hands had never seemed to mean anything to her,nothing worth acknowledging.

        This time, however, was different.

        Before she could stop herself, Eto panicked. She pulled her hand back almost immediately, the motion sharp and uncharacteristic. A faint flush rose to her cheeks, tinting her otherwise composed expression in shades of red and pink.

        She tilted her head slightly,and her gaze shifted toward the doorway.

        Toward Mikado.

        Naturally so, because unbeknownst to everyone present, Eto and Mikado were lovers. With him standing there, silent and watching, her body reacted before her mind could construct the cold detachment she usually wore so effortlessly.

        That truth, however, never crossed the vice president's mind.

        To him, her reaction meant something else entirely, a crack in her indifference, a sign that she was finally beginning to open up to him. Judging by the exchanged glances and subtle murmurs around the room, the others seemed to reach a similar conclusion.

        All except one.

        Aida noticed the withdrawn hand. The sudden blush. The brief, instinctive glance toward Mikado. Her eyes shifted back and forth between her friend and the boy by the door, and in that quiet moment, understanding slowly took shape. 

        The vice president straightened his back, a smile tugging at his lips—almost a smirk.

        "—That being said—" he began again, only for a voice to cut cleanly through the room.

        "Senior Akitsugu Kanzaki, the Morning Star."

        Every head turned.

        It was Mikado.

        Calling the vice president by his full name alone would have been enough to draw attention, but adding the nickname made it unmistakable. The title he despised. The one associated with reputation, expectation, and a past he preferred to keep at arm's length.

        The room fell silent.

        Mikado didn't flinch under the sudden weight of their gazes. He continued calmly, as if he hadn't just crossed an invisible line.

        "Would you mind engaging in an official mock duel with me?"